Basketball System: Hate Makes Me Unstoppable-Chapter 386: The Moment of Truth.

After securing back-to-back victories in Cleveland, the Cavaliers and 76ers were set to shift the series to Philadelphia for the next two games.

76ers head coach Brett Brown wasted no time—immediately after Game 2, he had the team board a late-night flight back home.

His message was clear: No time to dwell. No time to sulk.

First thing in the morning, they were back in the gym.

Down 0-2, the Sixers were like wounded prey, cornered by a relentless hunter. There was no time to lick their wounds—if they didn't fight back now, they wouldn't get the chance later.

But something was off.

The energy was dead.

The players went through the drills, but their focus was elsewhere. Their bodies were in the gym, but their minds were still stuck in Cleveland, replaying those two humiliating losses.

Halfway through practice, Jimmy Butler had enough.

Frustrated, he stormed off the court and dropped onto the sideline, arms crossed, fuming.

Joel Embiid might've been the Sixers' best player.

But Butler?

He was their real leader. The guy who set the tone. The guy who held everyone accountable.

And when he stopped, the entire practice ground to a halt.

Brown was caught off guard. He had pushed for this early workout to get their heads back in the game—but now, things were unraveling fast.

He knew Butler had a temper, but even he didn't expect what came next.

"Give it up," Butler snapped, loud enough for everyone to hear. "These dudes don't even WANT to practice!"

At first, the rest of the team assumed he was just frustrated with the schedule.

Then they realized—he was talking about them.

"Look at y'all, man!" Butler gestured at his teammates. "You're SCARED! You don't wanna fight. You just wanna get this damn series over with!"

A knife straight to the heart.

They wanted to argue.

They wanted to push back.

But they couldn't—because deep down, they knew he was right.

After getting smacked in Game 1 and humiliated again in Game 2, their confidence had cracked.

"We can't beat them."

That was the unspoken truth suffocating the locker room.

Brown exhaled, his expression darkening.

He wasn't blind. He had seen it too.

And honestly?

He understood.

The Sixers were young.

Embiid and Dario Šarić were in their second seasons. Ben Simmons? A rookie.

This was their first taste of playoff basketball after years of "The Process."

They had no experience, no playoff scars.

This was part of their growth.

They needed these failures to become stronger.

But Butler?

He didn't believe in "The Process."

He wanted to win NOW.

"Man, I don't get it!" Butler seethed. "We're just down 0-2! We haven't even lost at home yet! Why the hell are y'all acting like this series is already over?!"

Brown finally stepped in.

"Jimmy's right."

Butler stopped mid-rant.

He wasn't expecting that.

"The series doesn't start until a team wins on the road," Brown said firmly. "If we take care of business at home, this series flips."

The players exchanged glances.

But the doubt still lingered.

They heard the words.

But words didn't erase the beatdowns they had just suffered.

"If Joel hadn't gotten hurt last year, we'd already be a playoff team," Brown continued. "And this year, we have Jimmy. We may be young, but we are NOT a team that can't win a single game."

"You beat Milwaukee. You belong here. Forget the series score. Treat the next game like it's Game 1. Fight for it. Battle for it."

Something shifted.

The lifeless stares turned sharp.

The fire that had been missing—that had been stomped out in Cleveland—started to flicker again.

"Fight!" Brown urged. "For the fans who have stuck with you! Fight for YOURSELVES!"

Butler didn't need to hear another word.

He was already walking back onto the court.

The Sixers were finally ready to fight.

---

Game 3 – Wells Fargo Center

The arena was packed.

Despite being down 0-2, Philadelphia's fans had endured "The Process" alongside the team for years.

Now that their squad was finally back in the playoffs, their support was stronger than ever.

As the Sixers took the floor, they felt the energy.

The crowd wasn't just behind them—it was pushing them forward.

Han Sen noticed something immediately.

The Sixers weren't the same team from Game 2.

For starters, they changed their defensive assignments.

Jimmy Butler, not Simmons, was now guarding Han.

Simmons?

He had shifted to the power forward spot, battling Tristan Thompson under the rim.

The plan was clear:

- Butler would make Han's drives as difficult as possible.

- If Han got through, Simmons would rotate over as a secondary defender.

- If Cleveland wanted to exploit Thompson's open looks? Fine. Philly would live with it.

Han wasn't completely shut down—nobody could truly stop him—but the added resistance forced him into more post-ups and fadeaways, lowering his efficiency.

The bigger difference?

Philly was HUNGRY.

Diving for loose balls, crashing into the stands, arguing over missed rotations—this was a team fighting for survival.

By the end of the third quarter, for the first time all series...

The Sixers were still standing.

And when the fourth quarter began?

They took the lead.

On the Cavaliers' bench, Han wiped sweat from his forehead.

He wasn't surprised.

He just hadn't expected it THIS soon.

This was rare.

