Mark Cuban could barely breathe.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
In that single moment he understood what people meant by love at first sight.
This was the defensive anchor he had been dreaming of.
This was the perfect complement to Dirk.
He snatched the phone and dialed Donnie Nelson, the Mavericks’ general manager.
“Listen carefully.
I don’t care how you do it.
Call every team that owns a top-five pick.
Right now.” “Whatever they want—draft capital, our rotation players—accept every offer on the table.” “This offseason we have exactly two jobs.” “One: build the championship roster no matter the cost.” “Two: I want that center in a Dallas uniform.” At the same time, in Chicago.
Inside the United Center locker room, Derrick Rose had just finished another brutal practice.
A warm towel covered his face as he leaned against his locker, exhausted.
The Bulls were deep in playoff preparation.
As the franchise cornerstone, the weight on his shoulders was crushing.
“Hey, Derrick.
You catch any March Madness last night?” Joakim Noah, gap-toothed grin already in place, bounced over with pure energy.
Rose lifted one corner of the towel, revealing those signature cold, focused eyes.
“Joakim, the playoffs are right there.
You should have your head in the first round like I do, not watching college kids play house.” “Alright, fine.
But you just missed a miracle.” Noah waved both hands dramatically, making exaggerated clicking sounds with his tongue.
“American Airlines Center last night.
A monster showed up.
super center.
Kid looked like a flying Shaquille O’Neal.” Rose lowered the towel again, voice flat.
“Joakim, how many of these media stories do you still fall for?” “Every year before the draft they invent a hundred next Jordans, next Kobes, next Barkleys.
O.J.
Mayo was supposed to have Kobe’s floor and Jordan’s ceiling.
I still can’t picture a rookie actually living up to that.” ” Shaq… you know as well as I do that college ball and the NBA are two different planets.” Mentioning the NCAA put a flicker of old pain behind Rose’s eyes.
2008 national championship game.
Memphis.
He had the ball in his hands at the end, two free throws to seal it.
Both clanged.
Kansas forced overtime and took the title.
It remained the one scar he refused to touch.
College basketball still carried that taste.
Noah refused to let it go.
“Derrick, I’m dead serious.” He dropped onto the bench beside him.
“The whole media is talking about his dominance.
And the most important part—his game.
I swear, in some ways he’s even more violent than you.” Under the towel, Rose’s eyelid twitched.
As the current face of violent point-guard aesthetics in the league, he took that particular label seriously.
More violent than me?
A 7’1″ power center?
“Hand it over.
Let me see.” Rose finally pulled the towel off and held out his hand.
Noah grinned wide and passed him the iPhone 4.
On the screen sat the ESPN individual highlight package from the night before.
The very first clip was the reverse-C mid-air contortion alley-oop that had silenced an entire arena.
One glance was all it took.
Rose never forgot those thighs.
Those were not human legs.
Those were Chicago-level legs.
The pure visual violence poured through the small screen.
And then— The rim snapped.
Rose stood up so fast the bench scraped backward.
He didn’t even bother changing out of his practice gear.
He was already striding toward the door.
“Derrick!
Where you going?!” Noah shouted after him.
“I need a computer and a big screen,” Rose called without looking back.
“I’m watching every single second this kid named Rex has ever played.” Two days vanished.
The Elite Eight arrived at Wells Fargo Center in Philadelphia—home of the 76ers.
Georgetown Hoyas versus Fresno State Bulldogs.
The biggest off-court story had already been decided long before tip-off.
Allen Iverson and Dikembe Mutombo sat side by side in the courtside VIP seats.
The building erupted.
Everyone knew both men were pure Georgetown blood—the most legendary guard and the most legendary center in program history.
For Iverson this was also the final season of his NBA career.
After years of wandering, The Answer had come home to Philadelphia for twenty-five games, choosing the most dignified way to say goodbye to the city he loved.
The night he and Mutombo had carried the Sixers to the Finals still lived in the memory of every old fan in the building.
Pre-game media swarmed.
Microphones thrust toward Iverson’s face.
“Allen, as a Georgetown legend, you’re here to fully support your alma mater and their star Greg Monroe, right?” The reporters already had the headlines written: Iverson backs Monroe and the Hoyas.
Iverson casually shrugged off his black jacket.
The arena went dead silent.
Underneath was a Fresno State jersey.
Number 91.
Rex’s number.
“Wow—wait a minute?!” One reporter’s brain visibly short-circuited.
“Allen… tell me I’m seeing things.
You’re wearing Rex’s jersey.
You’re a Georgetown alum.” “Of course I am.” Iverson shrugged, tapping the 91 on his chest.
“I’m Georgetown through and through.
No question.
I love this program as much as I love the Sixers.” “So yeah—I want Georgetown to win tonight, reach the Final Four, and take the whole thing.” He paused.
A genuine smile of pure appreciation crossed his face.
“But as for Rex…” “I want to see him win the entire world.”