February 6th, U.S. time.
The Lakers had just wrapped up their last home game before the All-Star break, a routine win that felt more like a checkpoint than a climax. The crowd at the Forum had been loud, but there was a different kind of energy in the building everyone knew what was coming next.
All-Star Weekend.
In the locker room afterward, guys were already talking about flights, beaches, and how much they planned to sleep.
"Cabo," one of the vets announced, shoving shoes into a bag. "I'm not answering my phone for three days. Not even if my mama calls."
"Man, I'm turning my pager off," another laughed. "If it's important, they'll fax me… in 1999."
Alex Mo sat at his stall, towel over his head, taping his fingers one by one. He listened with half an ear, amused. For most of the team, the break meant sunshine, family, or gambling somewhere warmer than California at night.
For him?
Work.
Again.
Across the room, Allen Iverson tossed his jersey into a laundry bin and sauntered over, still buzzing from the game.
"Mo," Iverson said, leaning against the metal locker door, "know what vacation looks like?"
"What?" Alex asked, glancing up.
Iverson spread his arms. "I don't either, 'cause we ain't getting one."
Alex laughed. "You got two games. I've got… what? Four?"
"Rookie Game. Three-Point Contest. Dunk Contest. All-Star Game," Iverson counted on his fingers, then pointed at Alex. "Brother, you're the only man I know who works more on All-Star Weekend than during the season."
"Gotta keep the economy running," Alex said. "I'll send you the invoice."
Del Harris walked past them, suit jacket over his arm, face already in serious mode.
"Get some rest on the flight, you two," the Silver Fox said. "We're not just showing up in Cleveland to smile for cameras."
"Yes, coach," they answered in unison, like kids getting caught whispering in class.
The All-Star Colorway
The next morning, Alex woke up to a call from his Nike rep.
He took it on the couch, legs stretched out, TV running highlights on mute.
"Alex, everything set for Cleveland?" the rep asked.
"Yeah. Flight's this afternoon. What's up?"
"Just wanted to make sure you got the shipment," the rep said, excitement creeping into his voice. "We sent over your All-Star IM1 colorway."
Alex turned his head. A big orange Nike box was sitting by the front door. He hadn't opened it yet.
"Hold on," he said, setting the phone on his shoulder as he went over, popped the lid, and peeled back the tissue paper.
Inside, resting like something out of a display case, was the third colorway of his signature shoe the IM1 All-Star "SWAT" edition.
They were mostly dark navy and white, with metallic silver accents and a subtle star pattern etched into the upper. The heel had a reinforced TPU plate, a harder, glossy piece that wrapped like armor around the back of the foot.
"They look heavier," Alex said, turning one shoe in his hand.
"More stable," the rep replied. "We added a torsion plate in the heel. You're playing three nights in a row, we want that extra support. Same double Zoom cushioning, same last, just more structure in the back."
Alex pressed a thumb into the sole, flexed it gently.
"You like?" the rep asked, almost nervous.
"They're clean," Alex said. "Better not make me slower, though."
"Not a chance. Oh, and before you ask yes, they're limited. 100,000 pairs total. Only selected stores in the U.S. and a handful overseas. Once they're gone, they're gone."
"Limited, huh?" Alex said. "You just love making people stand in lines."
"That's the business," the rep said, chuckling. "You're going to be on TV three nights straight in these. Trust me they'll move."
Alex hung up a few minutes later and set the shoes carefully back in the box. For a second, he imagined them in slow motion flying past the rim, landing on the three-point line, sliding across the paint on a block.
Then he closed the lid.
Time to make all that look good.
Cleveland – Legends in the Stands
February 7th, U.S. time. Cleveland.
Snow lined the streets outside Gund Arena, turning the gray city into a patchwork of ice and slush. Inside, though, the building was warm and humming media, players, staff, families, security, and an unusual number of well-dressed men with history carved into their faces.
This year wasn't just any All-Star Weekend.
It was the 50th anniversary of the NBA, and the league was bringing together the 50 Greatest Players for a special ceremony.
By the afternoon, seven men who had defined generations of Lakers basketball were already sitting courtside, watching early warmups for the Rookie Challenge.
Jerry West.Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.Magic Johnson.Elgin Baylor.Wilt Chamberlain.James Worthy.George Mikan.
Lakers royalty in one row.
A TV crew rushed to the oldest of them, George Mikan, carefully leaning in a bit closer so he wouldn't have to strain.
"Mr. Mikan, what brought you all the way to Cleveland?" the reporter asked.
Mikan smiled, the lines on his face deepening. "At my age, I don't travel much anymore," he admitted. "I don't even make it to many games in Los Angeles these days."
He glanced toward the court, where the rookies were going through layup lines.
"But Commissioner Stern came to see me personally," Mikan continued. "And he said, 'George, we'd love you at the ceremony… and you should see this new kid in purple and gold.'"
