Before the Seattle SuperSonics visited Boston, TD Garden hummed with a strange vibe. The green wave still rolled—but mixed with unmissable tension. This was Paul Pierce's first trip back as an opponent, to the place he'd fought for, where he'd been a city icon… until the trade.
When the Sonics took the floor, the PA announcer called Pierce's name. The stands erupted—thunderous, lingering applause, cut with faint boos and sighs. Pierce was stone-faced. He gave a quick nod to the crowd, his eyes flicking over familiar corners before he bowed his head and hurried to the visitors' bench. That Sonics green jersey looked sharp, almost painful, on him.
Warmups: LeBron James walked over to Pierce, a warm, respectful smile on his face, arms outstretched. Cameras zeroed in.
"Welcome back, Paul," LeBron said—his voice barely audible over the buzz. He hugged Pierce tight, patting his back.
Pierce went stiff. His hug was brief, guarded. "LeBron," he said flatly, avoiding LeBron's eyes to stare at the other end of the court.
"Gonna be a good game tonight," LeBron kept going, soft. "These fans'll never forget what you did for 'em."
It sounded like a compliment. To Pierce, it stung—"never forget you" meant he was the past. Pierce pressed his lips tight, nodded, and turned back to warmups.
LeBron watched him go, smile still in place. But a cold calculation flashed in his eyes.
Tipoff! Sonics got the ball first. When Pierce touched it, TD Garden cheered again. Guarded by Eric Williams, he faked, then hit his signature fadeaway jumper—clean, crisp.
No celebration. Just back to defense. But LeBron answered fast: he drove hard to the rim for a layup, drawing a foul. He made the free throw, then jogged past Pierce on the way back.
"Nice shot, Paul. Still got it," he said—quiet enough for only Pierce to hear.
Pierce ignored him.
Next few plays: LeBron cranked up the help defense on Pierce. Once, Pierce posted up Williams. LeBron slipped over from the weak side, swiping his arm as Pierce turned.
Whistle! Foul on LeBron—hand-check.
LeBron held up his hands, innocent. Just playing defense. Pierce yelled at the ref, complaining about LeBron's roughness. Their eyes met for a second—Pierce's were sharp with irritation.
Second quarter: Rebound scramble. LeBron and Pierce jumped together. LeBron threw a subtle elbow to Pierce's ribs—so quiet no one else saw. Pierce lost his balance and crashed to the floor. No call. Play on.
LeBron grabbed the rebound, pushed fast, scored.
Pierce slammed his fist on the floor, yelling at the ref. LeBron didn't look back.
Last play of the half: Celtics up 5. LeBron had the ball at the top, guarded by Pierce. Clock ticked down. LeBron crossed over again and again, then drove hard, using his body to push past Pierce. Step back, jumper—buzzer beats, swish!
LeBron pounded his chest and roared at the home crowd. Then he turned to Pierce, backing up, and said quick, quiet:
"Still feels like home, doesn't it, Paul?"
Pierce's face went dark.
Second half: Tensions boiled over. Sonics fought back. Pierce hit tough shot after tough shot, trying to prove something. Every make, he glared at LeBron.
Mid-third quarter: Pierce stopped LeBron's drive, pushed the break, and drew a foul. He stepped to the line.
A few fans booed—soft, mostly for the opponent, but sharp in the moment. Pierce made one free throw.
LeBron grabbed the rebound, brought it up. He didn't rush. At the top, he waved everyone else away—one-on-one with Pierce.
The crowd stood! This was the showdown they'd waited for.
LeBron crouched low, crossing over, changing pace. Pierce locked in, arms wide. LeBron exploded right—Pierce slid with him. Then a quick crossover to his left, squeezing past Pierce by half a step.
As their bodies brushed, LeBron whispered cold:
"See that, Paul? This Garden's mine now."
That lit the fuse. All the anger—trade humiliation, return nerves, night-long jabs—blew up. When LeBron jumped for the layup, Pierce lunged from behind. It wasn't a basketball play. It was a furious shove.
Bang!
LeBron crashed to the floor. Whistles screamed!
Celtics swarmed Pierce. Sonics jumped in to protect him. Chaos—shoves, yells.
LeBron lay there a second, then stood with help from trainers and teammates. He held his chest, wincing in "pain" and "confusion."
Refs watched the replay. Flagrant 1 on Paul Pierce! They pulled the angry players apart.
Pierce yelled at the ref, pointing at LeBron. No use. Call stood.
LeBron made both free throws. Celtics kept the ball.
The fight killed the Sonics' momentum. Pierce lost his cool, picked up a tech. Celtics went on a run, blowing the game open.
Final whistle: Celtics won big.
Postgame: Media mobbed the mixed zone. All eyes on LeBron and Pierce.
LeBron was calm, even helpless.
"Didn't know what got into Paul," he said, shaking his head. "Just a normal basketball play. I respect him—great player, gave everything to this city. Maybe he was just emotional tonight… I get coming back here. Competition's intense. But I hope this is it."
Perfect victim, perfect peacemaker.
Pierce? Face still red, furious.
"Dirty basketball! He spent all night with cheap shots and trash talk! I messed up with the foul, but he's not innocent!"
No hard proof—LeBron's trash talk was too quiet. To media and fans, Pierce sounded like a sore loser.
Next day, sports headlines sided with LeBron, loud and clear:
LeBron Shows King's Poise; Pierce Loses Cool in Brawl
The Truth Gets Lost in the Old Garden; The King Rules Calmly
Pierce Needs to Move On—Boston Has a New King
LeBron James had done it again. A win, a "accidental" fight, and he'd locked down his spot in the narrative. The old hero? Pushed into an awkward corner. The reborn king, on his way to the throne, had coolly removed another potential mental obstacle. For Paul Pierce—once "The Truth"—his Boston story seemed to end with regret, and resentment.