Chapter 32: Fishing With an Old Friend

The laughter faded into easy conversation as coffee was poured around the table.

Dessert had long since replaced dinner, but no one seemed to be in a hurry to leave.

Buss leaned back comfortably in his chair, one arm resting along the back of it as he watched the Bryants settle into the relaxed rhythm that only seemed to come after a good meal.

“You know,” he said, looking toward Kobe, “I’ve been curious about something.” Kobe looked up from his plate.

“When we met before the draft, one of the scouts mentioned you were speaking Italian with one of the arena staff.” Joe smiled before Kobe had a chance to answer.

“He’s always been like that.” Buss looked between the two of them.

“So where’d that start?” “Italy,” Kobe said.

“When we first moved there, I didn’t know anybody.

The fastest way to make friends was to stop making everyone else speak English.” Buss laughed.

“That’s a pretty practical reason.” “It worked.” “How many languages can you speak now?” “English, Italian, and enough Spanish to get myself into trouble.” Joe shook his head.

“He’s underselling it.” Pamela smiled over the rim of her coffee cup.

Buss leaned forward, genuinely interested.

“So what made you keep learning?

Most kids pick up enough to get by, maybe buy a snack.” Kobe thought about it for a moment.

“I’ve always liked seeing how different people think.” “Language tells you that?” “I think it does.” He paused, searching for the right words.

“Every language has ideas that don’t translate perfectly.

The words people choose to get the meaning out of those words usually tell you what matters to them.” Buss nodded slowly.

“I’ve never heard anyone explain it that way.” “I don’t think basketball’s much different,” Kobe continued.

“How so?” “You spend enough time around different teams, different countries, different coaches…” Kobe shrugged.

“Everybody sees the game a little differently.

If you’re willing to listen, eventually you find something worth stealing.” Joe laughed.

“That sounds a lot better than saying you copy everybody.” “I prefer borrowing.” The room filled with quiet amusement.

The evening ended the way good evenings often did, without anyone realizing how late it had become.

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Three mornings after the dinner at Buss’s house, Kobe was in the Lakers’ practice gym, expecting it the same way it always was: empty.

He walked the length of the gym in silence, mapping the floor as always for any irregularity: a slick patch from last night’s mop, a ball left rolling beneath the baseline, and a stray cone from some community camp.

There were no mistakes this morning, only the low glow of safety lights and the blue wash from the scoreboard overhead.

Except at the far end, beneath the red halo of the shot clock, someone was already sitting on the scorer’s table.

This was Derek Fisher, ankles circling in slow figure-eights, hoodie pulled halfway over his face, a pair of old Nike runners kicked off beside the bench.

He worked the mobility band with the economy of a man who’d done the same routine before every game, and his left hand tapped an invisible rhythm on his thigh, even though the headphones blocked any sound.

Kobe watched for a moment, not out of surprise, but to see how long it would take for Fisher to break the spell.

He took the time to swap his street shoes for the battered high-tops, then sat a full ten feet down the bench before beginning his own warmup.

It was not until the third set of hamstring stretches that Fisher reached up, thumbed his headphones off on one side, and said, “You’re late.” Kobe grinned.

“You sleep here or just beat me in?” Fisher snorted.

“Drove straight from Arkansas.

Got in at two.

Slept a few hours in the car, then figured I’d see if you were about the hype.” It showed.

The long drive was written all over him in the tightness of his shoulders, the stiffness when he straightened up, and the wrinkles in his T-shirt that looked like they’d spent the night crumpled against a car seat.

Kobe knew that feeling well.

“You ever just act your age?” Fisher asked.

Kobe rolled one ankle, then the other.

“What’s the fun in that?” Fisher bent to re-lace his shoes, then looked up.

“You know you’ve turned an optional workout into something that sounds mandatory.” Kobe let the comment sit for a moment before replying.

“Nobody made you drive here.” Fisher smirked.

“True.” “But if you’re here,” Kobe said, “you might as well leave better than you came.” Fisher pushed himself to his feet.

“I can live with that.

What’s first?” Kobe pointed toward the top of the key.