Most teams—after losing two straight blowouts—would fold.

The Sixers?

They had regrouped and counterattacked.

And because of that, Han had burned more energy than planned just to keep the game close.

Six minutes into the fourth quarter, Michael Malone gave him the signal.

Han re-entered the game.

The scoreboard read: 95-103.

Philly by 8.

The camera panned to Joel Embiid.

Confidence radiated off him.

He knew what this meant.

This was no longer just about Game 3.

It was about growth.

Even if the Sixers lost this series, this fight—this moment—would make them stronger in the long run.

Just as Brown had said.

But right now?

They weren't thinking about the future.

They were thinking about one thing:

Winning.

---

As Han Sen checked back into the game, the Sixers stuck to their defensive game plan. Butler remained locked in, giving everything he had to limit Han's penetration.

But this time, Han didn't attack Butler in isolation. Instead, he called for a screen from Jokić.

Philly assumed he was looking for a mismatch to exploit, expecting him to attack the switch.

But just as they braced for it, Han switched directions—rejecting the screen entirely, crossing over past Embiid, and exploding toward the rim.

Simmons rotated over to help, but Han didn't pass.

He absorbed the contact, shielded the ball, and finished the tough layup over Simmons.

On the way back, Han was already directing his teammates into their defensive spots.

Everyone in the building knew what was at stake. The Sixers were fighting desperately to protect their home court.

But Han knew—he couldn't let that happen.

If Philly got even a sliver of belief, this series could spiral into a war.

Cleveland's defense responded to their leader's energy, picking up the intensity.

And Simmons?

His lack of shooting was a glaring issue.

As a rookie, he had attempted 11 three-pointers. He made zero.

Han knew it. Everyone knew it.

So he backed off, giving Simmons a ridiculous cushion—three, four feet of space.

If LeBron was "Big Draymond", then Simmons was "Mini LeBron."

And right now? He was frozen, unsure of what to do.

It wasn't the first time teams had dared him to shoot. Milwaukee did the same thing in the first round.

Now, facing the same defense, he hesitated again.

Meanwhile, Embiid faced heavy pressure in the post.

He tried to kick it to Simmons on a baseline cut, but Han's ball pressure forced him into an awkward turnaround fadeaway instead.

The shot clanked off the rim.

Simmons grabbed the offensive board, but just as he went up for the putback, Han came flying in—smothering the shot, pinning it on the glass.

The scouting report on Simmons had once claimed he had the potential to develop a jumper.

But he never put in the work.

Or maybe, he never felt he needed to.

Talent had always carried him.

But now?

Against someone with even more talent—who also had the killer mentality—Simmons had no answer.

Cleveland ran the break, and Wade converted a layup off Han's feed.

The lead? Cut to four.

Philly needed an answer.

And as expected, it was Butler who stepped up.

He ran a pick-and-roll with Embiid, attacked the lane, and baited Jokić into a foul—knocking down both free throws.

The next play, Jokić rolled off a screen and finished through Butler, but Butler came right back down and drew another foul on Thompson.

Four straight free throws.

Philly had stabilized.

And with each basket, their confidence returned.

Embiid reinforced it with a chase-down block on Thompson, sending the ball into the stands with a roar.

The fire in his eyes burned brighter than ever.

---

Final 45 seconds.

Philly led by one.

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Butler got a clean look for the dagger—but Han rotated over, contesting just enough to force the miss.

On the other end, Covington had a wide-open three to seal the game—missed.

Jokić fought through Embiid, grabbed the offensive board, and muscled in the putback.

No whistle.

The NBA didn't want Cleveland winning another title. Calls like that had been happening all year.

113-114.

One-point game.

Final 26 seconds.

Philly called timeout.

When they returned, Han switched onto Butler, completely denying him the ball.

That forced the Sixers to run the play through Embiid.

Cleveland immediately sent a double-team.

Simmons cut to the basket.

Embiid found him.

It was a perfect pass, a perfect play.

Simmons had a clear path.

Covington's defender was still trailing, and J.R. Smith's rotation was late.

It was an easy two.

It should have been an easy two.

But instead...

Simmons hesitated.

Just for a split second.

Then, instead of going up, he kicked it out to Crowder.

The arena fell silent for half a second, as if nobody could believe what just happened.

This is it. This is peak Mini LeBron.

Crowder had a decent look, but he hadn't been involved much in the offense. His shot was rushed.

Missed.

Jokić secured the rebound.

Cleveland called timeout.

And in that moment—you could see it in the eyes of the Philly fans.

Pure, sinking despair.

If Crowder had made that shot, it was over.

But Covington had missed his.

And now Simmons had passed up a point-blank look to avoid taking free throws.

Had he just gone up, Philly would be up by three, forcing Cleveland into a desperation three-pointer.

Now?

With 7.2 seconds left, they had left the door wide open.

And against Han Sen?

That was the last mistake they wanted to make.