Power doesn't change hands with a memo—it shifts quietly, in every practice, every game, every play. Coach O'Brien's "playbook adjustments" quickly became reality in the next few regular-season matchups. LeBron James was officially listed in the starting lineup, but the bigger change? The keys to the offense—like blood rushing to the heart—flowed to him, irreversible.
Paul Pierce still started, but his role shifted in subtle, sharp ways. He was no longer the go-to finisher who controlled the ball, free to take a shot even as the 24-second clock wound down. More often, he had to cut and move without the ball, waiting for LeBron's pass. His face stayed neutral, but every time he planted himself in the corner, watching LeBron calmly run the offense from the arc, his tight lips and the occasional fist he clenched unconsciously gave away his frustration.
LeBron handled it perfectly. He didn't freeze Pierce out—instead, he'd hit him with pinpoint passes when Pierce's cuts created a split-second opening. Those passes usually turned into easy points, keeping Pierce's stats respectable and silencing any whispers that LeBron was "pushing out a vet." But anyone with eyes could see: Pierce had gone from "director" to "top-tier actor." His role still mattered, but the script was no longer his.
In a blowout win over the lowly Atlanta Hawks, O'Brien drew up a play for Pierce to post up during a third-quarter timeout. But when they returned, LeBron held the ball, scanned the floor—and saw the Hawks were about to double-team Pierce. On the weak side, Eric Williams was wide open. LeBron didn't hesitate—he fired a bounce pass through two defenders, right to Williams, who nailed the three.
Pierce had set up deep in the post, hand outstretched. The ball never came. He dropped his hand and walked back upcourt, expressionless. The cameras caught it, and the commentator joked, "LeBron made the smarter play—but I bet Paul thinks he could've scored down there too."
LeBron jogged over to Pierce. "Saw the double-team," he said quickly. "Eric had a better look."
Pierce just nodded. Nothing more.
This quiet clash—"smarts" vs. "star privilege"—played out again and again. LeBron kept proving he was "right" with assists and wins. Pierce, stuck in a rut where he couldn't unleash his game (and sometimes looked "inefficient" with forced shots), faded into silence.
The locker room shifted too. The veteran group that once orbited Pierce still existed, but their voices grew softer. More players started looking to LeBron first during timeouts, asking for his take, or staying late to practice the specific cuts he suggested. A new order—centered on LeBron—took hold fast.
Danny Ainge watched from the sidelines, his gaze mixed. The team was winning, and LeBron's dominance was stunning. He was glad he'd "bet on the kid." But there was a faint chill, too—LeBron's cold, calculated control felt way beyond his years. This kid knew exactly what he wanted, and how to get it.
As the regular season wrapped up, the Celtics locked in a solid playoff spot. Media talk about the team's power shift died down, replaced by hype and doubt around LeBron's first playoff run.
That's when Lisa Kruger's media machine struck again—this time, not to take someone down, but to roll out the red carpet for LeBron's bigger stage.
A long feature in a national sports magazine hit stands: Chosen One's Coming-of-Age: How LeBron James Is Ready to Define the Playoffs. It recounted his "rocky" draft journey, how he'd "landed on his feet" in Boston, how he'd "humble himself to learn" before earning the core spot with "undeniable skill and leadership." It praised his basketball IQ, versatility, and clutch gene, citing "anonymous league executives" and "scouts" who called him a "playoff game-changer"—even daring to compare him to Magic Johnson, predicting he'd leave a mark on the playoffs as a rookie.
At the same time, stories about LeBron's "secret" work ethic spread: how he used high-tech tools to study game tape late into the night, how he prepped multiple plans for different defenses, how he even memorized the habits of opposing bench players. These tales painted him as the perfect mix—"talent + grit."
The narrative shifted. No one talked about the Celtics' internal drama anymore. Everyone wondered: Could this supernova, LeBron James, shine on the playoff stage—where stars are truly tested?
For the first round, the Celtics drew the Jason Kidd-led New Jersey Nets. Most experts called it a toss-up—the Nets' experience was their biggest edge.
Game 1 at the Boston Garden: the crowd roared. LeBron stood at midcourt, looking around. The green wave, the deafening cheers—nothing like the road hostile crowds he'd remember later. This was pure, hopeful home energy. He took a deep breath, his eyes sharp. This was his first step back to the throne. No mistakes.
The Nets struck first. Kidd's crafty play and Kenyon Martin's inside dominance caught the Celtics off guard. The score slipped away.
Pierce tried to take over with his iso game, but his shots missed. O'Brien called a timeout.
LeBron stepped up to O'Brien, grabbing the playboard. His voice was calm, but firm: "Coach, they're collapsing inside. We need to push the pace—more transition, more early offense. Paul can cut off their slow backpedal." He scribbled lines on the board, pointing out the Nets' weak spots.
O'Brien looked at LeBron, then at the frustrated Pierce. He nodded: "Run LeBron's play."
Back on the floor, LeBron took over. He turned into an unstoppable train—barreling into the Nets' paint, scoring, drawing fouls, or kicking to open teammates when defenses swarmed. His defense stepped up too—locking down Kidd with his strength and quick reads.
In the third quarter, the Celtics went on a run to take the lead. The defining moment came with two minutes left in the fourth—tie game. LeBron had the ball, guarded by Richard Jefferson. No fancy moves—just a clean crossover, a burst of speed to blow past Jefferson, and as help defense came, he leaped high for a thunderous tomahawk dunk.
The Garden exploded. The green sea went wild.
That dunk broke the Nets. The Celtics took Game 1.
LeBron finished with a near-triple-double: 32 points, 11 assists, 8 rebounds—outshining Kidd completely. After the game, he stood at center court, soaking up the cheers, still calm—just pounding his chest and pointing to the fans.
Pierce stood off to the side, watching LeBron swarmed by reporters. His eyes were mixed. He'd scored 20 points that night, but everyone knew who the real star was.
A reporter shoves a mic at LeBron: "LeBron! First playoff game, a performance like this—how do you rate yourself?"
LeBron wiped sweat from his brow, steady: "It's a team win. We stayed tough, executed the plan. Jason's a great opponent, but we wanted this more. This is just the start—we keep our focus."
His answer was flawless—calm, not a hint of the 18-year-old rookie he was.
In the players' tunnel, LeBron ran into Pierce, who was heading out. They locked eyes, slowing down.
The tunnel was dim, the noise from the arena faded.
Pierce stared at LeBron, finally speaking. His voice was hoarse, raw: "You had this planned all along, didn't you? Since day one."
LeBron stopped, turning to face him. The humility, the warmth—gone. In their place: a deep calm, the confidence of someone who controls everything. He didn't confirm. Didn't deny.
"Paul," LeBron said softly, but the words hit hard. "This league—winners take all. Boston needs a new flagbearer. I can take it higher. You can come along… or get left behind by the times."
He didn't look back. He walked toward the locker room, his green jersey glowing like a crown in the dim light.
Pierce stood there, watching that young, already towering back. Silent. He knew it then: his Boston era was over. A new one—defined by LeBron James—was here, surging in with the playoff horns.
LeBron's steps were steady. Beating the Nets was just a test. His eyes were already on the bigger prize: the Eastern Conference Finals. On the team that would haunt him for over a decade—the tough-as-nails Detroit Pistons.
This time, he wouldn't let history repeat itself.