The reporters still looked shell-shocked as they drifted away.
Dikembe Mutombo lifted one long finger and wagged it in front of Iverson’s face, that famous low, duck-like voice rumbling out.
“Allen, that was straight-up treason.
If Coach John Thompson saw you wearing that jersey he would take his cane and beat the black off your ass.” “Come on, Dikembe.
I guarantee you haven’t watched a single second of Rex’s film.
If you had, you’d already be a registered member of his fan club just like me.” Mutombo raised his thinning eyebrows.
“I have not.
But the last center who made you talk like that was Shaq.” “Dikembe, you were the man who matched up with peak Shaq in the Finals.
You know exactly what that name means to every rim protector in the league.
I’m telling you—this kid is the next one.” Mutombo had taken an elbow from Shaquille O’Neal in the 2001 Finals that cracked a rib.
He understood better than almost anyone what the word “Shaq” represented to a defensive big: pure, inescapable nightmare.
“Allen, the kid might be special, but don’t put him next to Shaq.
That name sits alone in my heart.
Remember—Shaq is the man who used to snap basketball rims.” Iverson smiled.
“Snap rims?” “Rex already did.” Mutombo froze.
“…What?” The opening whistle cut through the arena.
Both starting fives stepped into the circle.
Greg Monroe, 6’11” and 250 pounds of Georgetown muscle, stared up at the mountain in front of him with pure darkness in his eyes.
The latest DraftExpress mock had shoved him down to sixth overall behind this nobody.
For a player who had been treated like royalty his entire career, that ranking was an open insult.
He intended to erase it tonight.
The referee tossed the ball high.
“Hah!” Monroe exploded upward, every muscle tight, trying to win the tip with pure timing and bounce.
He never got close.
A violent gust of air erupted beside him.
The moment Rex left the floor, the full physical template of Atsushi Murasakibara showed itself.
The 7’1″, 265-pound frame moved like it had decided the laws of physics were optional.
He rose later and still touched the ball first.
The tip was perfect—straight back to Paul George waiting at half-court.
Rex landed and never stopped.
One hard plant of the foot and he was already gone, a heavy-duty sports car launched down the floor in a straight line toward the rim.
The entire sequence—tip, acceleration, fill the lane—was seamless.
This was the exact play the two of them had drilled for two straight hours the night before: Tip-off tip + full-speed alley-oop.
Paul George caught the ball with absolute certainty in his eyes.
After a thousand reps in the gym they knew each other’s timing the way most people knew their own pulse.
He flicked his wrist.
The ball cut a clean arc through the Wells Fargo Center air and dropped into the space above the rim.
Twenty thousand people held their breath.
Rex left the floor.
His vertical carried him a full four feet off the hardwood.
The massive body hung in the air as if gravity had taken a coffee break.
Two hands snatched the ball and hammered it through.
KRA-BOOM——!!
The rim shook.
The net exploded upward.
The arena clock read 2.7 seconds.
One second of total silence.
Then the building detonated.
“WOOOOOOOW!” Twenty thousand Philadelphia fans rose as one.
The roar threatened to lift the roof.
“OH MY GOD!
What did we just see?!
What in God’s name was that?!” “2.7 seconds into the game!
Rex just turned a tip-off into a lob dunk!” “Tip, long outlet, alley-oop—every step was deliberate.
That was a designed play!” In the VIP seats Mutombo’s eyes were wide.
“Allen… what the hell did I just watch?” He stared at Rex’s back.
“He tipped the ball and then took three strides to lose every perimeter defender on the floor?” “I need someone to check his shoes.
I seriously think they put a Ferrari engine in the soles.” “I told you,” Iverson said, clearly enjoying himself.
“The kid is a supercar wearing a center’s body.” “Official weight is about 265 pounds, by the way.” “265?!” Mutombo went quiet.
A 7’1″, 265-pound interior monster who could run the floor like a wing.
What kind of science experiment was this?
Dozens of NBA scouts along the baseline were already scribbling at full speed.
*Fresno #91 Rex Valen.
7’1″, 265 lbs.
Center size with elite wing transition speed.
Dynamic athleticism is generational.
Fits traditional big schemes, twin-towers, small-ball—everything.
Franchise cornerstone.* *Preliminary verdict: biological weapon capable of destroying modern offensive systems.
Recommend trading up at any cost.* One possession.
Every scout in the building had just raised Rex’s draft grade.
On the floor Rex and Paul George slapped hands hard.
Exactly as planned.
That combination had roughly a 580 percent chance of breaking the internet.
Georgetown ball.
“Come on!” “Give me the damn ball!
I’m going to eat this kid alive!” Greg Monroe, pride shredded, demanded the entry pass and pointed straight at Rex.
One-on-one.
He was going to restore the honor of Georgetown centers by force.
He caught it and immediately slammed his back into Rex’s chest the way he always did.
In the regular season that same iron frame had regularly sent opposing centers stumbling two full meters without any need for footwork.
“Get in there!” Monroe roared and drove with everything he had.
BOOM.
Flesh met flesh.
What Monroe felt next made his blood run cold.
That full-power post collision felt like he had just shoulder-checked a mountain carved from solid granite.
Rex did not move.
Not an inch.
Second try.
Still nothing.
Rex’s center of gravity stayed rooted like an ancient oak.
Monroe pushed and pushed.
Rex simply stood there, one pillar holding up the sky.
“Ohhh, look at this!” The broadcast voice accelerated.
“Classic low-post war—Greg Monroe challenging Rex!
This is 1990s physicality, but Greg is getting nowhere against that wall.” Out of energy and patience, Monroe spun too early and forced a hook.
Clang.
The ball hit the side of the rim and kicked out.
Rex had already read the bounce.
One step, one hand, the rebound was his.
He landed and never paused.
The outlet went straight to Paul George.
Then the 7’1″ frame lowered its shoulder and rolled down the floor like an avalanche.
Another center-led fast break.
Same visual violence.
Same burning engine.
Paul George didn’t force it.
He simply reversed the ball into the middle for the lob.
BOOM——!!
Rex was already at the free-throw line when he left the floor.
Arms wide like a bird of prey, he rose, caught the ball above the cylinder, and slammed it home.
Two more points.
One minute played.
4–0.
Mutombo sat up straight in his seat, slowly shaking his head.
“I get it now, Allen.
His whole plan was never to trade post moves with Monroe.” “From the opening tip he’s been using pure speed to toy with him.” Iverson’s smile widened.
“That’s what I told you.” “Rex deserves to win the entire world.”