On the evening of September 19th, the NFL Monday Night Football game entered its third quarter with an official timeout.
At the time, this was the prime-time slot with the highest viewership and the most expensive advertising rates in the United States. Tens of millions of United States families were sitting around their television sets, waiting for the usual pickup truck or ice-cold beer commercials.
The Dallas Cowboys touchdown replay on the screen had just been cut off, and the signal suddenly went blank for a full three seconds.
Black screen.
It was pure black, without even the slightest background noise.
Just as viewers thought there was a problem with the broadcast signal, a piercing sound of rubber scraping against a hardwood floor suddenly ripped the television speakers apart.
The screen instantly brightened, revealing a raw, grainy black-and-white film texture.
It was four in the morning, and the training hall was empty.
Only a beam of cold white light hung down from above, beyond which lay unfathomable darkness. In the center of the floor, Kobe Brian, with his back to the camera, was dribbling back and forth with a self-torturing rhythm.
Heavy breathing mingled with the vibrations of the basketball hitting the floor.
Immediately afterwards, layers of human voice clips began to seep into the background audio.
"... The Eagle County Grand Jury has formally opened a case..."
"... This is a trampling on public morality..."
"... He could face more than four years in state prison..."
"... All sponsors are withdrawing their funding; his career is completely over..."
The radio host's questions, the clicking of camera shutters outside the courtroom, and the overwhelming boos from away fans piled up higher and higher in the background, almost engulfing the entire stadium.
The figure in front of the camera completely ignored the noise.
Change of direction, sudden stop, jump, hang in the air, release.
The basketball swished through the net, and the impact of its fall precisely crushed the last malicious comment.
Kobe stopped and slowly turned around.
In the black and white light and shadow, his muscles, soaked in sweat, appeared as hard as rock, and his gaze pierced through the screen, fixed on everyone sitting in front of the television.
All the background noise stopped abruptly at that moment.
The man stood in the cold light and addressed the entire nation in a flat, monotone voice.
"Want a moral exemplar? Go to a church."
"Want to see me bow my head and admit my mistake? Keep waiting."
"Hate me, question me, you don't have to forgive me..."
Kobe grabbed the basketball that rolled back to him with one hand and slammed it down hard towards the camera.
"Beat me on the court."
"Boom!"
The screen appeared to be shattered by a basketball flying at high speed, instantly plunging into complete darkness.
The next moment, a brand-new logo, outlined with sharp lines, gleamed with a cold, metallic silver light in the very center of the black curtain.
It is a geometric totem composed of three sets of symmetrical interlaced lines, resembling the scales of a venomous snake's head and a samurai scabbard. Directly below the totem is Converse's classic star and arrow logo.
Two lines of text appear below the logo.
[THE Black Mamba ].
[Unconventional Gear - Debuting This Winter].
The thirty-second countdown ended, and the screen abruptly switched back to the bustling rugby field.
In front of their televisions, tens of millions of viewers across the United States fell into a long silence.
In this teaser ad, Converse didn't even reveal the specific appearance, technological features, or release date of a single pair of sneakers. What it presented to the public was a set of symbols exuding a strong sense of danger, and an attitude of openly declaring war on the world.
The penthouse suite at the Four Seasons Hotel in downtown Chicago.
The football commentary on the television resumed, but the living room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
Agent Rob Pelinka stood by the TV cabinet, a fine layer of sweat beading on his forehead, his fingers nervously rubbing his suit cufflinks. The brief thirty-second clip had sent a chill down his spine.
Kobe sat on the edge of the sofa, his hands clasped under his chin, his gaze fixed on the screen that had switched back to the game.
Outside the window, Lake Michigan churned with black waves in the night. Kobe's face appeared unusually stern in the dim light of the television.
He was well aware of the significance of this advertisement.
The well-mannered genius from high school, the idol image carefully crafted by mainstream commercial society, has vanished completely tonight.
Moral guardians across America were pressuring him to put on a sharp suit and tearfully beg for forgiveness in front of the cameras. But Lin Qi didn't prepare a confessional for him; instead, he placed him directly on the opposite side of the entire world.
" Kobe..." Rob Pelinka began, his voice hoarse, "The pressure from public opinion might be ten times greater than we anticipated. The newspapers will tear us apart tomorrow."
Kobe slowly stood up, stretched his stiff neck, and his eyes were as calm as a still pond.
"Go and notify the security at the Berto Center."
Kobe's voice echoed in the empty room, rough and grating like sandpaper. "Leave the arena doors open for me. Call the shooting coach; I need to practice another five hundred jump shots."
Rob Pelinka paused for a moment. "Now? It's already 10:30 at night."
"Since the outside world sees me as a villain, then I can only do one thing." Kobe grabbed his jacket draped over the back of his chair, his eyes icy, "Beaten everyone on the court."
On the morning of September 20th, the entire American media landscape was in an uproar.
To conservative media and moral guardians, this advertisement is nothing short of a blatant provocation.
The New York Times ran a front-page article in its culture section condemning Converse "moral depravity, packaging a serious legal scandal as a badge of honor against the world." Several parent associations across the United States quickly organized, claiming they would launch a nationwide protest and calling on all families to boycott all Converse counters in shopping malls and supermarkets.
However, while traditional critics were filled with righteous indignation, the undercurrents in the consumer market were running wildly.
That afternoon, a bizarre scene unfolded outside the Foot Locker flagship store on State Street in Chicago.
A small protest group of a dozen or so middle-class mothers held up cardboard signs and chanted slogans on the sidewalk: "Resist moral stigma!" and "Give teenagers a clean playing field!"
Less than two meters away from them, two rows of young boys wearing baggy overalls and beanies stretched from the street corner all the way to the intersection.
Ignoring the protest signs around them, the group of young customers swarmed through the automatic sensor doors.
The store was bustling with noise, and the line at the cashier was packed.
"Do you still have the Black Mamba heavyweight hoodie in size XL?" A young man chewing gum asked loudly, patting a thick wad of banknotes on the counter.
"The black ones sold out in all sizes three hours ago! Only a few dark gray and charcoal black are left!" the sales clerk shouted, his uniform soaked with sweat. "Limit of two items per person!"
"I want the grey one too! Also, please register my sneakers in the pre-order book! Call me as soon as the first colorway arrives!"
The store manager stood in front of the warehouse door, sweating profusely as he frantically shouted into the walkie-talkie to the regional supervisor on the other end, "All eight hundred themed hoodies that were air-freighted in this morning have been sold out! Even the samples in the display window have been bought by customers!"
On the street basketball courts where hip-hop culture is at its peak, young people are already tired of the monotonous preaching of traditional brands.
The image of him, facing dire straits and being besieged across the United States, yet coldly declaring at four in the morning, "You don't have to forgive me, go beat me on the court," ignited the rebellious desires deep within teenagers.
Owning a hoodie with a snakehead logo has become a way for street kids to express themselves in defiance of societal rules.