Chapter 35: Summer League Day One

The drive south was mostly silent, save for the occasional static from Fisher’s radio and the wet slap of tires through dawn puddles on the 405.

The Summer League’s reputation did all the talking: If you played well, maybe you got a contract.

If you played badly, you got a ticket home and a new story to tell at the rec.

There was no pageantry.

No banners, no celebrities, and no smiling ushers.

Just a four-game schedule and the faint odor of fear and opportunity, perfectly balanced.

The Lakers team bus was a retrofitted shuttle, only half-full because it carried no veterans, just rookies and their keepers.

The building itself, the Long Beach Arena, had all the charisma of a civic center, its exterior painted the same shade of gray as a hospital hallway.

Kobe stepped off first.

The parking lot was already dotted with rental cars.

There were GMs already prowling the perimeter, some in suits, some in sweats, but all carrying the same black leather folders and the same practiced half-smile.

Agents clustered near the curb, talking in low tones while scanning the lot for a particular client, or perhaps a reason to move on.

A handful of scouts paced the length of the sidewalk, jotting notes on legal pads, or checking their watches every thirty seconds as if time alone could make a prospect taller or more convincing.

The air was still cold, and the sky over the port glowed the color of cheap aluminum.

Kobe could see the caffeine already burning in Fisher’s system, the way the man couldn’t stand still for a second.

Fisher’s eyes went everywhere: the banners posted on the arena wall, the parade of unfamiliar faces, and the growing noise as each team rolled in.

Bowen slipped out next, holding a single paper cup and somehow making an Adidas tracksuit look like a business-casual outfit.

He scanned the lot, then smirked.

“Recognize a few faces.

Pretty sure a couple of ’em still owe me money.” Wallace emerged with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, head down, hood up, the profile of a man who had never once assumed he was the main event.

Travis Knight followed, impossibly tall and just a little bit sheepish, as if aware that in this context, he’d be lucky to even make a headline in the Orange County Register.

They walked together, the five of them, past the makeshift check-in table where a pair of volunteer kids handed out wristbands and passes, through the open double doors, into the lobby where it was somehow colder than outside.

Inside, the building hummed.

The courts were laid out side-by-side, each separated by little more than a stanchion and a row of folding chairs.

The acoustics were pure chaos: the thud of basketballs from four different directions, sneakers barking on wood, whistles, and the overlapping instructions of coaches with varying degrees of desperation.

Kobe scanned the room.

The court nearest the entrance hosted a shootaround for the Clippers’ squad; a few guys were already in a sweat, launching threes, talking loud, and pretending they weren’t on the verge of irrelevance.

Fisher pointed at a player stretching on the sideline and said, “That guy went top ten last year.

He’s supposed to be the next big thing.” Bowen sipped his coffee and shrugged.

“He just got cut in Spain.

I’ll let you guess why.” Travis Knight grinned, then whispered, “Can we all just agree to not get dunked on the first play?” “Speak for yourself,” Fisher said, but you could hear the nerves under the joke.

Wallace didn’t say anything.

He just adjusted his bag, then trailed a step behind, letting his gaze slide over every face, every movement, every quiet conversation happening along the rails.

He seemed to be cataloging it, like he was the only one who realized the stakes of every handshake, every side-eye from a scout, every agent’s tap on a shoulder.

They walked the length of the courts, absorbing the atmosphere.

Kobe heard his name whispered before he saw who was saying it.

A group of players from the Detroit team stood in a half-circle near the water cooler, each with arms folded, each doing the impossible not to look like they were staring.

“Is that him?” one said, under breath but not quiet enough.

“The high school kid,” another replied, giving Kobe a full up-and-down, then looking away as if the sight might burn.

A third, who looked old enough to already have a pension, smirked.

“He don’t look like much.” None of this bothered Kobe, not even a ripple.

He didn’t meet their eyes, didn’t return the stare.

At the tunnel entrance, Kurt Rambis waited, clipboard in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his track pants.

He didn’t smile, didn’t ask how anyone was feeling.

He just gestured at the team as they approached, then said, “Lineup’s posted in the locker room.

We go through warm-up, then straight to the first game.

Play together.

Communicate.

Compete.” That was it.

