Chapter 33: Iron Sharpens Iron

Wallace eased into his warmup without another word.

He bent to touch his toes, rolled through his hips and ankles, then worked into a series of lunges before sliding from side to side across the lane.

There was nothing flashy about it.

Every movement looked deliberate, like he’d been through the routine enough times to know exactly what his body needed before it could be trusted.

When he picked up a ball, he stayed near the block, working through drop steps, up-and-unders, and quick pivots until they flowed together without a pause.

When Wallace finally looked over, Kobe spun a ball across his fingertips.

“You wanna run one?” Wallace glanced toward Fisher as if making sure nobody else had called the court first.

“You sure?” Kobe smiled.

“Unless you’re tired already.” The corner of Wallace’s mouth moved just enough to count as a smile.

“Not yet.” They shot for first possession.

Wallace’s jumper caught the back rim, leaving the ball to Kobe.

Part of him wanted to see how Wallace handled someone willing to crowd every dribble.

The rest of him wanted to see how much of the future was already there.

He already knew what Ben Wallace would become.

What interested him was how much of that player already existed.

Wallace gave Kobe space on the first possession, content to protect the paint instead of chasing him around the perimeter.

Kobe buried the jumper.

The second possession ended the same way.

Wallace wasn’t interested in gambling for steals or lunging at shooters.

He stayed where he was strongest and quietly accepted the points.

The third trip told Kobe far more.

He attacked the baseline with a quick first step, expecting Wallace to recover late.

Instead, Wallace slid with him, beat him to the spot, and met him chest-to-chest without reaching.

The contact forced Kobe to release the layup higher than he wanted.

It rolled off.

Wallace secured the rebound with both hands and landed as solidly as he’d jumped.

There it was.

It wasn’t polished yet, but Kobe recognized it anyway.

Most young bigs hunted blocks because blocks looked good.

Wallace cared more about getting to the spot first.

The block, if it came, was just a bonus.

Kobe checked the ball back.

Wallace’s offensive game was another story.

One hard dribble.

Shoulder down.

Straight to the rim.

If the shot missed, he went right back after it as though the possession hadn’t ended.

On one trip, he missed a short hook, ripped the rebound away before Kobe could even react, and finished the second attempt through contact.

Raw and unrefined.

Wallace wasn’t a polished player.

Half his finishes looked like they were held together by strength more than touch, but the effort never changed.

Miss once, he went after it again.

Miss twice, he went after it a third time.

Relentless.

That was the word Kobe remembered most.

It had carried Wallace from an undrafted free agent to the top of the league, and even now, before any of that had happened, it showed itself in every possession.

The score slowly climbed, but it came much harder than it had against Fisher.

Kobe found his points with pull-ups, fadeaways, and quick changes of pace.

Every drive into the lane felt like running into a brick wall.

Wallace answered with hustle: an offensive rebound here, a loose ball there, another second-chance basket after refusing to give up on the play.

By the time the score reached 8–4, Kobe noticed Wallace wasn’t making the same mistakes twice.

A hesitation that had opened the lane early in the game no longer got a reaction.

The shoulder fake Kobe had used a few possessions earlier barely moved him now.

Wallace wasn’t chasing the ball anymore.

He was watching Kobe.

Kobe had seen that habit before.

Years later, Ben would become one of the smartest defenders in the league, not because he guessed correctly, but because he paid attention.

Watching him now, Kobe could already see where that instinct had started.

The next few possessions came harder.

Wallace stopped giving Kobe clean looks, not because he’d figured everything out, but because he refused to give up on a play.

Kobe rose for another pull-up from the elbow, and Wallace exploded off both feet, his hand swallowing half the space above the ball.

The shot came up short, bouncing toward the sideline.

Both of them chased it.

Shoulders collided.

Shoes squealed across the hardwood.

Wallace reached it first.

He never broke stride, gathering the loose ball before taking two long steps under the rim and flipping in a reverse layup.

“Nice,” Fisher called from the baseline.

Kobe caught the ball after it dropped through the net and bounced it once.

“You always leave your feet that fast?” Wallace shrugged.

“If I think I can get it…” He let the sentence finish itself.

Kobe nodded.

“Fair.” They checked the ball again.

