Cleveland, This Is For You!

Kobe was gone. And with him, the Lakers' hopes seemed to vanish.

But what no one expected—was for LeBron to finally step up.

He attacked relentlessly, driving, pulling up for jumpers—hell, he even hit mid-range shots. For the rest of the third quarter, he carried the Lakers, keeping them within striking distance.

Kobe's words over the past two years had meant nothing to him.

But Kobe's exit?

That hit different.

Kobe had left the court the only way he knew how—with a moment that sent chills down spines.

That energy, that adrenaline, had given the Lakers one last push.

But when the fourth quarter arrived—that surge faded like a receding tide.

If this were a fairytale, Kobe would've returned from the tunnel, just like Yao Ming once did, giving the Lakers one final miracle.

But this wasn't a fairytale.

Kobe didn't come back.

And Han Sen?

He turned his defensive intensity to the max.

LeBron, after failing on multiple drives, slowly lost his fire.

Some players can stay locked in for a whole game.

Others?

They have their moment—and then it's gone.

The Cavaliers pulled away, and the exodus of Lakers fans from Staples Center began.

On the Cavs' bench, no one could sit still anymore.

They were on their feet, their excitement barely contained.

But the most striking sight?

Kevin Garnett.

Pounding his chest. Eyes filled with tears.

For him, 'going home' had been the safe choice. Last summer, the Timberwolves had even offered him a two-year, $16 million contract.

But he had chosen Cleveland—on a veteran minimum deal.

And now?

That sacrifice had paid off.

Even as his role diminished over the season, this was still his championship.

Kobe, like Jordan, would not get his storybook ending.

But KG?

KG would.

Dunleavy, meanwhile, wore a complicated expression.

He had fought his entire career for this moment—only to achieve it in his very first season with the Cavs.

It was proof.

Sometimes, in the NBA, the right choice matters more than effort.

Cleveland wasn't glamorous.

But here?

You could win.

With two minutes left and the Cavs still up double digits, Malone made the call—a full five-man substitution.

And just like that, Mo Williams, Delonte West, and Dante Cunningham checked into the game.

How many former Cavaliers did this team have?

Four?

No—five.

Four on the court.

One on the sideline.

Because Malone?

He had his own history with LeBron.

And he was more than happy to twist the knife.

LeBron felt it.

He knew what this was.

So when he drove on Cunningham, he made sure to give him a hard elbow.

Cunningham hadn't forgotten LeBron's trash talk earlier in the series.

And with the game already decided, there was no reason to hold back.

So he tackled LeBron.

The arena erupted in chaos.

No one expected a fight with under a minute left.

The referees rushed to separate them before things escalated further.

Cunningham, still fired up, kept barking at LeBron as he was pulled away—

"We won a championship after you left!"

The ultimate dagger.

This wasn't just trash talk.

It was the truth.

LeBron's face turned a deep shade of purple.

The scuffle had happened right in front of the Cavs' bench, and Han Sen, watching from the sidelines, barely managed to keep himself from laughing.

Damn.

Cunningham just had to go there.

Had he been on the Heat, he and Udonis Haslem would've made the perfect trash-talking duo.

Cunningham was ejected with a flagrant foul.

LeBron, after picking up a tech, was also subbed out.

With under a minute left, it was over.

The Cavs' bench lost all composure.

Kyrie kept glancing at the scoreboard, his smile stretching wider by the second.

A year ago?

He had been labeled a 'flashy' player.

Now?

He was about to be an NBA champion.

Jokić, meanwhile, looked like a big kid waving his arms in excitement.

He didn't care about rings.

He cared about his horse.

He was about to become the man with the best horse in Sombor.

Even Powell couldn't hold it in—he was straight-up screaming in excitement.

He and Jokić were rookies.

Rookie champions.

Han Sen?

He let out a grin.

Cleveland hadn't been his first choice.

But leading the 'Old Cavaliers' to a championship, erasing all their past regrets—that felt good.

And the fact that it came at LeBron's expense?

Even better.

BZZZZT.

Final buzzer.

The Cavaliers were NBA champions.

Confetti rained down, and the Cavs' players lost all restraint.

Far away in Cleveland, Dan Gilbert had already opened Quicken Loans Arena for fans to watch.

And just like in Staples Center, the entire arena was packed.

Cleveland had waited 52 years.

And finally?

They were champions.

The Lakers fans who stayed sat in stunned silence.

They had seen it all—the highest highs, the lowest lows.

Now, they had to watch another team celebrate on their home floor.

The Cavs and Lakers exchanged quick handshakes.

But one person was missing.

LeBron.

Han Sen knew he wouldn't see him.

Two years with Kobe had changed nothing.

LeBron was still the same.

Still running when things got tough.

But as Han finished the handshakes—he came across someone grinning wider than any Cavs player.

Shaquille O'Neal.

Shaq knew what this meant.

This title sealed everything.

He and Kobe?

5-5.

No more debates.

No more who-was-greater talk.

They were even.

And that meant Shaq could walk away with no regrets.

No way in hell was he gonna accept 'Security Guard Captain' like Han joked about.

Nope.

This?

This was perfect.

And for making it happen—

Shaq was now Han Sen's biggest fan.

Even Barkley wasn't gonna out-Han him now.

---

The Cavaliers left the court as champions. But the real celebration?

It was just getting started.

Inside the locker room, chaos erupted.

