Li Fei stepped up to the microphone, and the cheers gradually subsided.
"This trophy doesn't belong to me alone."
His voice was calm and clear, carrying a composure beyond his years. "It belongs to Latrell, who earned his redemption through a season of hard work; it belongs to Larry, who built our defensive wall with an iron will; it belongs to Alan, whose pinpoint shooting shattered our opponents' hopes; it belongs to Sabo, who protected our paint with his experience and wisdom... it belongs to every one of us, and to the city of New York."
"We're champions. Once again."
His speech was brief, without grand declarations, yet it carried more power than any elaborate turn of phrase.
Thunderous applause erupted.
Once the applause eased, Stern stepped forward again, now holding a smaller trophy: the Bill Russell Trophy, the symbol of the NBA Finals' Most Valuable Player.
"Now, it's time to announce this year's NBA Finals Most Valuable Player."
A slightly amused smile appeared on Stern's face. "I think this might be the least suspenseful award in NBA history."
Rather than announcing the name immediately, he glanced toward the scorer's table, as though confirming something.
"Five games. An average of 34 points, 18 rebounds, and 14 assists."
With each number Stern read out, the gasps around the arena grew louder. Spoken by him, those statistics seemed imbued with a sacred magic.
The commentary would tell viewers that 34 points per game was actually Li Fei's lowest scoring average across all his NBA Finals appearances. Popovich's almost fanatical double-teams—and even triple-teams—from start to finish had indeed severely limited his individual offense.
Yet that restriction had given rise to something even more terrifying.
His 18 rebounds per game dominated the paint at both ends, while his 14 assists per game marked a