His eyes found Alex at the far end, stretching with Iverson.
"So I came," Mikan said simply. "To see the Lakers' big man for myself."
Magic's Promise
On the opposite sideline, Magic Johnson was practically holding court with a small army of cameras around him.
"Magic!" a reporter yelled. "What's your role this weekend? Just the ceremony?"
Magic's grin widened. "No, no, no. I've got something extra planned," he said. "You all know Alex is in the slam dunk contest tomorrow night, right?"
The microphones leaned in.
"He and I were talking last night," Magic continued. "We came up with a little idea. In the finals, for his first dunk, I'm going to be the one to pass him the ball."
The court audio picked that up, and even some of the rookies turned their heads.
"What kind of dunk is it?" another reporter asked immediately.
Magic laughed, shaking his head. "If I tell you now, where's the fun in that? Just… don't be late tomorrow night."
"Are you worried he might not make the finals?" someone else pressed. "What if he gets knocked out early? That pass might never happen."
Magic's smile vanished. He gave the reporter a long, exaggerated look.
"Are you new here?" he deadpanned. "Dunk contest, three-point contest… everybody else is fighting for second place. Alex is the show."
He said it with too much certainty to sound like a joke.
Legends Talking
Up in the row, Jerry West leaned closer to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar as they watched Alex and Iverson toss half-speed lobs in warmups.
"Kareem," West said, "you ever think about working with him? Footwork, post moves, that skyhook of yours?"
Kareem shook his head lightly. "Honestly, Jerry? I don't think he needs me."
West raised an eyebrow.
"I watched him at Georgetown," Kareem continued. "His footwork was already polished then spins, counters, up-and-unders. Now? He can face up, shoot the three, protect the rim. He's doing things I wasn't doing at his age."
Kareem's tone wasn't false modesty. It was flat, matter-of-fact.
"He'll learn what he needs on his own," he finished. "If he ever asks for something, I'll gladly share what I know. But I don't think he's missing much."
On West's other side, Wilt Chamberlain scoffed dramatically.
"So you two are going to sit here and make him sound like he's already got nothing left to improve?" Wilt said. "Come on. I scored a hundred; someone's gotta teach that boy how to chase records."
Jerry West gave him a patient look. "And what record do you want to help him chase, exactly?"
Wilt smirked. "Let's just say… if I'd looked that good when I was his age, I'd have broken a lot more than just scoring records."
West coughed. "We are definitely not putting you in charge of his off-court education, Wilt."
They both laughed, eyes drifting back toward Alex.
Even from up there, it was obvious: he moved differently. He ran like a wing, jumped like a pure athlete, shot like a forward, and filled the lane like a classic big.
The present and future of the Lakers, playing layup-line games with a 6'0″ guard from Virginia who insisted on trying to dunk every time.
East Rookie Goals
Down on the court, the media session for the Rookie Challenge had started.
A cluster of microphones surrounded Stephon Marbury, who was tightening his headband as he spoke.
"Steph, what are you looking for in tonight's game?" someone asked.
Marbury didn't hesitate.
"I want Allen," he said. "No pick-and-roll, no hiding on switches. I want him one-on-one. This is All-Star Weekend fans don't want another boring regular-season game. They want a show."
He glanced across the court to where Iverson was joking with Alex.
"We've been going at each other since New York playgrounds," Marbury added. "No better stage than this."
A few feet away, Kobe Bryant stood with his arms folded, answering his own cluster of questions.
"My goal?" he repeated. "Simple. Win."
He paused, then allowed the faintest of smiles.
"And… maybe score on Alex," he admitted. "Jordan got me in the Christmas game. I want to see if I can get one back against another guy everybody's calling the next big thing."
Someone asked, "Do you think you can?"
Kobe's eyes sharpened. "If I didn't think I could, I'd stay home."
Finally, they reached Marcus Camby.
"Marcus, what's your mindset tonight?" a reporter asked.
"To prove what I've been saying all along," Camby replied. "I still believe I'm the best big man in this rookie class. Going up against Alex again? That's my chance to show it."
A couple of reporters exchanged knowing looks. They'd heard some version of that line from Camby at least ten times this season.
It sounded a little more tired every time.
West Rookie Plans
On the other side, the questions shifted to the Western rookies.
Allen Iverson went first, as usual, swagger and grin both turned up.
"What's your goal tonight, Allen?" a reporter asked.
Iverson didn't even pretend to play coy.
"Me and Alex already talked," he said. "Tonight's a warm-up."
"A warm-up?" the reporter repeated.
"Yeah. He's got the three-point contest tomorrow, right? So we're gonna get him 10 to 15 threes up tonight. Let him feel the rims, get the rhythm right. And he's in the dunk contest too, so we're throwing lobs. Crowd wants a show? We'll give them a show."
