Colorful confetti rained down from the dome of the First Union Center.
David Stern stood in the center of the court with a broad smile and handed the All-Star MVP trophy to Kobe Brian, who was wearing the Chicago Bulls' number 24 jersey.
The entire stadium erupted in cheers, but not with applause; instead, it was met with a deafening barrage of malicious boos.
The Philadelphia fans roared a deafening chorus of boos at the young man who had just scored 31 points right in front of them and snatched the All-Star MVP award from Allen Iverson, the "Son of Philadelphia."
Kobe's smile froze for a moment. But he quickly gritted his teeth, his eyes turning cold and defiant. Instead of putting down the trophy, he raised it even higher, as if to protest against the booing arena.
Philadelphia certainly hated him. Not only because the entire All-Star Weekend was Iverson's home court, and the city's spotlight should have belonged solely to that lone hero in the number 3 jersey, but also because while Kobe was playing along, giving the veteran face, he insisted on being a madman, relentlessly battling and scoring like crazy, turning what should have been Philadelphia's entertainment extravaganza into a personal test for himself.
Despite their team's poor regular season record, they're playing with such seriousness at a time like this.
This lack of "entertainment spirit," this obsession with playing the All-Star game like Game 7 of the NBA Finals, is both disappointing and irritating to Philadelphia fans.
The cameras and microphones on the sidelines were immediately pointed at Kobe.
" Kobe, how does it feel to win the MVP? The Philadelphia fans don't seem very friendly towards you." A TNT sideline reporter handed him the microphone.
Kobe glanced at the fans in the stands giving him the middle finger, and gave a smirk. "I'm just playing my game. They're booing me because I won MVP. But I'm not here to make friends."
Compared to the heated exchange in the center of the court, the Eastern Conference locker room was filled with an atmosphere of fatigue and boredom.
In this weekend that the league tried so hard to package as an "entertainment blockbuster," basketball became the least important thing.
In an effort to salvage the declining All-Star viewership in recent years, David Stern turned this year's All-Star Game into a grand "celebration," arranging a pre-game dance performance by Britney Spears, having the stars read fairy tales to children during halftime, and even introducing an extremely tedious "online fan rating" segment into the Slam Dunk Contest.
"This is a complete waste of time." Western Conference head coach Phil Jackson lashed out at the media in the post-game press conference. "Basketball is basketball. But what are we doing now? Everyone's singing, dancing, partying, and drinking. I don't even know what I'm coaching sitting on the bench."
Besides coaches, even star players are becoming increasingly uninterested in this kind of showmanship.
Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal, feigning pain, told reporters, "My toe is really badly injured, guys. I didn't play in the game against the Chicago Bulls All-Star Game; I was really hurt. The only reason I'm running a couple of laps today is to give back to the fans."
Gary Payton, who was passing by him, rolled his eyes, too lazy to expose this fat guy who wouldn't even jump for a rebound.
Meanwhile, Michael Jordan was surrounded by a group of reporters.
" Michael, you didn't seem very excited today?" a reporter asked.
"Listen, if it were up to me, I'd rather spend this weekend getting a good night's sleep in the hotel, or playing a couple of rounds of golf," Jordan said, chewing gum, his voice tinged with a hint of weariness. "But so many fans still love me. The league needs me here, so I'm here. But now, I can finally rest."
The awkwardness of the generational shift was on full display on this Philadelphia night.
Veteran stars are struggling to keep up, while the new generation of stars are too flamboyant. Without a single, perfect superstar to harmoniously anchor the league, the only recourse is to frantically play the "nostalgia card."
From Philadelphia Airport to downtown, streets and alleys are plastered with huge portraits of legendary NBA stars like Julius Irving (" Dr. J "), Moses Malone, and Wilt Chamberlain Wilt Chamberlain. David Stern is trying to use this to suggest to the world. "The NBA has never lacked superstars; our heritage remains."
But this is just a fancy facade.
11 PM, Philadelphia International Airport.
Several Boston Celtics All-Star players are standing in the VIP lounge, preparing to board a chartered plane back to Boston.
The television screen was still repeatedly replaying the scene of Kobe snatching the MVP award from Iverson amidst a chorus of boos, as well as Britney' energetic singing and dancing on the sidelines.
" The Philadelphia are right to boo." Chris Paul Pierce took a sip of juice, watching the TV screen. " Allen was playing at home, the whole arena was counting on him to win MVP, and then that stubborn Kobe ruined it. That kid has no sense of entertainment, only winning and losing."
"This is just a show, and shows always end." Kevin Garnett pulled up the hood of his hoodie, covering half his face. "The regular season is about to restart. Los Angeles, Sacramento, Dallas, and us. Those who pretended to have sore toes or couldn't run tonight will be giving it their all for home-court advantage in the playoffs next week."
Rick Carlisle pushed open the door to the waiting room and walked in, holding several freshly printed copies of the remaining February schedule.
"The girls' dance is over, the show is done." Rick Carlisle tossed the schedule onto the table, his gaze sweeping over his core players.
"Gentlemen, the holiday is over." Rick Carlisle's voice echoed coldly in the waiting room. "Now, get back to work."