Iverson paused for half a second at the spot where the turnover occurred, glanced coldly at the replay screen in mid-air, and then turned and walked to the baseline without saying a word to receive the ball.
Gary Payton slid backwards to defend, tilting his head and taunting him loudly, "That was a beautiful pass! Next time, save your energy and just shove it into my arms!"
Iverson glanced at him, raised his chin slightly, and didn't bother to argue with him.
It was the Philadelphia 76ers ' turn to attack again, and Iverson still had the ball.
This time, he didn't even bother waiting for the tactical setup to be set up. He gestured for Hill to come back up for a screen as soon as he crossed half-court. Gary Payton's intensity of contact escalated again, and he practically hung on Iverson's back. Iverson forced a lateral movement to the right against the weight on his back, followed by a sudden stop and change of direction without warning. The basketball quickly passed between his legs to his left hand, squeezing a path along the edge of Hill's body.
Dikembe Mutombo was blocking the shot under the basket.
Facing the towering African Mountain, Iverson showed no intention of slowing down. He leaped into the air from the edge of the restricted area, forcefully twisting his waist at an exaggerated angle in mid-air to avoid the blocking hand. The basketball was passed from his right hand to his left hand in mid-air, spinning into the net along the edge of the backboard.
Two points scored.
On the Philadelphia bench, which had been holding back for so long, someone finally waved a towel and roared. As Iverson retreated past Gary Payton on defense, he didn't even turn his head, only uttering one word. "Keep going."
Gary Payton grinned, revealing a mouthful of white teeth. "Just what I wanted."
But this thrilling individual performance was like an ant trying to shake a tree against the Celtics ' defense.
After the first quarter, Philadelphia's entire team was completely suppressed to a paltry 14 points. Iverson took eight shots in the quarter, making only two.
The statistics were ugly, but the situation on the court was even more suffocating. Larry Bird Brown, sitting on the bench, saw everything clearly: none of those eight shots were easy, uncontested attempts. In several possessions, Iverson had been cornered by Boston's defensive trap, yet he still charged into the crowd like a trapped beast. Even when there were two obvious opportunities to pass the ball back to the defense, he stubbornly insisted on using his body to tear a gap in the defense.
Brown knew very well that against Boston's defense tonight, only Iverson could barely dribble the ball into the paint for the entire Philadelphia 76ers.
In the second quarter, Iverson was substituted for a short rest. He pulled a towel over his head, but after sitting on the bench for less than two seconds, he irritably ripped the towel off again, his eyes fixed on the wooden floor.
On the other side, Boston coach Doc Rivers gestured with his chin toward Pierce.
Chris Paul Pierce received a pass beyond the three-point line and faced off against Larry Bird Hughes one-on-one. He took a series of jab steps, lightly tapped his left foot, then jab again, and on the third step, he feinted a drive, causing Hughes ' defensive balance to shift. Pierce seized this fleeting opening, quickly pulled back his foot, and took a pull-up jump.
The basketball traced a beautiful parabola in the air, the Nets flipped up, and it swished through the net.
Philadelphia hoped to catch their breath during the rotation period, but the second unit's performance turned out to be even more disastrous. In competitive sports, the dominance of the starting lineup is secondary. What's most disheartening is that when you're exhausted and desperately need a moment's rest, the opponent's substitutes on the bench can still deliver a fatal blow.
Iverson abruptly stood up, threw the crumpled towel onto the folding chair, and strode towards the scorer's table to request a substitution. He looked up at the electronic scoreboard above.
This time he didn't say a word, he just lowered his head, tucked the wide hem of his jersey into his shorts, held it tightly, and waited for the ball to go out of play.
The whistle blew, and he returned to the stage. Gary Payton walked up to him once again.
"It's right to tuck your jersey in, rookie. Otherwise you'll lose so badly you won't even be able to find your pants."
Iverson cracked his knuckles, his gaze sweeping over Gary Payton's shoulder and straight to the basket in the frontcourt. "Talkative enough."
In the long game that followed, Philadelphia never managed to close the gap to within ten points again. Boston was like a perfectly functioning machine, executing their defensive rotations flawlessly and dismantling Philadelphia's well-known tactical system. The Philadelphia 76ers' young and impetuous players were battered and bruised by Boston's defense all night long.
Iverson was hit the hardest.
He could still use his explosiveness to penetrate the paint, and he could still throw the ball towards the basket amidst a forest of long arms in the paint. But the price was heavy. Every time he broke through, he had to withstand Gary Payton's pull. Every time he went for a layup, he had to face Mutombo's massive hand. His elbows were scraped, his knees had two bruises, and the thud of his heavy fall to the floor could even be heard by the spectators in the front row.
The final red light came on, and the buzzer sounded throughout the stadium.
The score on the huge electronic scoreboard overhead finally settled at 98:82.
For a full forty-eight minutes, the Philadelphia 76ers ' total score was held to a paltry 82 points.
Larry Bird Brown looked up at the lopsided score, sighed heavily, and walked to midfield to shake hands with each member of the Boston coaching staff. He knew better than anyone that this crushing defeat was not due to a loss of form, nor was it a difference in individual ability. The most terrifying thing about this Boston team was that from the very first second of the tip-off, they were cutting you down with a dull knife, killing you layer by layer like a slow, agonizing death, preventing you from playing a single smooth move for a full forty-eight minutes.
On this night of despair, the most profound mark Iverson left on the New Garden was not those few miraculous shots he made.
Instead, he knew perfectly well that what lay ahead was an abyss, that it was teeming with muscular giants ready to devour him alive, yet he still relentlessly attacked the paint time and time again.
Even after repeated failures and bruises, they remained fearless.
As the final whistle blew, the tense atmosphere on the field gradually dissipated.
Iverson braced himself on his knees, panting for a few breaths, sweat dripping onto the floor.
Then he straightened up, looked at no one, and turned to walk into the passageway.
Gary Payton looked at him for two seconds, said nothing, and then turned and went back to the locker room.