The 1997 All-Star Weekend was over, but the aftershocks were just starting.
The headlines on sports channels, newspapers, and early internet boards all said the same thing in different words:
This was Alex Mo's All-Star Weekend.
Rookie Game MVP.Three-Point Contest Champion.Slam Dunk Contest Champion.All-Star Game MVP.
Four stages. Four trophies. One name.
For fans, it was a blur of dunks, deep threes, and impossible stat lines.
For Alex, it felt like both everything and nothing at the same time.
Off the Court, the Money Doesn't Sleep
Back in Los Angeles, the city's winter sunlight poured through the curtains of Alex's apartment. The All-Star break had been loud, bright, and chaotic. His place was the opposite, quiet, just the soft hum of the fridge and the clicking of a ceiling fan.
He stood barefoot in the kitchen, sipping coffee, wearing a loose Lakers T-shirt and shorts. His legs ached in that satisfying way only high-level basketball could produce.
On the dining table, his agent had left a neat folder and a calculator.
Alex opened the folder, scanned the numbers, and let out a low whistle.
The IM1 All-Star colorway had officially dropped in select stores across the U.S. and overseas the day after the All-Star Game. A limited run of 100,000 pairs has gone almost instantly.
Retail: $120 a pair.Total sales: $12,000,000.His cut: $6 million.
That was on top of the $36 million he'd already earned from previous IM1 releases. Nike would do their first quarterly payout in March, covering everything up to the end of February.
Just from one signature shoe line before any future models, before any clothing, before anything else, he was on track to receive $42 million.
From sneakers.
He set the papers down and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
I was just trying to get a contract a few months ago, he thought. Now I'm arguing with accountants about how many zeroes fit on a page.
And it wasn't just shoes.
On the 10th, Nike had quietly rolled out another product: the IM series headband, the same style he'd worn during the three-point contest, the dunk contest, and the All-Star Game.
They priced it at $10.
Cheap. Accessible. Designed to move volume.
And it did.
On launch day alone, one million IM headbands were sold worldwide.
$10 each.$10 million in revenue.His split: $5 million.
All for a strip of fabric wrapped around his forehead.
That's what lying down and making money looks like, he thought, amused. I'm literally getting paid because people like the way I sweat on TV.
He wasn't naive. He knew Nike was making even more.
But the mood in the Nike boardroom was almost giddy.
Nike's Calculations
In Beaverton, Oregon, directors sat around a table littered with printouts and coffee cups.
"The IM1 line's tracking ahead of AJ12 in velocity," one executive said, tapping at the chart. "If we had more stock, there's a chance we'd surpass some Jordan SKUs in certain regions this quarter."
"Our stock price popped again after All-Star Weekend," another added. "Investors are already using his name in their notes. 'The Mo Effect.'"
"Thirty million a year?" A director shook his head. "That's not his ceiling. That's not even close."
"His value isn't a salary number," someone else said quietly. "His value is, however, much these fans are willing to spend."
No one argued.
Because they all saw the same thing, Alex was just beginning to understand:
There was no neat cap on his head. No simple figure that could contain his impact.
Not on the court.Not in the market.Not anywhere.
The Return to Work
On February 11th, the All-Star glitter faded into a regular-season grind.
Game one back: Minnesota Timberwolves at Los Angeles Lakers.
At the Lakers' practice facility that morning, the atmosphere was almost like the first day of school after summer. Everyone had stories about who they met, what they saw, which city they visited, but the basketball world didn't care about vacation photos.
It cared about wins and losses.
"Alright, bring it in!" Coach Del Harris called out as players wrapped up warm-ups.
In the corner, a new face in purple and gold finished tying his shoelaces.
Bruce Bowen.
Freshly signed, newly cleared, officially activated.
A defensive specialist with a reputation at least in hardcore basketball circles, as a man you hated to see in front of you and loved to have behind you.
He walked over to Alex during a break in drills, looking a little stiff, a little nervous, like he knew exactly how big this chance was.
"Alex," Bowen said, voice low and sincere, "thanks for this opportunity. I'll do whatever the team needs. Whatever you need."
Alex studied him for a second, compact build, focused eyes, that slightly coiled posture of someone who treats defense like hunting.
"Just play hard," Alex said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Defend, run the floor, hit open shots. Don't worry about anything else."
Bowen nodded, almost too many times.
Inside, he'd already made a decision:This man in front of him? That's my guy.
Anyone who disrespected Alex would have to get through him first.
Big Ben's "Spell"
A few minutes later, Ben Wallace wandered over, his own headband pushed up a bit too high on his forehead.
He'd finally finished his 20-game suspension and had spent the last week pacing like a caged animal on the practice sidelines. Now he was officially eligible to return.