“One-on-one.

First to eleven.

Then we’ll work on whatever you want.” Fisher caught the ball and spun it in his hands.

“Make-it, take-it or every other?” Kobe nodded.

“Every other works for me; I have to at least give you a chance.” As Fisher walked toward the top of the key, Kobe found himself studying him for a different reason.

He remembered another Derek Fisher, the one who would spend years beside him, hit impossible shots when the season demanded it, and somehow always seemed calmer than everyone else around him.

That version hadn’t been built yet.

Right now, he was still just a college guard chasing his first NBA roster spot.

They checked the ball at the top of the key.

Fisher settled into his stance.

He wasn’t flashy.

Everything he did had a purpose.

His dribble stayed tight, his shoulders stayed square, and he used his body well, leaning into Kobe as he backed him toward the elbow before turning into a fadeaway.

Kobe felt the pressure through his chest and gave just enough ground to stay balanced.

He waited until Fisher committed to the turn before raising a hand.

The shot came out a little flat.

It clipped the front rim and bounced away.

Kobe gathered the rebound, reset, and attacked with a single hard dribble, forcing Fisher to open his hips before stopping dead and letting Fisher’s momentum carry him a step too far.

Kobe hit the mid-range, then went right back to the top.

It was mechanical for the first few possessions: Fisher tried to muscle in, and Kobe waited and countered.

On defense, Fisher worked to get under Kobe’s handle, but every time Kobe sensed the reach, he shifted angles, using hesitations and low crossovers to keep the advantage.

He went up 5–0 before Fisher changed tactics and tried to post him, backing down with a series of bumps that would have knocked any normal seventeen-year-old off the spot.

Kobe recognized the adjustment, braced, and let Fisher work for space, then stripped the ball on the second pivot, catching Fisher’s forearm in the process.

“Offensive foul, check ball,” Kobe called, deadpan.

Fisher glared, but it was the glare of a man who understood the game, not one who took the loss personally.

Fisher looked at him for a second before shaking his head.

“You’ve been watching film on me?” Kobe shrugged.

“Didn’t need much.” That seemed to have triggered Fisher, and soon after, the tempo changed.

Fisher stopped telegraphing the attack, started varying the angles, sometimes using a cross, sometimes a jab, and always mixing up the footwork.

But Kobe recognized the patterns: every hesitation, every fake, and every angle was built on habits he’d seen a thousand times.

He waited for Fisher to dip his right shoulder, knew that was the tell for a real drive, and beat him to the spot every time.

After the next three possessions, Fisher tried the old trick of hiding the eyes, keeping the head still, then using peripheral vision to scan the court.

But Kobe had seen it before, and when Fisher finally made his move, Kobe was already waiting.

The score reached 8–0 before Fisher finally found an opening.

Kobe shaded him toward the baseline, cutting off the middle and giving him only the narrow strip of hardwood beside the basket.

Fisher accepted it without hesitation, exploded along the line, ducked under the rim, and somehow flipped a reverse layup high off the glass.

The ball dropped cleanly through the net.

Kobe pointed toward the baseline.

“Out of bounds.” Fisher stopped and looked back.

One heel had clipped the line just before he’d left the floor.

He let out a breath and shook his head.

Kobe said nothing, just checked the ball back.

The rest of the game was a blur of defense and offense, but the outcome was never in doubt.

Kobe won 11–0.

He didn’t celebrate.

He waited for Fisher to process the lesson.

The score didn’t surprise him.

Derek had never been the fastest player or the most explosive.

That was never why he’d lasted.

Fisher built his career the way few players ever managed to by fixing something every year.

His handle got tighter.

His jumper became more reliable.

His leadership grew.

He wasn’t the kind of player who lost once and accepted it.

He went home and came back different.

Fisher bent over, hands on his knees, breathing heavy.

“Alright,” Fisher said after a moment.

“What am I missing?

Or should I ask Arkansas for my tuition back?” Kobe took a second before answering.

“You’re giving me the answer before you make your move.” Fisher frowned, waiting for him to continue.

