Beating the Nets for that first playoff win was a morale boost for Boston—but for LeBron James, it was just one mandatory hurdle in his plan. Media praise poured in, hailing him as a "playoff rising star" and "Boston's new engine," but he stayed cool as stone, shutting out the noise. He knew the real test was only starting.
The champagne fizz in the locker room hadn't even faded when LeBron called a team film session. Not coach-led—he held the laser pointer, standing in front of the screen, breaking down every play with cold clarity.
"Jason Kidd has a habit here on pick-and-rolls—he leans left, then looks for the corner shooter," LeBron paused the clip, the laser dot locked on Kidd. "Kenyon Martin rolls hard, but if our bigs delay him early, force Kidd baseline, Eric Williams, you can slide over from the weak side to cut off his pass."
He spoke steady, his analysis sharp—like a vet who'd been in the league a decade. Teammates, even the older ones, leaned in. Pierce sat in the corner, arms crossed, face blank. He had to admit: LeBron's understanding of the game, his preparation, was stunning. This leadership—built on smarts and prep—clashed hard with his own instinct-and-experience style. It left him feeling even more powerless.
"Next game, they'll adjust," LeBron said, turning to Coach O'Brien. "I say we add more off-ball screens. Get Paul more one-on-ones at the high post. When they stack defense on me, Paul's iso game becomes our deadliest weapon."
The suggestion surprised O'Brien and the team. LeBron was volunteering to design plays for Pierce? Pierce looked up too, a flicker of shock in his eyes.
LeBron met his gaze, voice sincere: "Paul's one of the best scorers in this league. We can't waste that. Especially when teams try to lock me down—his scoring matters." He'd cleverly framed Pierce as "key to our tactical shifts" and "the beneficiary of my defense-drawing." It soothed Pierce, but also reaffirmed LeBron's role as the core.
Pierce stayed quiet a beat, then slowly nodded. He couldn't say no—it would give him more looks, even if those looks felt like a "gift" from LeBron. Humiliation tangled with resignation in his chest.
Game 2: The Nets adjusted, cranking up double-teams on LeBron. The Celtics stuck to LeBron's pregame plan. When LeBron drew the trap, the ball zipped to Pierce—who'd found space with off-ball cuts. Pierce delivered, punishing the Nets with his signature mid-range jumpers, finishing with a series-high 28 points.
Afterward, media talk flipped to Pierce's "comeback" and LeBron's "selflessness."
"LeBron, you dished out a lot of assists tonight—especially finding Paul after drawing doubles. How do you feel about that connection?" a reporter asked.
LeBron smiled: "Simple. Paul's a scoring machine. My job is to find him, get him the ball clean. When he's hot, giving him the rock is the right call. We're a team—this win's for everyone."
The line earned him more "selfless leader" praise. Pierce, in his postgame interview, acknowledged the win but sounded strained when talking about LeBron: "He… read the game right. We won—that's what matters." He couldn't spout the same "team-first" lines as LeBron. The knot in his chest stayed tight.
Still, the surface harmony held. The Celtics took two straight, heading to New Jersey up 2-0.
Road games were a different vibe. Nets fans were hostile, and the refs' calls seemed to tilt toward the home team. Game 3 turned into a grind.
Then came the controversial moment. Late in the fourth, Boston trailed by 1. LeBron drove, collided with Nets center Jason Collins mid-air, and missed the shot. No whistle. The Nets grabbed the rebound, and Kidd hit a buzzer-beater three to seal it.
LeBron hit the floor, holding his hands up to the ref—but nothing. The whole Celtics team swarmed the officials, fired up. Pierce led the charge, yelling so loud he almost got a tech.
Afterward, the locker room felt toxic. Losing a game they should've won—like that—left everyone fuming.
Pierce was still steamed, complaining to reporters he knew about the "unfair calls." His words blew up, sparking talk of "refs favoring the Nets."
LeBron took a totally different angle. In the mixed zone, he stayed calm, answering questions flatly.
"LeBron, that last play—did you think that was a foul?"
LeBron shook his head: "Ref didn't blow the whistle, so it wasn't a foul. We gotta be better—finish that shot in that spot, not wait for calls. I missed. That's on me."
He took full blame for the loss.
A reporter pushed: "But Paul seems really upset about the calls…"
LeBron cut him off, firm: "I get Paul's fire—he wants to win. But we can't fixate on refs. As a team, we move forward. I know we'll answer next game."
The contrast said it all. Pierce looked like a sore loser; LeBron looked like a leader who owned his mistakes. Even with the loss, LeBron's reputation grew. Media and fans praised his "maturity" and "leadership." Pierce took flak for "losing his cool" and "making excuses."
That narrative gap chipped away at Pierce's standing—both in the locker room and with fans. Even some teammates who'd backed him started thinking: When things go bad, LeBron's calm smarts feel more reliable.
In his office, Danny Ainge read the reports, turning to O'Brien: "See that? That's the difference. LeBron knows how to turn a bad break into good press. Paul? He's still playing by ten-year-old rules."
O'Brien sighed, nodding. He knew it now—there was no going back. LeBron James wasn't just the on-court core. He'd built unshakable authority in the locker room and with the media, too.
Game 4: The Celtics, fighting to avoid a 2-2 tie, got a full LeBron takeover. He dropped his first playoff triple-double—36 points, 10 rebounds, 12 assists—and led a blowout win. The series was over: 3-1, on to the next round.
When the final buzzer hit, LeBron high-fived teammates. As he walked to the tunnel, Pierce followed a few steps behind.
LeBron stopped suddenly, turning around.
Lights from the tunnel ceiling outlined his tall frame behind him; his face was hidden in shadow. Only his eyes glowed—sharp, like they could cut through fog.
He said nothing. Just stared at Pierce.
Pierce stopped too, locking eyes with him. The tunnel was empty except for them—noise from the arena faint in the distance.
In that moment, Pierce didn't see victory joy in LeBron's eyes. No provocation toward a veteran. Just that bottomless calm—and a quiet confidence, like he'd known how this would end all along.
LeBron gave a small nod—silent, almost a greeting—then turned and walked on, steps steady, disappearing into the dark.
Pierce stood there, finally letting out a long breath. He got it now: The Boston Celtics belonged to LeBron James, fully. And he—Paul Pierce, "The Truth"—would be nothing but a backdrop, a footnote, in this new legend.
LeBron walked toward the locker room, his mind calm. Beating the Nets was just kicking a stone out of his path. His eyes were already past New Jersey, locked on the next possible opponent in the Eastern Semis—the tough-as-nails Detroit Pistons. The team that'd haunted his early career, back in another life.
This time, the ending would be different. He swore it.