NBA's Monster Rookie

Chapter 16: The Battle for 7

Chapter Sixteen: Game 7

October 15, 1997, Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum.

Game 7 of the finals.

The atmosphere outside the arena was like a festival. Fifty thousand fans gathered around the arena, some holding signs that read "Believe in the Monster," some wearing Arthur's number 32 jersey, and some with Clippers logos painted on their faces. The Los Angeles Police Department deployed all its officers, but they knew that no matter the outcome tonight, the city would not be quiet.

In the locker room, Coach Fitch stood in front of the tactical board, looking at his players. He didn't draw any tactics; he just said one sentence.

"You've already made history by standing here. But now, go and create your own legend."

Arthur stood up. His movements were slow, but each step carried an irresistible force. He put on the number 32 jersey, the number he had specifically chosen, representing the shame of draft night and the beginning of his comeback.

"A year ago," Arthur said, "nobody believed we could get this far. Six months ago, nobody believed we could make the playoffs. Two months ago, nobody believed we could make the Finals."

He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over each of his teammates.

"Now, no one can stop us."

In the players' tunnel, Arthur ran towards the court. His footsteps were heavy, but the rhythm was steady, thump, thump, thump, like some kind of ancient war drum. The cheers of more than 20,000 spectators rushed towards him like waves, but he didn't look up, just stared at the basket on the other side.

At one end of the United Center, the Chicago Bulls ran out from the other side. Jordan walked at the front, his face expressionless. This was his tenth NBA Finals appearance, his seventh Game 7—no, this was the first time in his career that he had played a Game 7 in the Finals. In fact, the Bulls had never played a Game 7 in the Finals. Jordan had never been forced to a seventh game in the Finals.

Tonight is the first time.

Before the jump ball, Jordan walked up to Arthur. The two stared at each other for a full three seconds.

"Nineteen years old," Jordan said. "Game 7. You'll remember tonight."

"I will," Arthur said, "because after tonight, I will be the champion."

The referee tosses the ball. Arthur's long arms tap the ball to Barry. The game begins.

On the first offensive possession, Arthur didn't go to the low post, but instead held the ball at the top of the key. Rodman came out to defend, his eyes looking like he wanted to devour Arthur alive. Arthur dribbled a step to the right, Rodman moved laterally, Arthur switched hands behind his back to the left, stopped abruptly, and Rodman jumped to pounce, but Arthur had already released the shot.

Goal! Three to zero.

The Bulls are on offense. Jordan calls for the ball on the right low post, and Pippen passes it in. Jordan backs down Healy, fakes a spin move, and Healy is shaken up. Instead of shooting, Jordan passes under Healy's arm and jumps for a layup. Arthur flies in from the weak side and swatts the ball out of bounds with his massive hand.

The crowd erupted. Arthur landed but didn't celebrate; instead, he ran straight to the corner to defend.

The first quarter featured one of the most intense twelve minutes in NBA Finals history. Jordan scored twelve points, and Arthur added eleven. The Clippers led 28-27 by one point.

In the second quarter, the Bulls' depth began to show. Kukoc and Kerr stepped up from the bench, hitting consecutive three-pointers. The Clippers' bench was suppressed, and the point difference widened to eight points.

Fitch called a timeout. He looked at Arthur. "You need a break."

"No need," Arthur said.

"You played for a full quarter and a half."

"I said, I don't need it."

Arthur returned to the court. In the next four minutes, he did three things: blocked Kukoc's shot, stole Cole's pass, and dunked over a double team of Rodman and Longley.

The point difference was narrowed to two.

At halftime, the Clippers led 58-57 by one point. Arthur's halftime stats: 24 points, 9 rebounds, 5 assists, and 4 blocks.

In the locker room, Arthur sat in a chair, wiping his face with a towel. He didn't speak, but his breathing was slightly faster than usual. This was the first time he had shown signs of fatigue in a game—not physical, but mental. Every second of Game 7 was draining his focus.

Barry came over and sat down next to him.

"How are you?"

"Very good," Arthur said.

You can't fool me. Your hands are shaking.

Arthur looked down at his hands. His palms were indeed trembling slightly, not from fear, but from adrenaline.

"This isn't trembling," Arthur said. "It's excitement."

In the third quarter, Jordan took over the game. He sank four mid-range jumpers in that quarter, each one hitting despite Arthur's help defense. Arthur's hand was already in Jordan's face, but Jordan's shooting was as natural as breathing.

At the end of the third quarter, the Bulls led 87-84 by three points.

Before the fourth quarter began, Arthur sat on the bench with his eyes closed. Fitch walked over and squatted down in front of him.

"It's the last quarter, Arthur."

Arthur opened his eyes. "I know."

What do you need?

"The ball," Arthur said, "give me the ball."

In the fourth quarter, Arthur Thorne delivered one of the greatest single-quarter performances in NBA Finals history.

He hit five three-pointers, dunked three times, dished out four assists, and blocked three shots in twelve minutes. He accounted for 27 of the Clippers' 35 points in the fourth quarter.

But Jordan responded. He scored 14 points in the fourth quarter, including six in the final two minutes.

With 30 seconds remaining, the score was tied at 118. The Clippers had possession.

Fitch called a timeout. He drew up a play on the whiteboard to create a receiving opportunity for Arthur, then set up a one-on-one play.

Arthur looked at the tactics board and shook his head.

"No tactics needed," Arthur said. "Give me the ball, everyone else spread out."

Fitch glanced at him and put down the tactical board.