He shoved something into Bowen's chest.
"Here," Ben said. "This is for you."
Bowen looked down.
An official NBA headband.
"I've seen some tape of you," Ben went on. "Those feet of yours? Pretty dirty. Lotta guys hate playing against you."
Bowen wasn't sure if that was praise or criticism.
"But listen," Ben continued seriously, "you're not the only crazy one on this team. We've got enough wild dogs here already. So I want you to wear this."
He pointed at the headband.
"With this on? You control yourself. Got it? Don't let the darkness steer. We go hard, but we don't go stupid."
Bowen blinked once.
To him, the headband wasn't some mystical restraint; it was something simpler and human.
Acceptance.
A gesture from a veteran saying: You're one of us now.
"Alright," Bowen said. "Thanks, Ben."
He slipped the headband on, adjusting it in the reflection of a padded column.
In his mind, nothing about his playing style had "dark energy" to be suppressed. If anything, he was ready to unleash every bit of edge he had.
But if wearing the band meant he was part of something?
He'd wear it.
On the sideline, Alex watched them, amused.
The Los Angeles Hairband Gang had started as a jokehim, Iverson, and Ben wearing bands on All-Star weekend.
Now, with Bowen added to the mix, it was starting to feel like an actual identity.
The Roaring Wolf King
Across the court, the Minnesota Timberwolves wrapped up their own shootaround.
Kevin Garnett, lean, long, and loud, was in mid-interview with a cluster of microphones shoved in his face.
"I know the Lakers got two All-Stars," Garnett said, his voice sharp as ever. "But me and Tom ? We're All-Stars too."
He jerked his thumb toward his teammate, Tom Gugliotta, who was stretching nearby.
"Last time we played them, if Allen Iverson doesn't throw that punch, who knows how that game ends?" Garnett continued. "We're not scared. One through twelve, we're coming."
Behind the cameras, Gugliotta winced.
Why do you always drag me into this, Kev…
After the interview, he walked over, brows raised.
"Man," Gugliotta said, "you really pushed us to the edge there."
Garnett stared him down.
"Tom, you're an All-Star," he said simply. "You gotta start acting like it. I believe in you. If that fight doesn't happen last time, we've got a real shot. And tonight? We still do."
Gugliotta let out a breath.
He couldn't exactly argue with that in front of the cameras.
Besides, Garnett's conviction was contagious. The way he punched his chest after every big bucket, the way he barked like he was trying to wake his teammates up from a nightmare it did something to people.
Ray Allen, quiet and sharp-eyed, laced up his shoes nearby, listening silently.
Two All-Stars on the Lakers.Two All-Stars in Minnesota.
No one on the Wolves was under any illusions that they knew the Lakers were the league's best team.
But that didn't mean they had to act scared.
A Deck Full of Lineups
Back in the Lakers locker room, Del Harris stood in front of the whiteboard, marker in hand.
He looked like a professor about to start a complicated lecture.
"Here's what we've got," Harris said, sketching lineups.
He went through them one by one:
Iverson + Alex + veteran shooters
Iverson + Scott as the backcourt
Ben Wallace + Horry + Alex for a switchable, terrifying defense
Ben + Elden Campbell + Alex for size and bruising interior play
Campbell + Horry + Alex for balance and spacing
Then he glanced at the bench list again.
Kenny Smith, veteran guard who could heat up in bursts.Dell Curry, one of the purest shooters in the league.Now Bruce Bowen, headband on, eyes hungry.
Harris could easily run a ten-man rotation without ever putting a bad unit on the floor.
He liked that.
He liked it a lot.
"First half, we'll go with what we know," Harris said. "Second half… we experiment."
He looked at Alex.
"And I'm going to try that lineup you suggested to me before the break."
Alex nodded. He knew which one Harris meant.
The one that lived rent-free in his mind whenever he thought about how to build a contender.
Opening Tip
By the time the ball went up for the opening tip at the Forum, the crowd was fully locked in.
The Timberwolves started:
Kevin Garnett
Tom Gugliotta
Ray Allen
James Robinson
Stojko Vrankovic in the middle
The Lakers answered with a slightly tweaked version of their standard lineup:
Allen Iverson at the point
Byron Scott at the other guard
Robert Horry at forward
Elden Campbell at center
Alex Mo is the other forward
The referee tossed the ball high.
This time, Elden Campbell beat Vrankovic clean on the jump.
Iverson snatched the ball and barely hesitated.
He turned, looked upcourt, and launched a full-length football-style pass.
Alex was already gone.
Two strides past halfcourt.Three strides into the paint.One gather step—
He caught the ball in motion, never breaking stride, and hammered it home with a one-handed dunk.
