Golden and silver paper fluttered like confetti from the sky, glistening as they landed on Jake's shoulders and head. He gazed upward in awe, captivated by the venue's high ceiling, transformed into a vibrant tapestry of paper flowers. Strobe lights flashed overhead, creating a dazzling array of colors that twinkled like distant stars among the shimmering rain of metallic paper. Where am I? His mind raced, a mix of confusion and exhilaration, when suddenly he sensed a pair of eyes fixed on him.

Turning slowly, he found himself facing an elderly man, his white hair and beard a stark contrast to his well-tailored, vintage suit. The old man wore a smirk that hinted at mischief, and there was something strangely familiar about him. Who is this old man? Before Jake could process the moment, two towering figures—a muscular Black man and a pale-skinned one—burst onto the scene, basketball vests clinging to their athletic frames. The old man pointed at him, still grinning, and exclaimed, "Get him! Get him!"

"Huh?" Before he could grasp what was happening, Jake felt himself being lifted effortlessly off the ground. The two men hoisted him high, their laughter ringing in his ears. "Splash him! Splash Allen!" they cheered. Confusion gave way to shock as he looked up to see a giant bucket of Gatorade hurtling toward him, ice cubes swirling in a rainbow of colors. The chilly liquid cascaded over his head, snapping him from his daze.

I seem to be reborn! he thought, a realization dawning upon him. Born into a Asian wealthy family in the United States, he had always harbored a passion for sports, particularly basketball. He once dreamed of making it his career, but family pressures and the limitations of the industry back home had extinguished those ambitions. Yet here, in this strange new reality, it felt as though his family's support enveloped him like a warm embrace.

Now, he found himself in the United States, attending a prestigious basketball college, and after graduation, he had become an assistant coach for the San Antonio Spurs. The memories came flooding back, unbidden, and suddenly the old man's face clicked into place in Jake's mind. Isn't that Popovich?

His gaze drifted back to the two men holding him up. One, with a thick beard and the stature typical of a European, was Mark Belinelli, while the other, dark-skinned with messy dreadlocks, could only be Patty Mills. And that tall man grinning with the Gatorade bucket—Tiago Splitter? But hadn't they all retired long ago? Why were they here?

Struggling to regain his footing, Jake was momentarily struck dumb by the scene around him. The vast basketball court brimmed with jubilant fans, arms thrown around one another as they celebrated, tears and laughter mingling in the air. Ginobili? Parker? he thought, spotting the iconic players. And those two? Is that Duncan and Leonard?

For a moment, his mind spun with chaotic memories. This wasn't just a second chance; it was a new timeline. It's 2014! The Spurs have won the championship!

Before he could fully absorb the scene, Popovich sauntered over, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he looked at Jake's shirt, now splattered with light blue. "Lucky I pushed you out in time; otherwise, you'd be ruining a good shirt," he quipped, giving Jake a reassuring pat on the back. "Go on, enjoy yourself. You've earned a break after all this time."

Indeed, the entire Spurs team had battled through exhaustion. The previous year, Ray Allen's three-pointer had shattered not only Duncan's dreams of glory but also the team's proud legacy. After a year of relentless effort, the Spurs had risen from the ashes, defeating the Miami Heat with a grace that was almost poetic. As an assistant coach in that fierce "regicide" campaign, Jake had played his part, now feeling the weight of his contributions in every beat of the celebration around him.

Standing in the familiar yet unfamiliar ATT Arena, he clenched his fists, determination surging within him. For too long, he had been distanced from his passion. But fate had gifted him this second chance, and he vowed never to let it slip away again.

The summer heat of Texas radiated with the energy of a city ablaze with Latin culture. San Antonio was alive with celebration, a grand parade marking the long-awaited championship triumph after seven years. Sitting in a parade car adorned with vibrant, plastic feathers, Jake watched Popovich at the railing, clad in a flowery shirt, beaming as he flashed a triumphant "5" to the throngs lining the street, proudly showcasing their fifth O'Brien Cup.

If history remained true to what he knew, this championship would be the last for the Spurs in many years. The shadows of future challenges loomed—Curry's rise, Zaza Pachulia's fateful steps, the betrayal of young stars—but for now, Jake pushed those thoughts aside.

Rubbing his temple, he promised himself to savor the moment. He rose from his seat, eyes scanning the jubilant crowd, which seemed to stretch into infinity. Let fate decide my future. For now, we are champions!