It's over, of course. The NBA, as you and I and Jack Nicholson and Wu-Tang Clan and all the others recognize it. And the thing is, it ended so suddenly. Like, you know, only the mom in an oversized Sixers' jersey understood what was happening, like, whassup, when she said of her son, "They haven't found the answer to The Answer,'' and, like, you know, everybody else, white, black, rich, poor, doctors, lawyers, rappers, gangstas and all the rest of America said, "Well, bless this guy's mother."

Sure, there were signs something was going down all along. We just didn't realize it was the entire league. Brash teenagers busting through security, not to mention breaking the bank. Cherished idols being waved off in All-Star games. National icons getting crossed-over on the perimeter -- "clowned" was the definitive term on the occasion. Ancient dynasties collectively being dissed all over the block. Surely you remember the, excuse the expression, Celtics?

Then came the lockout and the truncated schedule. That prevented teams from practicing long enough or bonding close enough or getting anywhere near good enough. "This feels like the All-Star break," said the Lakers' Rick Fox as the playoffs began. The result was that nobody dominated, and the conferences and divisions came down to the last two days before anybody knew what their playoff position would be in the weirdest, most wide-open season in decades.

Weird, wide-open, whacked-out -- and still shadowed by one solitary figure. The sweetest irony is that even in his parting, Michael Jordan would leave us with so much fun. The void should have been the most significant sign. The cat's gone away, the mice will play.

But with all that was spoken and written about Mike, all that was at once commercial and holy, only the NBA itself could possibly realize how his absence would transform the landscape of the playoffs right away. "He's in the back of everyone's minds -- subconscious or whatever -- and they see the opening," says Quinn Buckner, at different times NBA player, coach, broadcaster, lifer. "If you understand Michael is God, and now God's gone, then you can understand why all hell has broken loose."

One man's hell is another fan's liberation.

And if it took the retirement of the greatest player of them all to bring about this significant benchmark, an unmistakable moment of transmogrification in the history of the sport, so be it. "Watching all these games," said Miami coach Pat Riley, "there's a different freshness. There's a new kid on the block. It's hunger, excitement, enthusiasm and a chance to perform on a platform they've never been on before."

In the past, that platform was reserved for Jordan. As much as we loved to -- had to -- watch Michael, wasn't he the NBA's lone compelling reason to abandon springtime in the outdoors? In these playoffs, all of a sudden there have been TV Must-See's exploding everywhere, and pro basketball has taken on a brand-new look. Sort of like pop culture. Or society itself. Hey, we've got a whole different George Bush loping up the political trail. The Fugees have become Lauryn Hill. Cher has changed into, uh, Cher. And the legendary Menudo is now somebody named Ricky Martin. Why wouldn't the symbol of a whole sport, His Airness, be able to shed the airs, drop to earth and reemerge as His Streetness -- a tiny blur of a kid flashing cornrows, tattoos, diamond chains and denim baggies, who just wants to play some ball and win some rings?

At one point during Allen Iverson's absolutely voracious snacking on the Magic in the first round -- how could any hoopologist choose whether his 33-point, 10-steal (a playoff record) Game 3 or 37-point, 9-assist Game 4 was more delicious? -- Ann Iverson, who's receiving as much TV airtime as Sarah Michelle Gellar, addressed the topic of how to stop her boy star. "Coach Daly, when you find out, tell his mama," she said, "because the only thing I find that stops him is sleep."

As if anything could stop Iverson now from becoming the undisputed prince of Hip-Hop Nation. Said another West Philly guy who's done pretty well for himself, Will Smith: "It's almost like a concert. Allen is basketball's rock star." But what the I-man's Orlando series truly did was finally legitimize him as The Successor -- the agencies and boardrooms and Corporate America be damned -- a winner and a "playoff guy" who could make everybody around him better and lead his team to previously unattainable heights.

Moreover, if Iverson doesn't satiate everyone's iconian jones, there have been numerous other dynamic player breakouts from playoff dramas, both current and hopefully future:

***

Tim Duncan and Kevin Garnett in Stare Down. These twin towers -- both angular, quick, fluid, versatile and wearing No.21 -- are supposed to like each other. So when Da Kid, after promising to "shock the world" for the Timberwolves, started screaming his smack at Da Demon Deacon in San Antonio's Alamodome, you had to believe he must have swallowed a nasty chimichanga. At one point in the series, the Spurs' Mario Elie yelled at Garnett in admiration: "Dude, you are too long." And Duncan himself unconsciously signaled how deep he considered their budding rivalry by too often trying to beat the T-Wolves' double-teams by himself.