"What about winning?" another reporter said.
Iverson shrugged. "If Alex hits fifteen threes and dunks on everybody, you really think we're gonna lose?"
They laughed, assuming he was half-joking.
Then they moved on to Steve Nash.
"Steve, do you agree with Allen's game plan?" someone asked.
Nash nodded immediately.
"Absolutely," he said. "I've never played with a big man like Alex before. Passing to him… it's like an art project. Angles, timing, touch it's fun."
"So you're okay just feeding him all night?"
Nash smiled. "Opportunities like this don't come around often. If I can throw him passes on this stage, I'm going to enjoy every second."
Next up was Ray Allen.
"Ray, are you comfortable with the idea that tonight might turn into 'Feed Alex Night'?" a reporter asked teasingly.
Ray shrugged, easy-going as always.
"I don't mind winning while somebody else dunks," he said. "Alex makes the game easier for everyone. If my job tonight is to space the floor and kick him the ball at the right time, that's fine by me."
Finally, Antoine Walker strolled into the scrum, already looking like a man here for entertainment.
"Antoine, how serious are you taking this game?" someone asked.
"I'm serious about two things," Walker said. "One, not pulling a hamstring. Two, making sure Alex is in rhythm for tomorrow's dunk contest, because I bought my ticket for that show already."
"So if he wants lobs"
"I'm throwing lobs," Walker cut in. "This is All-Star weekend, man. Let the big guy eat."
Tipoff – Rookie Challenge
By the time the national anthem finished, the lower bowl of Gund Arena was packed. Fans in old-school jerseys Magic, Bird, Jordan, Dr. J sat next to kids wearing brand-new Lakers 34s with MO on the back.
The legends watched from their row. The lights dimmed, the spotlights danced, the Rookie Challenge introductions blared.
"From the Los Angeles Lakers… rookie center… Alex Mo!"
The crowd roared as Alex jogged out, clapping once, then dapping up Iverson, Nash, Ray Allen, and Antoine Walker at midcourt.
On the other side, Marbury slapped the floor in rhythm, Kobe adjusted his wristbands, Camby stretched his arms wide like he was about to box somebody out for his life.
The ball went up.
West won the tip.
And from that point on, it was exactly what Iverson had promised.
The Alex Mo Show
First possession: Nash brought it up, swung to Iverson on the wing.
Marbury crouched low, eyes locked on Allen.
"1v1," Steph said. "You said it."
Iverson just grinned, then snapped a hesitation dribble, blew by him in one step, and knifed into the lane. Camby stepped up, arms up.
Instead of forcing a layup, Iverson simply flicked the ball back out behind him.
Alex caught it on the left wing, feet already set.
Rise. Release.
Swish.
Three points.
Second possession: this time, Nash ran a high pick-and-roll with Alex. The defense sagged, expecting a roll to the rim. Instead, Alex popped behind the arc again.
Nash kicked it back. Another clean catch. Another three.
6–2, West.
The East bench started shifting uneasily.
"Get up on him!" Marbury yelled. "He's seven feet, not Reggie!"
But the size was exactly what made it terrifying. A 7-footer shooting like a guard stretched their defense in ways they weren't used to seeing.
Soon, it turned into a pattern.
Iverson or Nash penetrated, drew help, and sprayed the ball out.
Sometimes it was Ray Allen catching and swinging one more.
Sometimes Walker faked a drive, drew a small defender, and then tossed a looping pass back out.
Almost always, the ball found Alex.
He hit trail threes in transition. Pick-and-pop threes. Corner threes after offensive rebounds. When the East finally started selling out to the perimeter, Iverson and Nash flipped the script now it was lobs and rim runs.
Midway through the first half, Alex caught a pass from Nash, jab-stepped, and ripped through to his left like a small forward. One long stride, two, then he took off, cocking the ball back and hammering it over Camby.
Even some of the Eastern rookies winced.
"Man," Marbury muttered to Kobe at the free throw line, "this is supposed to be our night."
Kobe watched Alex run back on defense, jaw set.
"Then do something about it," he said quietly.
Kobe tried.
He attacked the rim, hit jumpers, even got Alex on one possession with a jab-step pull-up where he barely needed any space. The ball dropped through with a soft thunk.
Kobe didn't celebrate. He just ran back, eyes burning.
Alex pointed at him, nodding with a grin as they crossed.
But as the game went on, it became obvious:
The East might win individual possessions.
The West was winning the show.
By halftime, Alex's stat line was absurd he was well into the twenties in scoring, with multiple threes and several violent dunks. Iverson had double-digit assists without even trying to score much. Nash had quietly piled up his own handful of dimes.
Walker clapped, half jogging, half laughing.
"Just keep shooting!" he yelled during a timeout. "You gotta be tired, but hey that's why we're here!"
