Cleveland, Ohio.Gund Arena.All-Star Weekend.
The noise inside the building still carried a leftover echo from last night.
"M-V-P! M-V-P! M-V-P!"
The chant had followed Alex Mo all the way from midcourt to the tunnel after the Rookie Challenge, and even now, as highlights played on the big screen before the Saturday night events, the crowd reacted as if it were live.
On the jumbotron, Alex was everywhere running in transition, swatting layups into the stands, raining threes from distances that made the arc look pointless. The ticker at the bottom flashed his stat line from the Rookie Challenge.
39 points, 18 rebounds, 7 blocks, 8 threes.Rookie Game MVP.
Commentators around the league had lost their minds over it.
"Probably the most dominant Rookie Game performance we've ever seen," one had said.
"It was a blowout," another admitted. "But when the guy blowing you out is this fun to watch, no one's changing the channel."
Kobe had walked off that court with something new lodged in his chest. He could still hear an assistant back in high school telling him, Don't be afraid to miss. Be afraid not to shoot.
Watching Alex pull up from two steps beyond the line, hand in a stranger's face, no hesitation at all… that sentence had finally connected.
Marbury had left annoyed, muttering about "video game sliders."
And Camby?
He'd just gone quiet.
The West rookies had laughed and celebrated and slapped Alex on the back, but all of them, deep down, understood something very simple:
If this was just "warm-up," what would happen when tonight rolled around and everything was built around him?
Saturday Night – Two Crowns in One Evening?
February 8th, U.S. time.
By the time the arena lights dimmed for All-Star Saturday, the place was full. Fans in fresh All-Star jerseys, kids with foam fingers, couples in team jackets, older heads wearing throwback gear from the '80s.
Everywhere Alex looked, he saw his own number — 34 — in purple and gold.
Up near the bench area, Allen Iverson had his feet up on a folding chair, chains glinting in the light, hair braided tight and fresh. He wore a loose warmup, but no uniform tonight; he was strictly a spectator for the skills competitions.
When a sideline reporter stuck a mic in his face during a break in the intros, Iverson didn't bother playing it safe.
"The trophies tonight?" he said. "Both of 'em are already spoken for."
"Both?" the reporter repeated. "You mean"
"The three-point contest," Iverson said. "And the dunk contest. They're both going home with Alex. I'm just here to watch the show."
Two Brothers in North Carolina
Hundreds of miles away, in a dorm room in North Carolina, Vince Carter and Tracy McGrady sat cross-legged on the floor, pizza boxes open, the TV volume turned up loud.
The three-point contest hadn't even started yet. TNT was replaying Alex's highlights from Rucker Park, from the Rookie Game, from the Christmas showdown in Chicago.
"Think he's saving anything for the dunk contest?" Carter asked, wiping his hands on a paper napkin.
McGrady stared at the screen, expression half curious, half stubborn.
"I just want to see if he's got something I haven't even thought of yet," T-Mac said. "Last time in Rucker, I thought I understood how crazy he could get. I was wrong."
"Yeah," Vince said, smirking. "That windmill of his has been living in my nightmares."
Neither of them changed the channel.
Little Curry in the Crowd
Back in Gund Arena, Dale Curry sat a few rows up with his wife and two sons. He'd played in big games, hit big shots, but tonight his role was simple: just another proud dad in the stands.
"Boys, look," he said, nodding toward the court as Alex walked out, taking a few light warmup shots. "That's the guy I've been telling you about."
Stephen Curry, still a skinny kid with a round face and a mouth full of popcorn, followed his father's gaze. His eyes sparkled.
He wasn't excited about the three-point racks set up at the corners and top of the arc.
He was thinking about the dunk contest.
"I wanna see him fly," Steph murmured.
"What was that?" Dale asked.
"Nothing," Steph said quickly, stuffing another handful of popcorn into his mouth.
Dale laughed, assuming his son was shy under the noise and the lights.
If Alex lights up this three-point contest, he thought, maybe these two will fall in love with shooting young.
He had no idea that the kid sitting beside him would one day warp the geometry of the sport with that very shot.
