A brief silence fell across the room.
The reporters exchanged glances, eyes wide with disbelief.
The interview with Jiang Chen had just redefined their understanding of the word braggadocious.
Even Larry Bird—the original "King of Trash Talk" from the '80s—might have met his match tonight.
Back in his era, Bird's confidence had been legendary. Every boast he made, he backed up on the floor, leaving fans retelling his stories for decades.
Now, after only a few minutes of speaking with Jiang Chen, the reporters sensed that this Chinese rookie might be on his way to inheriting that same crown.
But there was one crucial difference—Larry Bird had proven every word he ever said.
Could Jiang Chen do the same?
Would he really sustain the dominance he promised, or would he vanish like so many others—bright for one night, forgotten the next?
Only time would tell.
For now, most reporters remained skeptical.
The NBA had seen too many shooting stars—players who exploded for a single, breathtaking game, only to fade from view.
Maybe this would be Jiang Chen's story too.
Perhaps tonight's miracle—35 points in one quarter, 10 three-pointers, and a game-winning free throw—would stand as the peak of his career.
"Phil, under your guidance, the Lakers pulled off a stunning comeback. What do you think was the most important decision you made tonight?"
Phil Jackson smiled faintly.
"Without question, putting Jiang Chen on the floor.
If I'd done it earlier, maybe we wouldn't have fallen behind by thirty-three."
he reporters laughed lightly, but one quickly followed up.
"Coach, do you think Jiang Chen could become to Kobe what Pippen was to Jordan?"
"Well…" Phil's tone carried both amusement and approval. "Some of his comments are… bold. But I appreciate confidence in a young player. We'll see how things develop. As for that comparison—Pippen never scored thirty-five in a quarter or hit ten threes in a Finals game. Who knows? Maybe he'll become another Kobe."
Phil shrugged casually, his praise effortless but sincere.
Gasps rippled through the room.
Another Kobe?
This benchwarmer?
Had Phil Jackson really just said that?
Jiang Chen's performance had been extraordinary, sure—but another Kobe Bryant was a statement on another level entirely.
Kobe was the face of the NBA, a generational superstar whose name resonated worldwide.
How could a rookie from China possibly reach that height?
Aside from Yao Ming, no Chinese player had ever come close to that kind of global stature.
"Kobe, do you agree with Coach Jackson?"
The microphones turned toward him.
Kobe nodded slightly. "Yeah. Jiang Chen's a special player. His potential in this league is limitless."
He spoke calmly, his tone measured.
What came next didn't matter yet. What mattered was Game 7.
If a few words of encouragement could help fuel his teammate's confidence, why hold back?
Jiang Chen grinned and turned toward him. "Kobe, I've got to say—you've got great judgment."
"..."
Kobe blinked, momentarily speechless.
This guy really didn't know how to hold back.
The reporters erupted with laughter.
This rookie truly never missed a chance to brag.
Still, Game 7 would tell the truth.
When the Lakers' media session ended, a wave of journalists hurried across the hall to the Celtics' interview room.
Compared to the crowded buzz around the Lakers, Boston's side felt subdued—just a few dozen reporters, most still processing the collapse they had witnessed.
"Coach Rivers, how do you view this loss? Do you think it could shift the momentum of the series?"
Rivers sighed. "Honestly, I didn't expect it at all. When we were up by thirty-three, we were already thinking about celebrating the championship. Then a guy from the Lakers bench—someone who barely plays—drops thirty-five in one quarter, hits ten threes, and wins it at the line? That's tough to swallow."
He paused, forcing a thin smile. "We basically had the trophy in our hands, and that rookie from China snatched it away."
"But no," he continued firmly, shaking his head. "I don't think this is some turning point. We built a thirty-three-point lead once—we can do it again in Game 7. Let's be real, a bench player can't go off like that twice. You can't win a championship relying on a minimum-salary guy."
The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable—half aimed at himself, half at the Lakers.
He was angry at his own mistake for giving Jiang Chen too much space early on, letting him find rhythm.
And frustrated that a player earning a fraction of his stars' salaries had just wrecked their night.
But no matter how much it stung, that bench player still wore a Lakers jersey.
That fact alone made it even worse.
"Coach, will you make defensive adjustments for Jiang Chen in Game 7?"
Rivers waved a hand dismissively. "No. Not necessary."
He kept his face calm, but his thoughts churned.
Of course we'll adjust. We'd be crazy not to.
Aloud, he said, "I know they'll give him more minutes, but his main weapon is the three-pointer. Ten-for-thirteen? Come on—he's not hitting that again."
