The American Airlines Center was roaring. Even though the Mavericks had just been rattled by the Kings' Moreyball tactic, the fans' support for their team never wavered.
Nowitzki stood on the court, hands on hips, glancing at the cheering crowd. In that moment, he made up his mind.
"Monta, get me the ball a few more times," he said lightly to Ellis beside him.
Ellis instantly understood—the big man's competitive fire had been lit.
Nowitzki might have been one of the league's nicest guys, but his will to win was second to none. Without it, there would have been no 2011 miracle run where he carried the Mavericks past three straight heavyweights.
"Got it. We'll work through you," Ellis replied, casting a deep look at the Kings' defense.
The Mavericks went on offense.
After directing the team into position, Ellis saw Nowitzki seal his man inside. Without hesitation, he fed him the ball—an action that immediately caught Coach Malone's attention on the Kings' bench.
Since switching to a two-big lineup in the second half, Mozgov had been assigned to guard Nowitzki. The big white bear might have been vulnerable to quicker bigs, but against this veteran who no longer had much foot speed, Mozgov held his own.
Because of that, Dirk had spent much of the night passing out to shooters instead of looking for his own shot.
But now he was calling for the ball. Was he changing his approach?
While Malone hesitated, Dirk banged into Mozgov, carved out just enough space, and smoothly turned into his trademark fadeaway.
Swish! The ball dropped cleanly through.
Mozgov stared in disbelief as it sailed over him and through the net. That easy?
Right then, Chen Yilun's Three-Point Boost Card expired.
Tweet!
CJ came off a pick for a three but bricked it, watching in frustration as the ball bounced off the rim. He clapped his hands and jogged back, unsettled—his touch had gone cold.
Pros like him often knew the instant they released a shot whether it was going in. That sense—built over years—told CJ this one was short, and sure enough, it clipped the front rim.
The game wouldn't wait for him to figure out why. Sensing his brief lapse, Ellis crossed him up and drove hard into the paint.
Mozgov stepped up to help, but Ellis's eyes were locked on the far side of the lane. His slender frame slammed into Mozgov's massive body, twisting his motion, yet he still flipped the ball high into the air.
Mozgov watched it sail over him—straight toward the rim? No.
"No! Alley-oop!"
By the time Mozgov shouted, it was too late. A pair of hands snatched the spinning ball midair and crushed it through the hoop.
Dirk hung on the rim a moment before dropping down.
"Oh-ho-ho! You don't see that every day—Dirk's really turned it on tonight," Barkley chuckled from the broadcast booth. "A rare sight. In recent years, Dirk's barely shown this level of aggression. Looks like the Kings' young guns woke up his competitive streak."
The Kings on the court weren't nearly as amused. Malone called timeout—not just to let Dirk catch his breath, but to reset his own side.
"Rudy, what do we do now?" CJ asked Gay, standing nearby.
With Cousins lacking leadership chops and the rest of the roster being so young, Gay was the de facto elder statesman.
Wiping his face with a towel, Gay sighed. "What can you do? When Dirk decides to carry a team, all you can do is pray he misses."
If even Miami's Big Three couldn't shut him down back then, how could they?
The minute-long break ended quickly. Malone, with no choice, sent Cousins back in. The Kings now had their strongest lineup: Cousins, Mozgov, Gay, LaVine, and CJ.
It was early in the fourth—starters would normally rest a bit longer—but letting Dallas get rolling was not an option. Lose control now, lose the game.
Carlisle saw it coming and countered with his own full-strength lineup. The decisive stretch came early.
On the Kings' possession, CJ drew a double off a screen and zipped the ball to LaVine beyond the arc. LaVine adjusted and rose for the jumper—clank, off the back rim.
The paint instantly turned into a wrestling match: Cousins leaning on Dirk, Mozgov and Chandler locked up. Four giants clogging the lane.
The ball bounced free, and Cousins muscled Dirk aside to grab it—
Tweet!
"Kings, number 15. Pushing, under the basket!"
The slight shove Cousins used to clear space had been spotted by the baseline ref.
"Damn it!" Cousins slammed the ball to the floor, muttering angrily.
Seeing trouble brewing, Gay darted over and pulled him back. "What's wrong with you? Complain to the ref, not in front of him!"
Dirk called for the ball again, singling out Cousins. Maybe Gay's lecture had sunk in, because Cousins stayed disciplined—holding position instead of swiping at the ball.
Dirk probed twice, found no angle, and kicked it out to Ellis. A series of crossovers shook CJ, and Ellis slashed to the free-throw line.
Cousins felt the pressure vanish—Dirk had cut to the elbow, took a quick handoff from Ellis, and drilled the jumper.
"Seriously?" Cousins' eyes widened. He'd watched Dirk in his prime, but never felt this level of control up close. Tonight was a masterclass.
"Snap out of it! Get on offense!" Gay barked, exasperated. Cousins was talented in so many ways—why was focus always the problem?
In the closing minutes, the Kings fought to cut the lead back under ten, but the Mavericks' trump card was unstoppable. Dirk kept Dallas firmly in control.
Tweet!
The final buzzer sounded. The Mavericks had defended home court, 116–103. Dirk was the undisputed MVP: 38 points and 12 rebounds.
As the Mavericks celebrated around him, the Kings trudged off, heads down, completely deflated.
Malone, unusually quiet after the loss, gave Carlisle a polite handshake and walked away.
In the studio, the analysts were already debating the game's display of pure individual brilliance.
"I said it before—yes, the Kings have surprised us this year, but they still lack a true backbone. In a duel like this, without a real leader to carry the load, it's too hard to go deep in the playoffs," Barkley declared after a sip of water. "Cousins as your number two? Great. Cousins as your number one? Disaster."
"But let's not forget how young this team is," Reggie Miller cut in before Barkley's rant could build further. "Most of their perimeter guys—CJ, LaVine, Ben—are first- or second-year players. They've got the touches and the role to grow. I think the second half of the season will bring a big leap."
"One season? How much can a bunch of rookies really improve?" Barkley scoffed.
"Oh? Sounds like we've got some disagreement here," the host in the middle said smoothly, defusing the tension. "Care to make a bet on the Kings' future, Mr. Barkley? You're something of an authority on the subject."
The studio erupted in laughter—everyone knew it was a jab at Barkley's infamous failed Yao Ming prediction that ended with him kissing a donkey on air.
"Sounds good to me," Miller grinned. "If Kenny Smith can beat you, so can I."
Barkley wasn't biting. "No bets. I quit gambling after that. Not happening."
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