Wells Fargo Center.
The scoreboard froze at halftime: 52–30.
A twenty-two-point gap.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I guarantee you this is the most ridiculous half of basketball March Madness has ever seen!” One announcer slammed the desk and pointed at the stats graphic.
“Rex Valen of the Fresno State Bulldogs just dropped a 20-point, 20-rebound super double-double.
He is the single reason Fresno leads by twenty-two.” “Even more terrifying—he finished eight alley-oops in one half.
Sixteen of his twenty points came from pure aerial assault.” His partner kept shaking his head.
“Correct.
He just rewrote the single-game alley-oop record for March Madness… and he did it in only twenty minutes.” “The numbers don’t even capture what Rex is doing out there.
Those double-twenties have strategic meaning.” “From the opening tip he has attacked Monroe’s biggest weakness—speed.
A 7’1″ frame that runs the floor faster than most of the team’s guards.” “People keep calling him the Shaquille O’Neal from the East.
I disagree.
Completely different styles.” “We can debate interior bulk and post power later, but pure athleticism and straight-line speed?
Peak Shaq could never keep up with this kid’s pace.” “He is a brand-new species of big man.
And right now the only question that matters is—” “Is this kid declaring for the NBA draft this year?” Fifteen minutes vanished.
The second half began, and Georgetown had nothing left.
Monroe could barely catch the ball against Rex’s length and physicality.
The few shots he forced mostly clanged off iron.
Fresno, by contrast, moved like water.
Every possession flowed through Rex’s relentless transition game, slicing Georgetown’s defense open again and again.
When the final horn sounded the scoreboard read 85–58.
Fresno State Bulldogs were headed to the Elite Eight.
Event staff soon guided the winners toward the post-game press conference.
Inside the brightly lit room dozens of cameras and microphones were already locked and loaded.
The first question went straight for the jugular.
“Rex, congratulations on reaching the Elite Eight.
Every fan and every scout in America is watching you.
Will you declare for the NBA draft this year?” Every lens swung onto him.
“Of course.” Rex’s voice was calm and absolute.
“I’m not staying in college any longer.
The NBA is next.” A low ripple of conversation moved through the room.
Most mocks still had him locked at fifth overall.
Plenty of people had assumed he would return for another year of polish.
A second reporter pressed immediately.
“Current projections have you fifth.
Where do you see yourself going in the actual draft?” “Same answer as always.” Rex shrugged.
“Draft rankings are just a business game.” “As for exact slot… we’ll talk about that after I’ve beaten the number-one pick myself on the floor.” Confidence radiated off him.
The implication needed no translation.
His target was the top of the board.
Another reporter stood and fired the label that had dominated every timeline in the country.
“Rex, the entire nation is calling you the Shaq.
They say your draft template is Shaquille O’Neal.
How do you feel about that comparison?” The room went silent.
Rex met the question with clear eyes.
“Shaq is a legend.
His flavor needs no extra salt.” “But I have never wanted to be the next anyone.
I am Rex.” “I season myself.” “I represent myself.” The press conference ended.
Rex and his teammates headed back toward the tunnel.
On the opposite side of the arena, Iverson and Mutombo gathered their things and walked toward the VIP exit.
Both men still carried the weight of the full game they had just watched.
Mutombo rolled his wrists out of old habit, face full of genuine regret.
“AI, I’m not gonna lie—I envy the young guys in the league right now.” He shook his head.
“I retired too early.
If I still had a few years left I would love to meet this kid in the paint and show him what real finger-wag defense looks like.” Mutombo had been one of the premier rim protectors of his era.
Competitive fire still burned hot.
Tonight’s performance had lit it again.
Unfortunately the calendar did not care.
He had walked away for good the previous year.
Ignoring the official age he had always given the league, the man was nearly fifty.
Iverson laughed out loud and showed no mercy.
“Hey, Dikembe, that speech is fine for the cameras.
Between us?
Everybody in the league watched what peak Shaq did to you in those Finals.
It was not pretty.” “Now a completely different kind of monster shows up and suddenly your hands are itching again?” Mutombo only shrugged.
He had no comeback.
The memory of that 2001 series still lived in his bones—the most brutal stretch of his career.
He had hated every second of it and loved it at the same time.
“Still,” Iverson said, the smile fading into something quieter, “I’m already looking forward to next season more than I should.” “Same regret sitting in my chest.” Mutombo raised an eyebrow.
“What, you wish you could have matched up with him one-on-one too?” That tracked.
Iverson had always been the type who wanted to test every talented newcomer himself.
But Iverson shook his head.
A different kind of regret flickered across his face.
“No.” He smiled again, softer this time.
“My regret is that I never got the chance to play next to him.” “Why does Kobe get to have Shaq?
If I had Rex beside me, who’s to say we couldn’t have taken down the OK Combination?” “What the shit?!” Mutombo’s eyes went wide.
He immediately locked an arm around Iverson’s neck in a playful choke.
“Allen, what the hell is that supposed to mean?
Was I not enough for you back then?” Both men burst out laughing.
They kept walking, their voices fading into the night beyond the arena doors.