For his part, Garnett "was almost hyperventilating," according to Minny coach Flip Saunders. Said Garnett, "Tim is a great competitor. There was a point that we both looked at each other and winked, like 'good shot, good shot.' " In the deciding Game 4, the towers didn't seem to be winking when they nearly came to blows after some cheap shots all-'round. But though only Duncan -- who went for 18.8 points, 10.8 rebounds and 3.0 blocks a game to Garnett's 21.8, 12.0 and 1.75 -- advanced this time, this big mano-a-mano between two big Midwest Division manos may result in one keeping the other from the NBA Finals well into the future.

***

Kobe Bryant in As The Lakers Squirm. In the span of three games against the Rockets, the once and future golden child demonstrated just how important and fragile he has become. Game 1: In the closing seconds he commanded the ball, swished the go-ahead free throws, then forced Scottie Pippen into a game-deciding turnover. Game 2: He face-guarded Pippen into a vastly humiliating 0-for-7 from the floor. Game 3: He got into early foul trouble -- "Hey ref, Scottie taught me that one himself," Kobe whined after being called for an offensive elbow -- while being lit up by Pippen for most of the future Hall-of-Famer's 37 points. "I had him at my mercy," said the Rockets' rejuvenated star.

Which is kinder than some of the cuts the nevertheless always-confident, always-pleasant Bryant received from his own home side during the Lakers' late-season losing cycle. "What is this, an experiment?" a frustrated Shaquille O'Neal asked, presumably referring to Bryant's shot selection, while also calling him "Boy Wonder." And in a Los Angeles Times letters column, another critic said that in answering Kobe's "What if I was a waiter, an architect, a farmer ... ?" commercial, he'd say "my food would be cold, my house would fall down and my fruits and vegetables would be spoiled."

In Houston, when Bryant made an error, a taped PA voice mocked, "Nice Game, Pretty Boy!" And the Rockets' Sam Mack called Bryant "bitch" to his face. He remained unfazed. Just wait 'til Kobe turns 21. "Climbing the totem pole, ascending to the hierarchy of the team, it's amazing what he can handle," says teammate Fox. In the Lakers' Game 4 rout, Bryant handled everything well once again -- outscoring Pippen 24-19 (with eight assists and six boards) while playing all but the last few seconds. Still, the outcome of the Lakers' soap opera may depend upon the resolution of the Kobe-Shaq star war. That's if Kobe can remain sane.

***

Chris Webber (formerly, Fab Five) and Jason Williams (formerly, Pete Maravich) in Pepperdine on the Bubble. More than a few NBA veterans acknowledge how the first round resembled their old stomping grounds in the NCAA tournament. "Only with home courts," says the Rockets' Brent Price. "Nobody seemed afraid of anybody, no matter where they were seeded."

Nowhere was that feeling more obvious than at the Arco Arena, where wild and crazy Californians cheered Pepperdine, uh, the Sacramento Kings, as they took the Jazz to the precipice of elimination. Admit it. Waiting for Utah's Stocklone to run another pick 'n roll is like waiting for paint to dry. Much more enthralling was figuring out what astonishingly careless scenario the Kings' baby backcourt of Williams and Tariq Abdul-Wahad (formerly Olivier Saint-Jean) -- whose playoff points vs. their Jazz guard counterparts going in was precisely 0 to 3,890 -- would pull off next. And how they got away with it. And observing CWebb administer practically a C-section to the ever-aggravating John Stockton. Or was it Karl Malone? Or was it both? The Kings courageously showed the older folks you get back what you dish out. Tit for tat. Neither the Jazz nor anybody else wants to play Pepperdine when it grows up.

***

Ray Allen in Life Imitates Art. Who could forget Allen's tour de force as an actor, stealing Spike Lee's He Got Game from Denzel Washington? Well, maybe the Pacers did, because they also seemed to forget the Bucks' youngster is a dangerous player as well -- even as they swept his team in three. Allen's got game, all right. After some brief jitters in his playoff debut, and perhaps inspired by his alma mater Connecticut several weeks before, Allen took the ball in every big situation and finished with 67 points and 22 rebounds for the series. Most enlightening was a remarkable stretch in the middle contest when Allen pulled a Reggie Miller (with the original incredulously yapping from the other side) and rattled in eight points in 38 seconds -- including a 27-footer with Jalen Rose's huge mitt in his mug that beat the buzzer and sent the game into overtime. Who's Your Daddy? In art, Denzel. In game ... Reggie?