Ray Allen patted Alex on the shoulder. "This is the most relaxing double-figure game I've ever had," he joked. "I might request a trade to L.A. after this."
Second Half – No Mercy
If the East had any illusion of making it a contest after the break, it vanished quickly.
Iverson's competitive side flared.
He started picking up Marbury full-court, turning the matchup into something personal. The two traded crossovers and drives, but whenever Steph felt like he'd finally shaken free, there was Alex at the rim, erasing layups or forcing awkward kick-outs.
On offense, the West rookies stopped pretending it was anything other than a showcase.
Nash threw Alex a no-look lob from beyond the three-point line.Walker set a screen, rolled halfway, then stepped aside at the last second just to give Alex a clear runway.Ray Allen came off a curl, could've taken a mid-range pull-up, and instead lobbed it off the glass for Alex to catch and crush.
Every time, the crowd's volume climbed.
Court-side, Magic slapped Kareem on the leg. "See? I told you. Tomorrow night's gonna be crazy."
Even Jerry West, usually stone-faced in public, had the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
By the final minutes, the East's body language told the story: hands on hips, breath coming heavier, eyes darting to the scoreboard.
It was ugly.
And the West bench?
They were laughing, cheering, enjoying every second.
When the final buzzer blew, the scoreline looked like something out of a video game. Alex's line was announced over the PA:
"With 39 points, double-digit rebounds, multiple blocks, and a flurry of threes and dunks…Your Rookie Challenge MVP — Alex Mo!"
The arena erupted.
Iverson grabbed Alex by the neck and shook him, grinning like crazy. Nash hugged him from the side. Walker held up both Alex's arms like a referee declaring a winner in a prize fight.
Alex accepted the small trophy at center court — a polished piece of metal and glass — and lifted it briefly toward the crowd.
It glinted under the lights.
To him, it felt light in his hands.
Tomorrow night, the load would be heavier.
A Future King Watching
A few miles away, in a busy Cleveland shopping district, a small crowd had gathered in front of a giant TV screen mounted on the outside wall of a department store.
The air was freezing, breath hanging in front of faces like little clouds. People stomped their feet, huddled in jackets, yet stayed rooted to the spot.
Among them stood a twelve-year-old boy in a worn jacket and scuffed sneakers, his eyes locked on the broadcast.
He watched Alex dunk.He watched him hit threes.He watched him walk away with the MVP trophy, cameras chasing him like a comet.
On the bottom of the screen, the graphic read:
ROOKIE GAME MVP – ALEX MO
"LeBron," a woman's voice said behind him. "Baby, we gotta go. It's late."
The boy didn't turn away.
"I know, Mom," he said softly.
Gloria James stepped up beside her son, rubbing her hands together for warmth.
"We'll get a TV like that one day," she said, half-joking, nodding toward the giant screen.
LeBron finally looked up at her, then back at the image of Alex being interviewed.
"I don't just want the TV," he said. "I want to be there."
He pointed straight at the screen at the court, at the lights, at the players moving in slow-motion on the replay.
"I want to play in the NBA," he said, voice firm despite his age. "Right here in Cleveland. One day, I'm gonna be on that court… and I'm gonna be better than him."
Gloria studied his face. She'd heard him talk about basketball before at the park, in the kitchen, in his sleep. But something in his tone tonight was different. Not just dreaming.
Deciding.
"You can do it," she said. "You're the best kid I know. But it starts with school, and with working harder than anyone else."
"I will," he answered.
"You sure you're ready for that?" she asked gently.
LeBron nodded. On the TV behind him, Alex threw down another dunk in the replay package.
"I am," he said.
Gloria smiled, pulled his hood up to cover his ears, and nudged him toward the street.
"Come on then, future All-Star," she said. "We still have a bus to catch."
He took one last look at the screen before turning away, Alex's image burning itself somewhere deep into his memory.
Unseen Ripples
Back inside Gund Arena, the crowd was thinning. Players were heading to the locker rooms, media hurrying off to file their stories. Staff swept the court, folding chairs, packing up cables.
In the tunnel, Alex walked alongside Iverson, the Rookie Game MVP trophy tucked under his arm like a football.
"Warm-up went pretty well," Iverson said, bumping his shoulder. "You sure you're not tired?"
Alex snorted. "Ask me that after tomorrow night. Three-point racks and dunk attempts might change my answer."
"You got this," Iverson said. "Just don't forget who was throwing those passes tonight when you're winning more trophies."
"Relax," Alex said. "I'll mention you in my Hall of Fame speech."
Iverson grinned. "You better."
Neither of them had any idea that, out in the cold Cleveland streets, a kid had just watched that game and quietly set his own course.
Right now, Alex was focused on one thing:
Tomorrow's contests.
The dunks.The threes.The cameras.The legends watching from courtside.
The Rookie Game MVP trophy felt small in his hands.
The weekend was just getting started.