A miracle is called a miracle precisely because it cannot be replicated infinitely.
That electrifying night at the First Union Center did indeed briefly give Philadelphia hope.
In a best-of-seven series, individual heroism is ultimately insufficient to withstand the test of a dominant team for an extended period.
The fourth battle continued at the First United Center.
From the very first second of the jump ball, the game became an extremely difficult battle of attrition.
But the frenzy in the arena lasted only half a quarter before being replaced by suffocating despair.
Boston coach Rick Carlisle deployed a highly targeted defensive formation. They completely changed their strategy against Iverson. Artest no longer tried to anticipate Iverson's crossovers, but instead used his size advantage to employ a semi-close side-step defense from the moment he received the ball in the backcourt. He blocked Iverson's right side, forcing him to dribble with his weaker hand the entire time.
Once Iverson calls for a pick-and-roll, the Boston interior players stop delaying and retreating. Garnett immediately switches on defense, strides up to the three-point line, and uses his height and wingspan to completely block the passing vision, forcing Iverson to stop the ball. At the same time, Ben Wallace, who was originally guarding the player cutting to the basket, immediately collapses, completely blocking the paint.
Philadelphia's offensive space was completely shut down by this defensive system.
Under this pressure, the other players in Philadelphia seemed lost. Snow's passing lanes were severely blocked, and even when other players briefly found open spaces, their actions to receive the ball were hesitant. After a few forced passes on the perimeter, the ball would always return to Iverson's hands with only three or four seconds left on the shot clock.
Iverson could only force his way up against Boston's collapsing defense just as the 24-second shot clock was about to turn red, and in mid-air, he used the defender's torso to throw the ball towards the basket in a disoriented manner.
Midway through the second quarter, Iverson attempted to force his way through the defense at the right arc. After two consecutive sharp crossovers, he barely managed to get past Artest by half a body length, but as he accelerated towards the free-throw line, Garnett's long arms were already in front of him. Iverson could only fold his arms in mid-air, trying to pass the ball under Garnett's arm to O'Neal Jr., who was cutting along the baseline.
The ball had barely left his hand when it was snatched away by Gary Payton, who had rotated into position.
In the transition between offense and defense, Gary Payton scored on a fast break layup. Iverson, retreating on defense, didn't say anything. He tugged at his right arm sleeve, bent over, and braced his hands on his knees, panting heavily for several seconds. After 47 minutes of exhaustion in Game 3, his stamina was completely depleted.
Throughout the game, Philadelphia's half-court offense was almost entirely devoid of communication; the only sounds were the sharp screech of shoes on the floor and the dull thuds of muscles colliding. Every drive by Iverson involved a physical battle with Artest's torso. Every layup was met with Ben Wallace's aerial block.
Late in the fourth quarter, Iverson was pulled down by Rasheed Wallace while driving to the basket, his back slamming heavily onto the floor. He lay on the ground for ten seconds before Snow helped him up. He shook his numb shoulder, went to the free-throw line, and made one of two. 89-102. A home loss, 1-3 in the series.
Two days later, Game 5 of the series.
Before the game, the locker room was unusually quiet, with only the ripping sound of the team doctor tearing off kinesiology tape. Iverson's right knee was wrapped in plastic wrap with a heavy ice pack, and his ribs were wrapped with several wide elastic bandages, the edges of which faintly revealed the dark purple bruises left from the repeated falls in the previous game.
The usual pre-game music was no longer playing in the locker room; the only sound was the friction of his shoelaces tightening around his shoes as he bent down to put them on.
The game lacked suspense. Boston easily tore apart Philadelphia's tired defense with their well-coordinated passing and cutting. On the other end, Philadelphia's offense completely stalled. O'Neal Jr. struggled in the low post, his every turn distorted by Garnett's tight defense. The Philadelphia 76ers also frequently missed open shots from the outside.
The defensive pressure once again fell on Iverson alone. His footwork visibly became heavier. After his first step's explosiveness declined, Boston's defensive rotations were able to keep up easily. In the third quarter, he was caught in Bowen's tight defense in the corner, with no space to pass the ball. He could only force a pull-up jumper, which Bowen flicked on the wrist, resulting in an airball.
The point difference continued to widen. 60 to 82, the third quarter ended.
With 5 minutes and 40 seconds remaining in the fourth quarter, the score was 71-95, and the ball was dead.
Larry Bird Brown stood on the sidelines, watching Iverson hunched over near the free-throw line, sweat dripping from his chin onto the floor. Brown turned and waved to the bench, preparing to substitute all the starters. He took two steps forward and called out, " Allen."
Iverson straightened up and looked at the coach. Brown pointed to the bench and gestured for a substitution.
The broadcast camera zoomed in, giving Iverson a close-up of his face. His eyes were bloodshot, and his armband was already soaked with sweat. He looked at Brown, didn't say anything, but slowly and resolutely shook his head. Then, he turned around, wiped the sweat off his face with his wristband, and walked to the baseline to receive the serve.
Brown was silent for a few seconds, then raised his hand to signal the substitutes who were about to enter the game to sit down again. He didn't insist any further; the point difference was still over 20 points, but Iverson chose to wait for the final buzzer by staying on the court.
In the final stages of the game, the roar of the New Garden actually subsided. The Boston fans in the front row, who had been chanting victory, watched as the player, trailing by more than 20 points, continued to battle through the crowd, and many silently put down their inflatable batons, simply watching the game quietly.
With 40 seconds remaining, Chauncey Billups Billups committed a turnover. Iverson instinctively lunged to the floor, sliding two meters before snatching the ball from Billups's hands. He quickly got up and dribbled the ball up the court alone. The frontcourt was empty. He reached the basket, used his last bit of strength to jump, and gently flicked the ball into the Nets. He staggered upon landing, grabbing the backboard to steady himself.
"Drop..."
The final buzzer sounded. 108-88.
Boston won 4-1 and advanced.
The Boston players embraced in celebration. Gary Payton stepped out from the crowd and approached Iverson, who was about to leave the court. The veteran, setting aside his usual arrogance, took off his jersey and handed it to Iverson, saying in a very low voice, "You did your best. You're a true tough guy."
Iverson didn't show much expression; he forced a tired smile and accepted the jersey.
Ben Wallace stepped forward without a word. He simply extended his large hand, patted Iverson's thin shoulder twice, and then gave him a tight hug.
Iverson nodded calmly without saying a word. He pulled off his right arm sleeve, which was already soaked with sweat and heavy, and clenched it in his left hand. Amid the celebrations of the home fans, he walked alone towards the players' tunnel.
The cold light shone on his back, illuminating the black "3" that was completely soaked with sweat.
Iverson, limping slightly, finally disappeared into the dark passageway.
The corridor lights elongated his thin silhouette.
Iverson didn't win the game, but he also didn't seem to be defeated.
The heavy locker room door was pushed open and then closed, completely shutting out the noise from the room.