The next possession, Kobe showed the ball high.

Wallace bit immediately.

Kobe stayed on the floor, took one step around him, and laid it in.

Wallace frowned.

No excuses.

Just frustration with himself.

The scoreboard crept to 10–6.

Kobe checked the ball one last time as Wallace settled into a lower stance than he’d shown all game.

The pump fakes that had worked earlier no longer drew a reaction, and the extra patience forced Kobe to adjust.

He jabbed left, paused, then crossed back to his right, creating just enough separation to rise from the free-throw line.

The jumper dropped cleanly through the net.

11–6.

Wallace bent forward with his hands on his knees, breathing hard but saying nothing.

Kobe handed him the ball.

“Good game.” Wallace nodded, still catching his breath.

Kobe could almost see the gears turning.

He’d seen that habit before.

Before long, guards would think twice about driving into the lane, and centers would find themselves taking shots they never wanted because the paint belonged to Big Ben.

His mind wandered to how the team would look in a few weeks.

Shaq in the middle.

Wallace beside him.

Himself on the wing.

The picture grew before he could stop it.

Bruce Bowen hounding the other team’s best scorer from the opening tip.

Shaq daring anyone to come into the paint and Wallace cleaning up everything that somehow slipped through.

While he lurked in the passing lanes.

He almost laughed outloud.

That didn’t sound like a defense.

It sounded like a crime: Death by suffocation.

Kobe shook his head, trying to push the thought away.

I almost feel bad for the rest of the league…

The gym door opened.

Kobe looked over his shoulder.

Bruce Bowen walked in, a gym bag slung over one shoulder, looking around as though he were wondering if he’d shown up too early.

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“Sorry,” he said.

“Traffic.” Fisher tossed him a ball.

“Lucky for you, you missed the conditioning.” “That’s a shame,” Bowen replied sarcastically.

Kobe smiled.

“Fish has next.

I just got done.” Bowen shrugged.

“Works for me.” Kobe grabbed a towel and leaned against the scorer’s table while Wallace joined him, both of them watching.

It didn’t take long to figure Bowen out.

He wasn’t the quickest player on the floor, and he wasn’t trying to be.

Every possession felt handsy.

Fisher rarely turned the corner cleanly, and every jumper came with a hand close enough to make him think about it.

On offense, he kept it simple.

When Fisher gave him space, he shot.

When the defender closed too hard, Bowen took one or two dribbles, got to his spot, and rose into another jumper.

One fell.

Then another.

Wallace folded his arms as the game found its groove.

After watching a few more possessions, he glanced over at Kobe.

“He’s tough.” Kobe nodded.

“Yeah.” That was probably the simplest way to put it.

Bowen didn’t overwhelm Fisher with speed or athleticism.

He just refused to give him anything easy.

Every catch was contested, every drive met with contact, and every jumper came with a hand close enough to make Fisher think twice.

On the other end, Bowen stayed patient, knocking down open shots whenever Fisher gave him even a sliver of space.

Fisher hung around for the first few points, but little by little the game slipped away.

Bowen never forced the action.

He simply waited for mistakes, made the right read, and kept scoring.

A pull-up from the wing put him ahead for good, and another jumper from the top of the key ended it.

11–5.

Fisher chased down the rebound as it bounced toward the baseline, then tossed the ball back to Bowen with a tired grin.

“Guess I’m starting the morning 0–2.” Bowen caught the ball with one hand.

“Could be worse.” Fisher raised an eyebrow.

“How?” Bowen nodded toward Wallace.

“You could leave here 0–3,” he said while laughing.

Fisher tucked the ball under his arm.

“Come on, Ben.” Wallace followed him toward the other end without saying much.

As soon as the two of them were out of earshot, Bowen turned back toward Kobe and spun the ball once in his hands.

“You ready?” .

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They checked the ball at the top of the key, alternating possession after each basket.

Kobe took the first one.

A hesitation froze Bowen just long enough for him to step back and knock down the jumper.

Bowen caught the ball as it dropped through the net, walked it back out, and answered the next trip by lowering his shoulder just enough to create space before slipping along the baseline for a layup.

The contact was solid, the kind neither player bothered mentioning.