2–0, Lakers.
The crowd roared, but the Timberwolves didn't panic.
They'd seen that play on tape. It was a Lakers classic now.
"Run it back," Garnett muttered as they brought the ball in.
The Roar
On Minnesota's first offensive trip, Garnett got the ball at the elbow against Horry.
He faced up, jabbed, then turned his back and went into a smooth post rhythm: one bump, two bumps, then a sharp fadeaway over Horry's outstretched hand.
The net barely moved.
As the ball dropped through, Garnett pounded his chest with both fists and let out a primal scream.
"YEAH! LET'S GO!"
The Timberwolves bench jumped up.
That's what Garnett did. He played with an edge that cut through the noise, an energy that dared his teammates to match it.
On the baseline, Ben Wallace watched from the Lakers bench, hands on his hips, headband on, eyes narrowed.
Garnett's roar echoed across the floor.
For a split second, their gazes met.
Damn, that kid's loud, Ben thought.
Was there a flicker of worry under the adrenaline? Maybe.
But Garnett didn't back down.
Yeah, he saw Ben. Yeah, he knew the guy had just come off a long suspension. Yeah, he understood the danger.
But fear wasn't his language.
Rage was.Fire was.Momentum was.
Trading Blows
Garnett's raw emotion bled into his teammates.
Gugliotta started hitting mid-range jumpers off drive-and-kicks.Ray Allen found openings on the perimeter and drilled threes with that clean, efficient form that would one day terrify the entire league.
On the Lakers' side, Alex and Iverson stayed sharp.
Alex worked from everywhere, posting smaller defenders, crashing the glass, knocking down open threes when Minnesota tried to sag off. Iverson attacked seams, drawing fouls, hitting floaters, and flinging passes to open shooters.
It wasn't one of those first quarters where the better team explodes and the underdog collapses early.
It was a fight.
Every time Alex made a play, Garnett answered with something of his own.Every time the Lakers stretched the lead, Minnesota clawed it back.
By halftime, the scoreboard told the story:
Lakers – 49Timberwolves – 46
Only three points.
In the visitor's locker room, Coach Flip Saunders paced in front of his team, energy high.
"Look at this," he said, pointing at the halftime box score. "They're supposed to be the unbeatable number one team, right?"
Players nodded.
"We're down three," Saunders said. "Three. Not thirty. Not twenty. Three. You keep defending like this, you keep hitting your shots, and we're right there at the end. You want to be the first team to knock them off at full strength? This is your chance."
Nobody in the room thought this was some meaningless February game anymore.
This was a shot at the throne.
The Halftime Plan
Across the hall, the Lakers locker room was quieter but not relaxed.
Alex sat with ice wrapped loosely around his knees, drinking water as Del Harris drew on the whiteboard.
"Alright," Harris said, looking at Alex. "I'm going to try that lineup we talked about to start the third."
He started writing names.
Allen Iverson.Bruce Bowen.Robert Horry.Ben Wallace.Alex Mo.
A defensive nightmare.A switch-heavy, aggressive, in-your-jersey unit built not just to defend but to crush a team's rhythm entirely.
"Bruce, Ben, you're both coming in," Harris said. "Be ready from the first possession."
Bowen straightened in his chair, hand automatically going to the headband on his forehead.
"Yes, coach."
Ben grinned.
"I've been ready for twenty games," he said. "Just say when."
Alex studied the board and couldn't help but feel a little thrill.
Yeah, he thought. This is the one. This is the lineup I've been waiting for.
Whether it would carry through to next season was a problem for the future.
Tonight, it was the final form of this year's squad.
And Minnesota was about to be the first test subject.
The New Look
When both teams stepped back onto the floor to start the third quarter, the crowd murmured.
Minnesota came out with its usual starters, eyes burning with the hope of an upset.
The Lakers… did not.
The announcer's voice echoed through the arena as each name was called:
"At guard, six feet, Allen Iverson!""At guard, six-seven, Bruce Bowen!""At forward, six-ten, Robert Horry!""At center, six-nine, Ben Wallace!""And at forward, six-eleven… Alex Mo!"
On the broadcast, the commentators went quiet for a second, processing what they were seeing.
Then:
"Uh… wow. This is a very different look from the Lakers.""This might be the nastiest defensive five-man group I've seen them roll out all year.""Bowen and Iverson at the point of attack, Ben and Horry behind them, and Alex Mo cleaning everything up… Minnesota might be walking into a buzzsaw."
Out on the floor, Garnett glanced at the formation in front of him.
He saw the headbands.He saw the eyes.He felt the shift in the air.
The roaring wolf king had made his noise.
Now he was about to find out what it felt like when the pack on the other side started hunting back.
To be continued…