Headband Mo
On the sideline, Iverson spotted Alex walking toward the three-point racks and raised his hand.
"Yo, Mo!" he called. "Hold up!"
Alex jogged over, already wearing his dark purple Lakers warmup pants and the brand new All-Star IM1 colorway: navy, silver, and white gleaming under the arena lights.
What stood out, though, was on his head a black headband stitched with a small metallic IM logo at the front.
"Since when do you wear a headband?" Iverson laughed. "You stealing my style now?"
Alex snorted. "Relax. Nike made it. 'All-Star accessory line,' they said. 'Wear it on TV,' they said. I'm just trying not to mess up my hair too much."
Iverson leaned closer, squinting at the logo.
"It's clean," he admitted. "Might need to get one of my own."
"You get one and the entire league is gonna copy it," Alex said. "Let me have this weekend."
What neither of them knew was that the commentators had already started.
"Looks like Alex is debuting a new look tonight," one of them said as the camera zoomed in. "We've seen him in platinum, in purple and white… but this is the first time we've seen Headband Mo."
"Every time he shows up with something new, he does something memorable," his partner replied. "If I'm the rest of the field, I'm nervous."
The Three-Point Contest – Field and Format
The PA announcer's voice boomed over the noise.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 1997 NBA Three-Point Shootout!"
Six participants. Five racks. Twenty-five balls each four regular balls worth one point, one money ball worth two. Top three from the first round advance to the final.
This year's lineup:
Dale Ellis – former champion, veteran sniper.
John Starks – streaky but fearless.
Glen Rice – smooth stroke, pure scorer.
Steve Kerr – Chicago's quiet killer from deep.
Tim Legler – the defending three-point champion.
And finally… the tallest player ever invited to the contest: Alex Mo.
Fans were buzzing over the dunk contest later, sure, but something about a 7-footer in a three-point shootout made this event feel different.
First Round – Warming Up… and Breaking Records
Dale Ellis shot first.
He was still mechanically sound, still smooth, but there was a stiffness to his legs that hadn't been there in '89. He went around the arc, making some, missing others, and finished with 13 points.
Solid, but not threatening.
John Starks followed, smiling wide, waving to the crowd. He knew why he was here not as a favorite, but as a showman. After a slow start and a brief late burst, he ended at 12 points.
Glen Rice stepped up third. His release was as clean as ever, and when he found rhythm in the top-of-the-key rack, the crowd perked up. But a couple of late misses cost him. He posted 14 points.
Then came Steve Kerr.
In Alex's memories of the league, Kerr was always the guy who showed up at the right time wide open in the corner, calmly ending somebody's night. Tonight, in Cleveland, he looked like he'd decided the three-point line was his territory and he wasn't giving it up easily.
Rack one: four of five, money ball good.Rack two: five of five.Rack three: a couple of lips-out, but he kept his composure.
When Kerr finished, the scoreboard flashed 18 points.
On the Bulls bench section, Scottie Pippen jumped up and punched the air.
"That's right!" Pippen shouted over the noise. "Let him know, Steve!"
Legler went next. As the defending champ, he carried himself like a man who'd been here before. Smooth, unhurried, making sure every shot came out of the same pocket, with the same follow-through.
His final tally: 19 points. Higher than Kerr, enough to guarantee a spot in the finals.
"Champions are champions for a reason," one commentator said. "Legler isn't going anywhere quietly."
And then it was Alex's turn.
Alex Steps Up
He stripped off his warmup top, headband still in place, IM1 All-Star colorway squeaking lightly as he walked to the left corner his starting rack.
The crowd's murmur rose as he bent his knees once, rolled his shoulders, and took a deep breath.
Somewhere near the baseline, a kid yelled, "Shoot 'em all, Mo!"
The countdown began on the big screen.
BEEP.
Alex grabbed the first ball.
Catch, dip, rise, flick.
Swish.
Before the ball even hit the floor off the net, he had the second ball in his hands.