Outwardly composed, inwardly he was already plotting coverages and close-outs.
Even if Jiang Chen only hit three or four next time, that would still be too many.
But no way could he say that publicly.
In the Finals, you never showed weakness—not even for a second.
Basketball wasn't just a battle of skill and strength.
It was psychological warfare too.
The reporters nodded, jotting down notes, most of them agreeing with his reasoning.
"Garnett, can you walk us through that final defensive possession? Why foul there? Why let Jiang Chen get the and-one?"
A reporter who had just come from the Lakers' interview room asked, unable to hide his urgency.
"Our defense was fine," Garnett replied firmly. "We forced Jiang Chen into the paint, then I fouled him to send him to the free-throw line."
He paused, shaking his head in frustration. "But I didn't expect that even with a full-force foul, that Chinese rookie would still make the shot."
He exhaled, the corner of his mouth tightening. "There was one thing that really got me. Right when I fouled him—he smiled. Just a tiny smirk, like he'd been waiting for it. That's when I knew he saw through our plan. He baited me. He wanted that foul—and he got it."
Garnett's expression turned grim, the memory clearly stinging.
He knew he'd been outsmarted, and that feeling—of being the one hunted instead of the hunter—was unbearable.
The room fell silent. Reporters exchanged glances, unsure what to say.
So Jiang Chen had been telling the truth after all.
He really had controlled that final possession—not looking for overtime, but for a 2+1 finish, completely dictating the play.
And the cruel irony?
Boston's own defensive scheme had helped him do it.
The realization settled heavily over the room.
The Celtics had drawn up a play that ended up costing them the championship they were seconds away from claiming.
Now the series was tied, heading to a Game 7 where anything could happen.
Several reporters couldn't help but wonder—if Boston lost the decider, how deep would the regret run? Would Rivers and his players replay that final tactic over and over in their minds?
And then there was that image that stuck with everyone:
In the last, do-or-die possession, under all that pressure, Jiang Chen had still smiled.
Was this really an undrafted benchwarmer?
The thought felt absurd, no matter how anyone tried to reason it.
...
After the post-game interviews wrapped up, the army of reporters scattered in every direction, racing back to their newsrooms to work through the night.
There was simply too much to write about—too many storylines, too many quotes that demanded headlines. The interviews alone could fill pages.
By the next morning, articles flooded every major sports outlet across the United States, lighting up the internet like wildfire.
"A Miraculous Comeback! Benchwarmer Scores 35 Points in a Single Quarter as Lakers Stun Celtics!"
"Championship Slips Away? Celtics' 33-Point Lead Crumbles in Shocking Collapse!"
"35 Points in One Quarter, 10 Threes—Chinese Undrafted Rookie Shatters NBA Finals Records!"
"From DNP to Destiny: Undrafted Rookie Saves Lakers—Is This Divine Intervention?"
The stories didn't stop at the game recap. The interviews themselves became instant headlines.
"A Battle to Become a Legend? Phil Jackson Says Jiang Chen Could Be 'Another Kobe!'"
"'I'll Hit More Than 10 Threes in Game 7'—Arrogant or Fearless? Jiang Chen's Post-Game Declaration Stuns Fans!"
"Under Control: Jiang Chen Reveals His 2 + 1 Buzzer Play Was All Part of the Plan!"
"Garnett Admits Jiang Chen Saw Through Celtics' Defense, Waited for the Foul, and Still Hit the Shot!"
"Doc Rivers Says Lakers 'Got Lucky,' Vows No Special Defense for Benchwarmer in Game 7!"
One headline after another—different words, same focus.
Every story revolved around a single name: Jiang Chen.
As the reports spread, a massive wave of discussion swept across the country.
"Oh my God, did this really happen? Can a benchwarmer be that good?"
"Thirty-five points in a quarter? Ten threes? That's something out of a video game."
"When I saw those numbers, I thought it had to be Kobe. I can't believe it was a rookie from China—unreal."
"I'm actually interested in this kid now. Let's see if he's the real deal or just a one-night wonder."
"Saying he'll hit more than ten threes in Game 7? Please. That's pure arrogance."
"Yeah, he's too cocky! Hope Boston humbles him next game."
"Sure, he went off once—but it's just one game. He barely played all season."
"Let's see how bad he looks when the pressure's really on."
The reactions were split down the middle. Some fans were amazed, others dismissive; praise mixed with doubt, excitement with scorn.
But one sentiment ran through nearly every conversation—no one truly believed Jiang Chen could keep it up.
To most, his outburst looked like a miracle that would fade as quickly as it appeared.
...
