I still get chills thinking about that final buzzer on June 17, 2010. The Staples Center floor covered in purple and gold confetti, Kobe Bryant climbing onto the scorer's table with that triumphant glare, and the haunting sight of the Celtics trudging off the court—it remains the most emotionally charged championship finale I've witnessed in my twenty years covering the NBA. What made Game 7 of the 2010 Finals particularly compelling wasn't just the storied Lakers-Celtics rivalry, but how perfectly it encapsulated what it means to have something to prove. Watching Kobe battle through his 6-of-24 shooting night by sheer force of will reminded me of something current PBA player Von Pessumal recently observed about professional athletes: "I think all of the guys are really working hard everyday. Unang-una, these guys, we all have something to prove."
That statement resonates deeply when analyzing that grueling Game 7. The Lakers entered that game carrying the weight of multiple narratives. Kobe Bryant, despite already having four championships, was desperate to prove he could win without Shaquille O'Neal and silence critics who questioned his leadership. Pau Gasol needed to shed the "soft" label after Boston's physical dominance in the 2008 Finals. Derek Fisher, at 35, was proving that veteran guile could still trump youthful athleticism. They weren't just playing for a trophy; they were playing for legacy and redemption. This mirrors what Pessumal noted about players at different career stages—from young talents building their names to veterans like Calvin Abueva and Josh Munzon demonstrating they remain among the elite. That hunger, that need to validate oneself, becomes the engine of historic performances.
The game itself was an ugly masterpiece. Neither team shot above 40% from the field. The Celtics hit a miserable 4 of 22 from three-point range while the Lakers weren't much better at 5 of 21. It was a brutal, defensive slugfest where every possession felt like a lifetime. I remember watching Ron Artest—now Metta World Peace—become the unexpected hero, scoring 20 points including that crucial three-pointer with about a minute left after grabbing an offensive rebound. His entire season was about proving he could be a reliable contributor on a championship team after years of being labeled a disruptive presence. When he hit that shot, the roar in Staples was less about surprise and more about validation.
What stays with me most vividly is the fourth quarter. The Lakers trailed by 13 points early in the third period, and the ghosts of 2008 seemed to be materializing on the court. But then something shifted. Kobe, despite his shooting struggles, willed his way to 15 rebounds and found other ways to impact the game. The defense tightened, holding Boston to just 13 fourth-quarter points. With 1:30 remaining and the Lakers clinging to a 76-70 lead, Pau Gasol made perhaps the most underrated play of the game—a contested putback over Kevin Garnett that essentially sealed the victory. Gasol finished with 19 rebounds, 9 of them offensive, finally overpowering the Celtics' frontcourt that had bullied him two years prior.
The final numbers tell only part of the story: Lakers 83, Celtics 79. Kobe earned his fifth championship and second Finals MVP, finishing with 23 points despite his poor shooting. But the stat sheet can't capture the raw emotion of that night—the tears in Phil Jackson's eyes, the way Kobe gripped that trophy like it was the first one, the sight of Paul Pierce walking off in disbelief. I've covered seventeen NBA Finals since then, but none have matched the sheer narrative weight of that contest. It was the perfect culmination of a seven-game series where neither team ever led by more than 13 points, the closest Finals in modern history.
Reflecting on Pessumal's comments, I'm struck by how universal the athlete's journey really is. Whether it's PBA players fighting for recognition or NBA legends chasing history, that need to prove oneself transcends leagues and eras. The 2010 Lakers, much like the players Pessumal describes, embodied that collective hunger. They weren't the most talented Lakers team I've seen—the 2001 squad was probably better—but they might have been the most determined. When I visit teams today, I still see coaches using clips from that Game 7 to teach players about resilience. It serves as a permanent reminder that championships aren't always won with pretty basketball; sometimes they're won with sheer grit and something to prove. Thirteen years later, that lesson still holds true.