"Look at the speed!" the sideline commentator said, voice rising. "He's not even checking whether it goes in — he's just lifting and firing!"
Ball two — in.Ball three — in.Ball four — in.Money ball — clean.
Five for five. A perfect rack: 6 points.
He moved to the second rack at the wing, rhythm unbroken right hand catching, left hand guiding, feet barely leaving the floor, releases identical.
The crowd started to catch on. Every make brought louder noise.
"Ten!" somebody shouted."Eleven!" another voice followed."Twelve!"
By the time he cleared the third rack and moved to the top, he still hadn't missed.
"Fifteen for fifteen!" the play-by-play man yelled. "Alex Mo hasn't touched the rim yet! This is unreal!"
Up in the row of legends, Larry Bird, who knew a thing or two about this contest, sat forward in his chair, elbows on his knees.
"This kid's nuts," he muttered, not quite hiding the grin on his face.
Another rack. Another. The form never changed. If anything, as the stakes rose, Alex's movements got simpler, more efficient.
He made the first 24 shots.
Every regular ball.Every money ball.
The scoreboard climbed to 28 points before he even picked up the last ball.
The record for a three-point contest round hung above him like a challenge. He'd already beaten it with the 29 he'd posted in the preliminaries. This was his chance to shatter it again.
"If he hits this, it's a perfect 25-for-25," the color commentator said, voice hushed now. "We're talking 30 out of 30 possible points. That has never happened."
For the first time all night, the arena fell quiet.
Alex bent his knees. The money ball felt the same in his hands as the first one had. His mind was empty; he didn't think about the score, the cameras, the legends watching, the kids in the stands.
Catch.Dip.Rise.Release.
The ball left his fingers and described a beautiful, high arc.
Whoosh.
Nothing but net.
For half a second, there was silence the kind that only happens when ten thousand people all gasp at once.
Then Gund Arena detonated.
"HE MADE IT!!" the play-by-play announcer screamed. "TWENTY-FIVE STRAIGHT! A PERFECT ROUND! 30 POINTS!!"
"God is in the three-point contest tonight!" his partner shouted over the noise. "This is the most incredible shooting display we have ever seen in this event!"
Reggie Miller, sitting on a panel of analysts at the baseline, shook his head and laughed in disbelief.
"Everybody else can go home," Reggie said. "This thing's over. I don't care what the scoreboard says that crown belongs to him."
Iverson was already on his feet, hopping in place, both hands on his head.
"I told y'all!" he yelled at no one in particular. "I told y'all! That's the champ!"
On the Bulls side, even Scottie Pippen, who had every reason in the world to resent Alex, found himself clapping once, then twice, then faster.
Kerr sat back, exhaled, and smiled.
"Can't even be mad at that," he said to the teammate next to him. "That's just… different."
A Perfect Crown
Officially, the contest still had a final round structure Kerr and Legler had earned their way there with their earlier scores.
But emotionally?
The three-point contest had ended the moment Alex's last money ball ripped through the net.
Kerr's 17 in the finals was strong. Legler's 20 would have been enough to win in most years.
The difference between "most years" and this year was a 7-foot All-Star starter who shot the ball like a shooting guard and moved with the calm of a man at a morning shootaround.
Alex's perfect 30 wasn't just a win.
It was a statement.
He raised his arms once to acknowledge the roar, headband slightly askew now, chest heaving a little from the pace of his release.
The trophy they handed him afterward a silver-and-glass sculpture of a ball over three rising arcs felt small in his hands, almost fragile.
He held it up anyway, turning slowly in a circle so every section of the arena could see.
"Tonight," the commentator said, "Alex Mo isn't just the tallest player ever to enter the three-point contest. He's the first player ever to shoot a perfect round and he's done it in front of the 50 greatest players in NBA history."
Headband Mo.Rookie MVP.Three-point champion with a flawless 25-for-25 performance.
Somewhere in the building, equipment staff rolled out new racks and adjusted the height of the rim.
Because the night wasn't over.
The three-point crown was his.
Now it was time to see what he could do when he didn't stop at the linebut launched himself all the way to the rim.