Across the ocean in China, news of the Lakers' miraculous comeback and Jiang Chen's stunning performance ignited the entire internet.
Every major sports site, forum, and portal was flooded with discussions.
"Holy cow! Ten three-pointers in a single quarter? Is this still the same Jiang Chen? I regret not watching the fourth quarter live!"
"I've replayed his highlights dozens of times—still can't get enough! Every time I watch, my blood starts boiling again!"
"That's how a Chinese player should perform! Who else could pull this off?"
"Incredible! I've been supporting Jiang Chen since he joined the NBA. After a whole season of silence, he finally exploded!"
"Come on, let's be real. He had one good game and you're already acting like you knew all along?"
Comment threads stretched endlessly as Jiang Chen's name climbed to the top of Baidu's trending searches in less than half a day.
He wasn't just trending—he had gone viral nationwide.
People from all walks of life sent congratulations to Jiang Chen and to Chinese basketball.
The Chinese Basketball Association even issued an official statement praising his performance in the NBA, commending his perseverance and unyielding pursuit of his dream.
They wrote that Jiang Chen had "seized his moment and proven himself on the world's biggest stage, embodying the truest spirit of sport."
Soon, even mainstream media outlets began running features about him—his background, his training, his breakthrough performance that lifted the Lakers from the brink of defeat.
For a brief moment, one player united the nation in pride and excitement.
Jiang Chen had become the hottest name in Chinese sports—outshining even the Olympians preparing for the Beijing Games.
He had truly achieved overnight fame.
...
...
Boston, USA.
Inside the Lakers' private training facility, the team was hard at work preparing for tomorrow's decisive Game 7.
A ten-minute intra-squad scrimmage was underway — starters versus the bench.
As the final minute ticked down, the bench trailed by only six points.
Sweat dripped from every player, the gym echoing with sneakers, shouts, and the thud of the ball.
Jiang Chen was once again the center of attention.
He had just buried five three-pointers in ten minutes — on only eight attempts.
His shooting percentage was unreal.
Even with Kobe and Gasol leading the starters, they couldn't pull away. The score stayed tight the whole way.
Beep!
The assistant coach's whistle cut through the air, signaling the end of the scrimmage.
Almost immediately, the players crowded around Jiang Chen.
"Man, your threes are insane!"
"With your firepower, we'll crush the Celtics tomorrow."
"No one outside this gym would believe you're still this hot after that breakout! Can't wait to see Boston's faces drop!"
"X-factor again, bro — you're our X-factor for sure!"
"Honestly, you might have a shot at becoming the next Ray Allen!"
Their voices overlapped — excited, genuine, full of energy.
Jiang Chen had earned their respect the hard way.
Not long ago, he'd been invisible — a quiet rookie on the end of the bench. Now every head in the gym turned when he spoke.
"No."
He looked up, expression calm, tone steady.
"No need to talk about the future — I'm already the best three-point shooter in the league."
"And don't compare me to Ray Allen," he added matter-of-factly. "That would be an insult to my ability."
The gym went silent.
Inside, Jiang Chen's thoughts stayed focused and certain.
The Shintarō Midorima High-Arc Three-Pointer isn't just for show.
Forget Ray Allen — even Curry couldn't match this precision.
With a technique like this, who in the league could truly rival me?
His gaze stayed composed, but the conviction behind it was unshakable.
Around him, teammates traded stunned looks.
The strongest three-point shooter in the league?
That was bold — even for him.
What would Ray Allen think if he heard that?
Kobe raised an eyebrow, recalling the post-game interview the night before.
Still the same confidence, he thought. This kid never flinches.
Yet even he had to admit — Jiang Chen's shooting was beyond belief.
If that rhythm carried into Game 7, the Lakers really might have the edge.
Kobe's competitive fire surged.
This time, he would not let the championship slip away.
From the sideline, Phil Jackson clapped his hands.
"Alright, that's enough. Let's run another round. Tomorrow, we finish this right."
"Yes, coach!"
The reply thundered through the gym, energy surging again.
Confidence was sky-high.
Because this time, the Lakers had a secret weapon —
an undrafted rookie from China, ready to become Boston's worst nightmare.
…
Miami, Florida — Heat Headquarters.
Inside the team president's office, Pat Riley sat behind his desk, a thick folder open in front of him.
Every scouting report, stat sheet, and media clip he could find about Jiang Chen was spread across the table.
The rookie's Game 6 explosion hadn't just stunned fans across America — it had sent ripples through every front office in the league.
Riley frowned slightly as he flipped through another report.
