Los Angeles. Staples Center. Post-game.
The mood in the press room was a mix of confusion and tension. The Lakers had just pulled off a tough win, but the headlines weren't about the game.
A local LA reporter fired the first question, tone sharp and skeptical.
"Coach Del Harris, today the team made a deal for a known troublemaker from Phoenix. You also traded away Cedric Ceballos, your starting small forward. What exactly are you thinking? A lot of people think the team just shot itself in the foot."
Del Harris, the Lakers' head coach dubbed "Silver Fox" by the press, let the question sit in the air for a second. He'd been in the league long enough to know this was coming.
The trade was controversial.
Ceballos was part of a team that had gone 26–1 with Alex Mo leading the charge before his suspension. Sending him away now, while Alex was still out, had fans and media baffled.
And who did they get in return?
Robert Horry.
A guy just coming off a spat with Danny Ainge, seen as more of a locker room headache than an on-court solution.
The reporters weren't wrong to question the move. The Lakers had been struggling since Alex's suspension. Allen Iverson had just returned, but the team hadn't found a groove. Fans were hoping they'd hold steady until their young star came back. Trading away a starter now, in the middle of playoff contention? It didn't make sense.
Del Harris kept his response short.
"Roster decisions are made jointly by the front office and coaching staff. That's all I'll say."
He was tired.
He'd just finished coaching a scrappy win and now had to explain front-office logic to a room full of people who didn't want to hear it.
A different reporter cut in. "But Coach, Ceballos was one of the few bright spots during the losing streak. Don't you think the team might regret this?"
Del narrowed his eyes and gave a tired half-smile. "No comment."
With that, he stood up and walked out.
The press dubbed him "grumpy" the next day, but fans could relate.
Even Alex Mo had been stunned by the news when he heard it. He'd been recovering, spending time watching film and getting light workouts in at his home gym.
He'd expected the Lakers to make some small moves, maybe shoring up the bench. Not trading a starter. Not now.
In his memories, Horry didn't join until January 10. This was three days earlier. Had he accidentally triggered this?
Alex remembered the late-night phone calls he'd made to Jerry West during his suspension discussing vision, roster fit, and long-term potential.
Had those calls played a role?
If so, it meant his influence was growing inside the organization.
He poured himself a glass of orange juice, sat on the couch, and turned on the local news. His face was everywhere despite being suspended.
The TV anchor smiled into the camera.
"Lakers fans, if you were wondering when the next Alex Mo signature shoes would hit the shelves… we've got news."
That caught his attention.
Nike had just announced that the platinum colorway of the IM1s, the ones Alex had worn during the infamous Christmas game, would drop the day after the first round of All-Star voting results went public.
He raised an eyebrow.
Back during the Christmas game, he'd gone berserk—scoring 9 straight points, lighting up the Bulls in Chicago, and ending with an exclamation mark: knocking down Jordan, spinning past Pippen, and posterizing Rodman.
It had been chaos. The media had split—some called it brilliance, others labeled it disrespect.
But fans?
Fans couldn't get enough.
Nike had been nervous at first. Alex Mo was their new face, and that kind of aggression had raised eyebrows. But once emails started flooding headquarters, demanding to know when the IM1s would be released, the tide shifted.
Nike ramped up production. What was supposed to be a modest drop of 100,000 pairs turned into a massive launch: 600,000 pairs at $120 apiece, just like the AJ1s. The release was delayed until January 13 to meet the demand.
Even now, Alex scrolled through Instagram and saw fan pages counting down to the launch. Memes flooded the comments:
"Gonna wear these and dunk on my boss."
"Need these to break ankles in my rec league."
"Mo made these legendary in one night!"
It wasn't just a sneaker anymore.
It was a moment.
It was his moment.
But that wasn't even the craziest part of the week.
On January 12, the NBA officially released the first round of All-Star voting results.
Alex sat in his kitchen, toast in one hand, juice in the other, half-asleep until he read the number.
1.523 million votes.
In the first round.
He blinked. Then blinked again.
"...No way."
The previous record for first-round votes was 1.35 million held by Grant Hill just last year. And this was while Alex had been suspended since Christmas.
He wasn't even playing.
Yet here he was, shattering records.
Later that day, the NBA's boardroom had a very different mood. Some executives were shocked; others worried about the optics. But Commissioner David Stern shut that down quick.
"This is growth," Stern had said. "More fans voting means more people engaged. Why would we hide that?"
Privately, Alex felt proud. Not just for himself but for what it meant. Basketball was evolving. Fans were watching, voting, and screaming for more. He was helping shape something bigger.
Back at home, he turned off the TV, stood up, and stretched. He walked over to his backyard court and took a few jump shots in the late afternoon sun. His shot felt smooth. His body felt ready.
He had one more week left on the suspension.
But everything else? The team. The shoes. The fans. The future.
All signs pointed to one thing:
Alex Mo wasn't just back.
He was about to take over.