Champagne bottles popped. Players screamed. Coaches got drenched.

It was pure, unfiltered euphoria.

By the time they emerged—soaked in champagne, jerseys sticking to their skin—the stage was set.

The arena still buzzed with energy. The official ceremony hadn't begun, but as Han Sen walked toward the podium, Adam Silver stepped forward, smiling, hand extended.

"Congratulations," Silver said, shaking Han's hand.

The Finals hadn't played out the way the league envisioned—but this result?

This was history.

And maybe, just maybe—even bigger than Han's first title with Memphis.

Because Cleveland?

Cleveland had been a graveyard for champions.

And tonight?

That changed forever.

Silver took the mic, his voice echoing through the arena.

"First, we want to recognize the Los Angeles Lakers for an incredible fight. They battled to the very end."

The crowd responded with cheers. A show of respect.

But in the back of everyone's mind, one name loomed larger than the game itself.

Kobe Bryant.

The news had already broken.

A torn Achilles.

A career-ending injury.

For it to happen here—in his final game?

It wasn't just tragic.

It was legendary.

Like an old warrior who refused to die peacefully in bed.

Kobe went out on his shield.

Silver continued.

"And now, let's congratulate the Cleveland Cavaliers—your 2015-16 NBA Champions!"

BOOM.

Confetti rained down like a storm.

The Larry O'Brien Trophy was handed to Dan Gilbert.

Gilbert beamed like a man who had just conquered a kingdom.

This was the moment he had dreamed of since buying the team.

And now, he was vindicated.

Letting LeBron go. Betting on Han Sen.

The best decision of his life.

Gilbert passed the trophy to Michael Malone.

Malone's face turned red.

Years ago, in Sacramento, he had fought for respect—only to be thrown aside.

Now?

Now, he was a champion.

And to do it with this team—

With the old Cavaliers who had once failed together—

There was no greater feeling.

Finally, the trophy reached Han Sen.

The moment his hands touched it, the arena erupted.

America loves a team.

But it worships a hero.

And in this era?

Han Sen was that hero.

The face of the league. The villain to some. The Emperor to others.

But above all?

A champion.

Han lifted the trophy high—and the arena came unglued.

This—

This was the fuel that made legends eternal.

---

The microphone made its way through the champions.

Gilbert told the story of his late-night pitch to Han.

A moment that meant little back then.

Now?

Now, it was championship lore.

Malone spoke next.

About unfinished business.

The pain of 2010's playoff loss.

The regret that had haunted him and his players.

And why, in the end—he came back to Cleveland.

Because of Han Sen.

The noise was deafening when the mic finally made its way to Han.

The moment he raised his hand to speak, the crowd went wild again.

He had to wait.

Let them have their moment.

Then, finally—

"Han, this city has been waiting over half a century for this. You just delivered Cleveland its first championship. How does it feel?"

Han exhaled, rolling his shoulders before speaking.

"Honestly? Right now, I just want to bring this trophy back to Cleveland and celebrate with those fans."

The arena roared in approval.

"We all know Quicken Loans Arena is packed right now. They've been with us every step of the way, and they deserve this just as much as we do."

"Han, when you arrived, this franchise had never been a winner. Now, you've taken them to back-to-back Finals and made history. How did you do it?"

Han nodded, rubbing his jaw.

"People underestimated this team. They weren't missing talent—they were missing direction. That's what I brought. But from there? Every single guy in that locker room bought in. We worked, we adjusted, and when we lost last year, we didn't run from it. We came back stronger."

The fans erupted again.

"And now?" Han smirked, looking around at his teammates.

"Now, we're champions."

The crowd roared again.

Because this?

This was more than just basketball.

Fans don't just love winners.

They love comebacks.

Redemption.

The fall. The struggle. The rise.

Han had given them that.

---

Now—Finals MVP.

Han had been dominant.

30.0 PPG | 6.8 RPG | 8.6 APG | 2.2 SPG | 1.4 BPG

51.2% FG | 41.5% 3PT

Kyrie had been brilliant too.

25.0 PPG | 3.6 RPG | 5.4 APG | 2.0 SPG

46.8% FG | 40.5% 3PT

But there was no suspense.

Bill Russell, leaning on his cane, smiled as he made the announcement.

The crowd settled just enough to hear him speak.

"The 2016 Bill Russell Finals MVP goes to…"

Russell grinned, dragging it out.

"Han Sen."

Another eruption.

Han stepped forward, shaking Russell's hand as he accepted the trophy.

The NBA legend pulled him in close for a hug, then grinned.

"I wish I had a grandson like you."

Han let out a small chuckle, shaking his head.

"Appreciate that, OG."

The two exchanged another handshake before Han took the mic.

He looked out into the sea of Cleveland fans, the people who had waited their entire lives for this.

He could say a million things.

But in the end, there was only one thing that mattered.

"Two years ago, coming to Cleveland wasn't my plan. But now?"

He glanced over at Michael Malone.

"Now, I believe it was fate."

The cheers swelled again.

"Like Coach Mike said, six years ago, we had a chance—and we let it slip. But fate gave us another shot."

He paused, lifting the Finals MVP trophy slightly.

"I won't put a label on this championship. Because this wasn't just about me, or a few guys—this was bigger than all of us."

Then, he turned to the crowd.

Took a deep breath.

And gave them the words they had waited 52 years to hear.

"CLEVELAND—THIS IS FOR YOU!"