The game settled into a back and forth from there.

Bowen made every possession a battle of hustle.

He crowded Kobe’s dribble without reaching too far, bumped him off his spots, and never seemed to give the same look twice.

Kobe couldn’t remember the last time someone had worked that hard just to make catching the ball feel difficult.

It wasn’t dirty.

It was annoying.

Kobe answered the same way.

He stopped trying to beat Bowen with speed and started changing pace instead.

One possession he’d attack immediately.

The next he’d wait, holding the ball for an extra second until Bowen shifted his weight.

Neither man said much.

Every now and then Bowen muttered something under his breath after a basket or gave a quiet “tough shot,” before checking the ball back, but most of the conversation happened through the basketball.

By the time the score reached 6–4, neither of them was smiling anymore.

Bowen bounced the ball over.

“Come on.” Kobe checked it and attacked immediately.

One hard dribble left.

Crossover.

Pull-up.

The jumper splashed through.

Bowen caught it.

“Bullshit.” Kobe backed up.

“Count it.” They checked again.

This time Bowen crowded him the entire possession, chest on shoulder, forearm on his side, making every dribble feel heavier than the last.

“You ain’t moving me,” Bowen said.

Kobe tried.

Nothing.

Bowen held his ground.

Kobe spun anyway, high floated it over Bowen’s fingertips.

Nothing but net.

Bowen turned and looked at the rim.

“…cking hell.” Kobe laughed.

“That’s good defense.” Bowen grabbed the ball.

“Keep that shit to yourself.” He checked it back.

The next possession got even nastier.

Bowen bumped Kobe before the catch, bumped him again at the elbow, then reached across his body just enough to make the dribble uncomfortable.

“You ain’t getting this one.” Kobe never answered.

He took one retreat dribble, rocked Bowen back on his heels with a hesitation, then faded over the outstretched contest.

The ball dropped cleanly through the net.

Bowen caught it before it bounced away, looked at the rim for a second, then back at Kobe.

“Fuck.” The score climbed to 10–4.

Both of them were breathing harder now.

Sweat had soaked through Bowen’s shirt, and Kobe’s legs felt heavier than they had at the start of the workout, but neither gave an inch.

Bowen checked the ball.

Kobe received it with a nod.

“Game point.” He took two slow dribbles, froze Bowen with a hesitation, then rose from just inside the free-throw line with Bowen’s hand almost in his face.

The shot barely disturbed the net.

11–4.

Bowen caught the ball before it bounced away and shook his head.

“…Damn.” Kobe reached for the ball.

“You done?” Bowen held onto it for another second.

“For now, I gotta catch a breather.” A grin finally broke across his face.

The rest of the morning disappeared into more games, more trash talk, and enough sweat to make the hardwood slick.

Kobe glanced toward the other basket just as Wallace finished through contact for the last point.

Fisher caught the ball after it dropped and looked toward the ceiling.

“That’s all the games.” Wallace nodded once, wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt.

“I think so.” Bowen walked over, towel draped across his shoulders.

“So who’s buying breakfast?” Fisher looked at him.

“I know it ain’t me.” “Why not?” “‘Cause I’m the only one that didn’t win a damn game.” That earned a few smiles.

Kobe slung his bag over one shoulder.

“You’ll live.

Plus, you are the one who asked for runs.” “I didn’t know I was volunteering for an execution.” Even Wallace let out a quiet chuckle.

Bowen looked toward Kobe.

“Three and oh.” Wallace leaned against the scorer’s table.

“I’m at two and one.” Bowen nodded.

“One and two for me.” All three of them looked at Fisher.

Fisher threw both hands up.

“Yeah, yeah.

Zero and three.

I appreciate all the support.” Kobe laughed.

“You’ll get another shot tomorrow.” The four of them gathered their bags and headed for the door together.

Nobody talked about who had won after that.

The games were over.

And tomorrow they’d start at zero again.

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Hey everyone!

As promised, here’s today’s chapter.

I’ll be dropping one more bonus chapter later tonight.

Thanks again for all the support, comments, and theories.

Seeing everyone enjoy this story makes the long writing sessions worth it.

Enjoy the chapter, and I’ll see you later with the bonus one.

Mamba out.