The crowd inside Houston's Compaq Center was still buzzing from the last quarter when the second began. Sweat, sneaker squeaks, and the rhythmic bounce of the ball created a kind of drumbeat only the NBA could compose.
On one sideline, Coach Tomjanovich stood with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Across from him, Del Harris, the Silver Fox, adjusted his tie and tapped his clipboard. They weren't just coaching a regular-season game; this felt like a Western Conference preview.
Both men knew it.
Early Adjustments
The first quarter had ended in a blur of dunks and speed. Alex Mo's defense had already rattled the Rockets' confidence; a monster block on Clyde Drexler followed by another on Hakeem Olajuwon had sent the Lakers bench into chaos.
Now, as the second quarter began, both coaches went to their benches.
Harris leaned toward his players. "We're going to shake things up," he said. "Alex, you're sliding to small forward."
"Small forward?" Robert Horry raised an eyebrow. "Are you serious, Coach?"
"Dead serious," Harris replied. "Campbell and Horry will handle the inside. Alex on the wing. And Iverson…" He looked toward his rookie guard. "You're not running point this quarter. You're my shooting guard."
Iverson smirked. "Finally. Time to have some fun."
Across the floor, Coach Tomjanovich was planning his own counter. His Big Three, Olajuwon, Barkley, and Drexler, were showing their age, but he had no other choice. "We'll rotate you two in pairs," he told Hakeem and Charles. "Keep one fresh; keep pressure on that kid Mo."
Olajuwon nodded, his voice calm but determined. "I'm fine, Coach. I can play the full game if I have to. He's talented, but he's not me."
Barkley slapped his hands together. "And I'm not sitting either. You know what I said: "We can rest when we're dead!"
The locker room roared with laughter, but beneath it was tension. They all knew this wasn't going to be easy.
Experimentation
When the Lakers' new lineup hit the court, the commentators almost choked.
"Wait — are we seeing this right? Iverson at the two? Alex Mo playing small forward?"
"Unbelievable. A six-foot guard as your shooting guard and a seven-footer as your wing? Del Harris is out of his mind… or a genius."
They didn't know yet which.
The Rockets pressed full-court. It was the smart play to slow down L.A.'s tempo and force mistakes. But the moment the ball touched Iverson's hands, the strategy fell apart.
He exploded down the sideline, crossed over twice, and drove straight into the paint. Olajuwon stepped up to contest, and that was exactly what Iverson wanted. He leaned in, absorbed the contact, and flicked the ball high off the glass.
The whistle blew.And-one.
The Lakers bench leapt to their feet as Iverson clenched his fist.
The arena filled with murmurs.
"Allen Iverson," one announcer said, "is too fast. The Rockets' guards can't even turn their hips before he's gone."
When he sank the free throw, Alex Mo clapped his hands. "Told you this would work."
The Shift
Houston tried to respond through Barkley. Charles posted up Horry, backing him down like a bull in a phone booth. He scored twice in a row, and for a moment it looked like the Rockets might reclaim control.
But Iverson and Alex Mo were just getting warmed up.
The next possession, Iverson darted off a screen and blew past Drexler again. This time, both Barkley and Olajuwon collapsed to stop him leaving Alex wide open in the corner.
Iverson didn't even look he whipped a sidearm pass across the paint. Alex caught it in rhythm, rose, and released a smooth three.
Swish.
The sound of the net snapping echoed through the arena like a gunshot.
"Beautiful shot, Alex Mo!" the commentator shouted. "He's not just dominating the paint anymore; he's stretching the floor!"
Iverson jogged back on defense, grinning. "Nobody guarding you out there, huh?"
Alex smirked. "Would you, if you saw what happened to the last guy?"
The Rockets Crack
Coach Tomjanovich called timeout. The Rockets' bench looked restless, their rhythm shattered. Barkley was breathing hard, wiping sweat from his headband.
"Coach," Drexler said between gulps of water, "we can't keep up with their pace."
Tomjanovich exhaled, rubbing his temple. "We can't slow them down either. Not when Iverson keeps forcing double teams."
Every time Iverson broke through, it forced Houston's bigs to collapse, and when they did, Alex Mo punished them from deep.
The commentators summed it up perfectly:
"Iverson's the knife, Alex Mo's the sniper. One cuts you open, the other finishes the job."
Out of the timeout, Tomjanovich switched Drexler onto Iverson, hoping the veteran could contain the rookie. But Drexler's legs just weren't the same. Iverson danced around him like a ghost, slicing through the lane again and again.
By the time the quarter hit the halfway mark, the Lakers had ripped off a 15–2 run. The lead ballooned to twenty points, and the Rockets crowd, once thunderous, had fallen into stunned silence.
The Silver Fox's Smile
On the Lakers bench, Del Harris finally allowed himself a small grin. His experiment of Iverson at shooting guard, Alex Mo at small forward had turned the game into a showcase.
Iverson sat beside him during a timeout, towel draped around his shoulders, still catching his breath. "Coach," he said with a grin, "I kinda like this shooting guard thing. Those guys can't even see me coming."
Harris chuckled. "Enjoy it while it lasts. The league's about to watch that tape a hundred times."
Across the bench, Alex Mo sipped from his water bottle, calm as ever. The veteran players had started watching him, the way rookies watched legends—quiet admiration mixed with disbelief.
"Mo," Iverson said, leaning over, "we might've just found something dangerous."
Alex grinned. "Dangerous? Nah. We just figured out who we are."
Endgame
From that point, there was no recovery for Houston. The Big Three looked gassed. Barkley tried to rally them, shouting, clapping, and pushing his teammates to fight back, but every defensive switch ended the same way: Iverson burning his man, Alex catching and shooting, and the crowd roaring louder with every bucket.
By the final buzzer, the Lakers had reclaimed their place at the top of the Western Conference and the league.
Alex finished with 28 points, 12 rebounds, 5 blocks, and 3 threes. Iverson, playing his first full stretch at shooting guard, dropped 35 points and 8 assists.
As the players shook hands at midcourt, Olajuwon pulled Alex aside. "You're good, kid," he said quietly. "Keep learning. Don't just chase highlights. Chase greatness."
Alex nodded respectfully. "That's the plan."
Aftermath
In the post-game corridor, Coach Tomjanovich spoke quietly to his GM on the phone before facing the media.
"We need reinforcements before the trade deadline," he said. "If we're going to get past these Lakers, we've got to find a way to contain those two rookies Iverson and Alex Mo. They're not just the future. They're the problem right now."
Back in the Lakers' locker room, laughter filled the air. Music thumped softly. Iverson and Mo joked with each other as reporters filed in.
"Next time," Iverson said, grinning, "we should both go for forty."
Alex looked up with a calm smile. "You first, little bro. I'll be there when you do."