"Strange," he muttered. "The scouting notes are plain, his season numbers are bad… honestly, it's a miracle the Lakers didn't send him to the D-League. So how does a guy like this suddenly drop thirty-five in the Finals?"
He was still shaking his head when—
Bang!
The door burst open.
Dwyane Wade strode in, eyes bright with excitement.
"Coach! Did you see last night's game? That Chinese rookie was unbelievable! I swear, I'm a fan now."
Riley chuckled, glancing up from the file.
"Of course I saw it. What do you think I'm looking at right now?"
Wade grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.
He didn't bother to hide the reason for his visit — Jiang Chen was all he wanted to talk about.
After the Finals, Jiang Chen's contract would expire. Once free agency opened, he could be available. And for a team looking to rebuild around youth and firepower, that was a tempting thought.
Riley leaned back in his chair. "I know what you're thinking. I'm considering it too. But we can't judge a player from one hot night. We need to see more."
Years of running franchises had taught him to stay calm, even when the basketball world lost its mind.
Wade folded his arms, frowning. "See more? There's only one game left this season! Why not go to Boston and watch Game 7 ourselves?"
Riley paused — then nodded. "Fair point."
He closed the file and pushed his chair back. "Alright, let's get to the airport. We'll watch this kid up close."
Wade's grin returned instantly.
"Now that's what I'm talking about."
Moments later, Riley tossed the folder onto his desk and followed Wade out the door.
The Miami Heat were heading to Boston — to see, with their own eyes, whether Jiang Chen's miracle was real.
...
Los Angeles — Lakers General Manager's Office.
Mitch Kupchak sat at his desk, scrolling through the morning's headlines, a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Every outlet was buzzing about the same thing — Jiang Chen's miraculous performance in Game 6.
It was Kupchak who had signed Jiang Chen.
Back then, he'd simply thought the Chinese rookie's three-point shooting might be worth a look, so he gave him a minimum contract.
No fanfare, no expectations — just a quiet signing.
But no one could have predicted how things would unfold.
Jiang Chen had spent the entire regular season glued to the bench, almost invisible.
Kupchak had even considered cutting him several times. Yet each time, something told him to wait a little longer.
And now, that patience had paid off spectacularly.
When the Lakers were staring down elimination, it was Jiang Chen — the undrafted rookie — who had stepped up and saved their season.
Thirty-five points in one quarter. Ten threes. A game-winning free throw.
Kupchak leaned back in his chair, still grinning.
Just that one game alone had made the investment worth every penny.
So this is what it felt like to have sharp vision.
If he kept making moves like this, maybe — just maybe — the Lakers' next dynasty was already taking shape.
He was still lost in thought when the phone on his desk rang sharply.
The caller ID made him sit up straight: Dr. Jerry Buss.
Kupchak answered immediately.
"Hello, boss! What can I do for you?"
He already knew what this was about. Jiang Chen's name had to be at the top of every conversation in the organization.
"Great job signing Jiang Chen," Buss said, excitement clear in his voice. "But his contract's about to expire. I want you to fly to Boston right now — and keep him on this team at all costs."
Kupchak blinked. "At all costs? Do you have a contract limit in mind?"
"No limit!" Buss replied without hesitation. "As long as it's within league rules, pay whatever it takes. This kid's got something special. I believe in my instincts."
Kupchak could almost see the familiar fire in Buss's eyes through the phone.
The owner's boldness was legendary — his willingness to take risks had built the Lakers into one of the league's greatest empires.
And once Buss made a decision, he never looked back.
"Yes, sir!" Kupchak said quickly, his own excitement rising.
"Good. I'll expect results," Buss replied, then hung up.
Kupchak sat back, adrenaline surging.
Working for a boss like Jerry Buss — there was no better word for it than straightforward.
He immediately called for his assistant.
"Book me the earliest flight to Boston," he said, already standing.
Within minutes, Kupchak was on his way to the airport, his mind racing with possibilities.
If he could lock Jiang Chen into a new deal, Buss would be thrilled — and the Lakers would secure their newest gem.
It had to be said, Jiang Chen was one lucky rookie.
Even if he struggled in Game 7, he'd already earned himself a strong contract — and job security most undrafted players could only dream of.
Meanwhile, the Lakers weren't the only ones on the move.
Executives from several other teams — including the Heat — had also booked last-minute flights to Boston.
All wanted to see one thing with their own eyes:
Was Game 6 a once-in-a-lifetime fluke…
or the emergence of the NBA's next star?
For Jiang Chen, Game 7 would decide more than a championship.
It was his chance to prove he belonged — and to define his worth on the world's biggest stage.