Kobe tapped beneath his own eye.

“Right here.

Every time you’re about to attack, your eyes find the rim first.

As soon as they do, I already know where you’re trying to finish.” Fisher looked unconvinced, so Kobe took the ball and stepped back to the top of the key.

“Watch.” He settled into his stance, looked briefly toward the opposite corner, then exploded baseline in one smooth motion before stopping again.

“If I’m looking over there, you’re thinking about that space.

By the time you realize where I’m actually going, I’m already past you.” Fisher watched, then tried it.

There it was.

Kobe remembered this part more than the championships.

Derek never needed convincing.

If something worked, he tried it immediately.

Pride could wait until after practice.

This time, he got a half step on Kobe before Kobe recovered.

“Better,” said Kobe.

“But you have to sell it.” Fisher straightened, sweat dripping down his chin.

“Are you really going to make me unlearn everything my college coach ever taught me?” Kobe tossed him the ball.

“You can keep what works.

Just drop what doesn’t.” They drifted to the free-throw line without saying much.

The ball bounced, the net snapped, and the quiet rhythm of the gym returned.

Every miss was followed by another shot, neither of them rushing through the routine.

After a few minutes, Fisher caught his rebound and looked over.

“We’re running that back when the other guys get here?” Kobe caught the next pass and spun the ball in his hands before shooting.

“Definitely.” Fisher nodded, satisfied.

“Good.

I owe you a couple buckets.” “Keep telling yourself that.” Fisher shook his head.

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By the time the clock reached 5:55, Kobe and Fisher had settled into a rhythm of elbow jumpers for twenty, then free throws, then a shooting game to five where misses were tracked.

The gym felt warmer now, the ambient noise of the compressor joined by the occasional clang of a rim or the sound of rubber on hardwood.

The world outside was still pitch black.

The next arrival came quietly.

The main doors opened, and Ben Wallace stood there, not moving for a full ten seconds.

He wore a faded hoodie with the drawstrings cinched, sweats that pooled at the ankles, and a pair of high-tops with enough toe-crease to mark them as survivors of more than a year of city gyms.

He carried an old duffel, the kind with the canvas strap just barely holding, and he watched the court the way a person watched traffic before crossing: cautious, gauging, and calculating whether it was really safe to enter.

Fisher spotted him first.

“Hey, Ben,” he called.

Wallace answered with a small nod and stepped inside, easing the door shut behind him.

Rather than walking straight onto the court, he set his duffel on the nearest bench and took a slow look around the gym.

His eyes moved from the championship banners hanging overhead to the retired jerseys, then across the Lakers logo at center court.

He lingered there for a moment before looking back down, bent over, and tightened the laces on his shoes.

Kobe recognized the hesitation immediately.

Wallace hadn’t stepped onto the court yet.

He’d set his bag down, looked around the gym, and stayed near the sideline, as if waiting for someone to tell him where he belonged.

The look wasn’t unfamiliar.

He’d seen it in other life training camps, summer leagues, veterans fighting through ten-day contracts…

Undrafted players trying not to look out of place.

The ones fighting for a chance usually entered a room differently than the ones who already had a locker waiting for them.

“You gonna warm up,” Kobe called over, “or are you planning on watching us all morning?” Wallace looked up, caught what Kobe meant, and nodded.

“Yeah.” Fisher grabbed a ball off the rack and skipped it across the floor.

“There you go,” he said.

“I’d rather not spend the morning explaining how you got hurt before we even started.” Wallace caught it cleanly and gave the ball a quick spin.

“That’d be a rough first day.” .

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Hey everyone, Sorry about the change in schedule.

I got home from work today planning to finish both chapters, but I ended up completely crashing and sleeping way longer than I expected, like, legit.

I turned the fan on and laid down to scroll a bit on TikTok, and it was lights out.

By the time I woke up, there wasn’t enough time to finish two chapters.

So I’ll be dropping one tonight and 2 tomorrow, flipping the two days.

I’d rather take the extra time than rush out a chapter I’m not happy with.

Thank you all again for the incredible support.