On the sidelines, security and staff tightened their patrol.
After all, this was Game 7 of the Finals — one team was destined to win the championship, and emotions could boil over into chaos if things weren't controlled.
The golden Larry O'Brien Trophy was already in place, gleaming under the lights, waiting to be awarded.
The players from both sides entered the court. Pau Gasol stood near the sideline, ready to inbound.
Gasol's high-level playmaking made him the fulcrum of Phil Jackson's triangle offense. With his height and vision, only he could deliver the ball safely into Kobe Bryant's hands.
The Lakers' lineup: Derek Fisher, Kobe Bryant, Ron Artest, Pau Gasol, and Zhou Yuan.
The Celtics' lineup: Rajon Rondo, Ray Allen, Paul Pierce, Kevin Garnett, and Kendrick Perkins.
No matter how you looked at it, Zhou Yuan's presence seemed a little… out of place.
With Andrew Bynum out injured and Lamar Odom fouled out, the Lakers had no choice but to send Zhou Yuan — the so-called "black hole" — onto the floor.
African-American players had always looked down on Asian players. Before Yao Ming, no Chinese player had ever truly earned the NBA's respect. And even Yao, before he proved himself, was constantly ridiculed — the infamous "Barkley donkey-kissing incident" was directed at him.
Now, although Zhou Yuan's system fusion had given him a completely transformed body — powerful, athletic, reborn — his sharp features and handsome looks gave him an appearance that, standing next to the wide-bodied, scowling Perkins, still gave people a faint illusion of weakness.
"Phil Jackson actually put you on me? That old man's gone senile!"
Perkins, infamous for his trash talk, leaned close to Zhou Yuan's ear, spewing out words laced with a stench so foul it could be classified as chemical warfare.
Zhou Yuan nearly lost his composure before the ball was even in play.
"You better pray I don't smash you into pieces," Perkins sneered.
Zhou Yuan replied calmly, "Your mouth stinks. You got a wife? If she can stand that breath, she must be a sewer worker."
With that last exchange of barbs, the final battle began.
Kobe darted around, struggling to shake free of Ray Allen and Paul Pierce's suffocating defense.
This Celtics team's defense was like an iron wall. From point guard to center, every single one of them was a defensive specialist. Their strategy, orchestrated by coach Doc Rivers, was brutally simple: don't let Kobe touch the ball.
The Lakers trailed by two. The final play could go either way — a risky three-pointer for the win, or a safer two to force overtime. But one thing was certain: the last shot would be Kobe's.
The Black Mamba was the coldest, deadliest assassin on the floor. No one else could shoulder this burden.
Finally, Kobe fought his way through the gaps and caught the ball, driving hard toward the right baseline.
Allen and Pierce spread their arms wide, forming a human vise that sealed every angle. At the arc, Artest was left a little open — but the Celtics didn't care.
This was Kobe.
In a Game 7, with everything on the line, he would always take the shot himself.
Live or die, it would be by his hand.
And the Celtics gambled correctly.
Kobe dribbled, then stepped back to the baseline three-point line, launching a high, leaning fadeaway jumper. His incredible flexibility bent his body like a bow as he arched backward to avoid the block.
The ball soared like an arrow loosed from the string.
But the shot was rushed — and when it left his fingers, 7.4 seconds still remained.
If it missed, the Lakers would still have one more chance, provided they secured the rebound.
"Go in! Three-point dagger!"
"You can always believe in Kobe!"
"Please, God, let it drop!"
On the sidelines, Lakers fans were on their feet, hearts pounding in their throats, heads buzzing from the tension.
Under the rim, Garnett and Gasol were locked in a furious battle, bodies twisting and shoving, every muscle straining for position.
This rebound would decide the championship.
Zhou Yuan, now pushed into the center role, was locked in combat with Perkins.
Perkins hooked his left arm around Zhou Yuan's waist, his massive frame grinding backward like a bulldozer.
But Zhou Yuan refused to yield, pressing down hard on Perkins' thigh with his right hand, denying him the space to explode upward.
This was the NBA of old — iron-blooded basketball, where physical contact was part of the game. In these Finals, on this very last possession, the referees wouldn't blow the whistle unless the foul was outrageous.
The fate of the season would be left in the players' hands.