***

Brian Grant in The Bob Marley Story. The knock on the Trail Blazers all season long was too many cooks, no go-to guy. But in every key moment of Portland's opening sweep of Phoenix -- the infant Blazers' first playoff advancement in seven years -- what the Suns seemed to dread was the fearsome sight of Grant's flying dreads ... in the lane, on the turnaround, across their bow and all over the backboards. Formerly considered a kind of poor man's Rodman for his vicious efforts on the glass, Grant is a bit older than the rest of the breakouts -- and than his more renowned teammates Damon Stoudamire, Rasheed Wallace and J.R. (Not So Easy) Rider. But he is the heart and soul of the Blazers -- and oh, that reggae retro.

Amid the exciting chaos created by this onslaught of swaddling-clothed talent, it's easy to forget this was only the first round -- when little of significance is ever decided. (Unless your name is Jeff Van Gundy.) Besides, some of our future heroes didn't even make it that far: Vince (Magna) Carter, the rafters-scaling rookie whose Toronto Raptors collapsed down the stretch and failed to make the playoffs, and Stephon Marbury, who, now that he is in New Jersey, could join a career-long battle with Iverson for Eastern Seaboard supremacy. But no matter how these playoffs end, it's clear this kiddie korps has actually left the NBA's middle-aged generation behind. Or, less kindly, simply leap-frogged. Players like Grant Hill, Shawn Kemp, Gary Payton, Penny Hardaway -- the sad victim of Iverson's swift sword last week -- even O'Neal (for all his potential to still string championships in tandem with Bryant) all had their shot, their opportunity, even their chance to be the next Jordan, whether they wanted that or not. Now, it's too late. The next generation's got next.

And this one is, uh, different. The Lakers' Fox, an eight-year vet, says he has noticed -- and it's not the first time. "I was watching some of these guys three years ago," Fox says, "and I said to myself, 'Man, I must be getting old. This is some kind of different crew out there now.'

"It's not just the look, the style, the hotdog act, the trash-talking. It's their approach to the game, the attitude. They seem to already know it's their time. They're ready to take the dominant role, not just on their teams but in the league. It will be intriguing to see to what level they can go. Heck, I like to watch 'em myself."

Fox is momentarily incredulous when asked if he caught the routine of the Sixers' Iverson and Larry Hughes, the rookie from Saint Louis whose athleticism could make him Scottie to Iverson's MJ: The pair would mockingly wave their arms for the Orlando bench to call timeout after dunking or otherwise embarrassing the Magic. "Naw," says Fox. "They didn't really do that, did they?"

Well, yeah, they did.

But remember, after Iverson had said nobody could guard him one-on-one -- "Why should he lie? He's not saying it to hurt anybody," says Sixers' coach Larry Brown -- the Magic beat the living hell out of him in Game 2. "He did not complain, he did not say one thing," Brown says. "He handled that situation like a real man." And remember, after a couple of years of losing and getting dumped on, a real man, young and mini as he is, takes his revenge when he can.

"I've been through so much, dealing with critics, people criticizing my game," Iverson says. "They expect me to play like I'm 35 and I'm only 23. It's been like that from Day One, how I don't play the game like I'm supposed to. But my first year I would have been a junior [at Georgetown], my second year a senior. This would be my first year, and that's the way I look at it. I know I have a long way to go to be the type of player I want to be. I understand that."

For all the accolades (who honestly deserves the MVP more than Iverson?) and the numbers (he led the league in scoring, 26.8, and minutes, 41.5, and was third in steals, 2.29), The Answer knows the only question remaining about him concerns future production in the postseason. Which was why he was totally jacked about making the playoffs in the first place -- the purest moment of his basketball life. When the ageless Rick Mahorn (actually, 40), who had gone to high school with Iverson's mother, was brought in specifically to watch over the prodigy, he showed the younger man one of his Detroit Pistons' championship rings. "I told him, 'If you want one, you gotta go get one,' " said the ornery old Bad Boy of the ornery young kid. "And his eyes just lit up."

Sort of the way Iverson lit up Penny, the way he's going to light up an entire sport, the way he would have lit up the past.

Well, the other day, Mahorn was talking to Sixers' assistant coach Mo Cheeks -- the brilliant backcourt defender whose playoff one-game steals record Iverson would soon surpass.

"Mo, if you were checking him," said Mahorn, "he would have killed you."

"Rick," said Cheeks, "maybe he would."

Which just goes to show that some guys can't see the basketball from the cornrows.

Memo to Mo: Ain't no maybe about it.

This article appears in the May 31, 1999 issue of ESPN The Magazine.