The timeout ended. Arthur received the ball in the backcourt and dribbled it up the court. The entire arena rose to their feet; no one sat down. The Bulls fans at the United Center were also standing; they knew this play would decide the championship.

Arthur stopped at the top of the arc, Jordan standing in front of him. Time was ticking away, but Arthur didn't rush to attack. He was waiting.

Eight seconds left. Arthur dribbled one step to the right, Jordan moved sideways. Arthur switched hands behind his back to the left, Jordan followed. Arthur dribbled between his legs and then stepped back to two steps beyond the three-point line.

Jordan pounced on him.

But Arthur didn't shoot. He jumped forward, collided with Jordan in mid-air, and the referee blew the whistle.

Three-point shooting foul.

The crowd erupted in uproar. Jordan raised his hands, indicating that he hadn't fouled. But slow-motion replays showed that Jordan's hand did indeed touch Arthur's arm.

Arthur stepped to the free-throw line. The crowd erupted in deafening boos; some waved colorful batons, others screamed. Arthur closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He opened his eyes. The first free throw went in. 119 to 118.

The second free throw went in. 120 to 118.

For the third free throw, Arthur deliberately lengthened his release arc, and the ball bounced off the rim and went in. 121 to 118.

There are eight seconds left.

The Bulls called a timeout. After the timeout, Jordan received the ball at midcourt, dribbled to the three-point line, and faced Arthur's defense. He stepped back, jumped, and released the ball, which arced through the air.

Arthur turned around and looked at the ball.

The ball hit the back of the rim and bounced out.

Arthur grabbed the rebound and held the ball tightly in his arms. Time expired.

121 to 118. The Clippers won.

Arthur knelt on the ground, his hands braced against the floor. His shoulders trembled slightly—not from crying, but from laughing. More than 20,000 spectators screamed, and his teammates rushed over and pinned him to the ground.

Michael Jordan stood beyond the three-point line, hands on his hips, watching everything. He neither cried nor laughed, just watched quietly. Then he walked into the crowd and found Arthur, who was surrounded by his teammates.

"Get up," Jordan said.

Arthur stood up and looked at Jordan.

Jordan held out his hand. "You won. The championship is yours."

Arthur grasped Jordan's hand. "Thank you."

"What are you thanking me for?"

"Thank you for letting me know that I still need to become stronger."

Jordan paused for a moment, then smiled. He patted Arthur on the shoulder and turned to walk toward the players' tunnel. His shadow stretched long under the lights, but no one noticed that everyone was looking at Arthur Thorne.

David Stern walked onto the stage. The championship trophy gleamed under the lights. Bill Russell stood to the side, holding the Finals MVP trophy.

"The 1997 NBA Champions, the Los Angeles Clippers!"

Arthur received the championship trophy from Stern and raised it above his head. The entire arena cheered. He handed the trophy to Barry, who then passed it to Rogers, who in turn passed it to Williams. The Clippers players passed the trophy around like an Olympic torch.

Then, Bill Russell walked up to Arthur.

"Young man, you played a great game," Russell said.

Arthur accepted the Finals MVP trophy and raised it above his head. A flurry of camera flashes went off.

After the awards ceremony, reporters surrounded Arthur.

"Arthur, you've just turned twenty, haven't you? You're almost twenty. You won the championship, the Finals MVP, and the regular season MVP. What do you want to say?"

Arthur looked at the camera and remained silent for two seconds.

"A year ago, I was skipped by 31 out of 32 teams in the draft. They said I was a statistic monster and couldn't win. They said my combine data was fake. They said I didn't belong in this league."

He paused.

"Now, I am the champion."

The entire stadium was silent for a second, then erupted into an even louder cheer.

Arthur turned and headed towards the locker room. As he passed through the players' tunnel, he saw the Clippers' championship banners hanging on the wall, blank retired jerseys, everything was blank.

He stopped and stared at the blank space.

"It will fill up," he said softly.

Then he went into the locker room. Champagne sprayed from all directions, Barry hugged him and cried, Rogers jumped on his back, and Williams rolled on the floor. Coach Fitch stood in the corner, his eyes red-rimmed, holding a bottle of champagne.

Arthur broke free from his teammates' encirclement and walked up to Fitch.

"Coach, thank you."

Fitch shook his head. "You did it. Not me."

"You were the one who believed me," Arthur said. "When everyone else didn't believe me, you did."

Fitch opened his mouth, but said nothing. He simply patted Arthur on the shoulder, then turned away and secretly wiped his eyes.

That night, Los Angeles experienced no darkness. The entire city was ablaze—not with fire, but with celebration. Clippers fans flooded the streets, singing, dancing, honking their horns, and setting off fireworks. Red fireworks were lit in front of the Staples Center, and posters of Arthur were held up along Broadway.

Arthur Thorne, the 2.3-meter-tall monster rookie, sat in the empty arena. The lights were off, with only the emergency lights emitting a faint green glow. He sat in the center of the court, his jersey soaked through, the championship trophy beside him.

He looked up at the dome.

The blank space remains. But soon, a flag will be hung there.

"The Los Angeles Clippers, the 1997 NBA champions."

Arthur closed his eyes.

He remembered draft night. Second round, thirty-second pick. Everyone was questioning it. Nobody believed it.

Now, he is the champion.

He opened his eyes, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"This is just the beginning," he said.

Then he stood up, holding the championship trophy in one hand and the Finals MVP trophy in the other, and walked out of the arena.

The stadium behind me was empty, but the lights seemed to still be on—not real lights, but something more enduring.

It is memory.

It's legendary.