He didn’t even wait for a response before turning and disappearing into the mouth of the tunnel.

They moved as a single unit, not because anyone had told them to, but because after a week of sweat and tape and no-bullshit drills, there was nothing left to say.

The tunnel was dark, the lights overhead not yet warmed to full.

Their shadows trailed behind; five shapes merged into one, as if the building itself wanted to see who’d come out the other side.

They passed a pair of staffers loading Gatorade buckets, an intern taping an NBA logo to the door, and a photographer framing the shot for the day’s tip-off.

At the end of the tunnel, the locker room door waited, paint chipped and handle still sticky from a thousand hands.

Fisher reached it first, then held it open for the others.

Inside, the room was small, barely large enough for the five of them to stretch out at once.

There were metal lockers painted a tired blue, a row of folding chairs, and a single dry erase board propped against the wall, already ghosted with last year’s plays.

Kobe found his chair, set his bag down, and started unzipping without a word.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Kobe’s chair sat at the end of the row, back to the wall, view of the dry erase and the taped lineup sheet, already scanned and memorized.

The routine was muscle memory.

Bags open, jersey out first, shorts next, each item folded the night before and layered so the process would be frictionless.

Socks doubled, rolled, unwound with a flick of the wrist.

Shoes waiting at the base, laces already pre-set to slip on but not too loose.

Tape for the fingers.

Wristband, white, always left arm.

He ran a palm over the uniform, smoothing the wrinkles, then set about the only detail that changed: today, he wore number 32, because “8” was still in customs hell somewhere between Inglewood and China.

Fisher was the first to make a sound.

Not speech, just the steady, repetitive drumming of a basketball on the locker room floor, each bounce coming precisely every two seconds, even as he worked the laces on his own sneakers.

He spun the ball on his finger while checking the clock over the door, the motion so practiced it seemed to take no effort or attention.

Bowen, seated three down, glared at the noise.

“You keep that up, they’re gonna think you’re nervous,” he said, his voice so dry you could have struck a match on it.

Fisher just grinned.

“If they think I’m nervous, maybe they’ll stop guarding.” It was the same argument from the gym, recycled and improved by a thousand reps.

Neither ever lost, but both seemed to need the sparring.

Wallace was the only one not partaking.

He sat on the edge of his seat, foot propped on the opposing knee, wrapping his right ankle in a tape job that would have made a trainer weep.

Each wrap was perfect: no bunching, no gaps, each seam aligned precisely.

His duffel was already zipped and stowed, nothing loose, nothing out of place.

Every so often, he’d look up at the clock, or the door, then return to his work.

When he finished, he started on the other ankle, then stretched both legs in silence, arms extended, chin tucked down, posture like he’d spent a decade studying it.

Travis Knight was two lockers over, folding and re-folding his own practice shirt, never quite happy with the result.

He grinned as Fisher and Bowen went back and forth but mostly kept to himself, a small current in the bigger river.

Kobe kept his eyes on his hands.

He wrapped his right index and middle fingers, then flexed them, then re-taped, not because they needed it but because the ritual worked.

He glanced at the scouting sheet on the bench: Detroit’s starting guards were both college seniors, both bigger than Fisher, both with a reputation for cheap fouls and hard hedges.

Their wing was a second-year pro who’d been a three-point specialist in college but couldn’t defend a lamp post.

The center was a project, but with arms that reached halfway to the state line.

Bowen walked past, hooked a foot around Fisher’s chair, and dragged it out from under him before dropping into it himself.

Fisher looked over.

“Really?” Bowen shrugged.

“Find another one.” Fisher shook his head, laughing as he finished tying his shoes standing up.

“Hope you’re this confident when they stick their best scorer on you.” “Hope they do,” Bowen said without looking up.

“Talk’s cheap.” Bowen finally looked over with a small grin.

“So are twenty-point scorers when I’m done with ’em.” Fisher let out a laugh and pointed at him.

“Man, if he gives you thirty, I’m never letting you hear the end of it.” “Then I guess you’re gonna have to find something else to complain about.” Wallace shook his head, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, while Knight chuckled and went back to lacing his shoes.

The locker room door opened, and Rambis stepped in, clipboard and all.

The effect was immediate; the room didn’t fall silent, it just redirected its focus.

Rambis didn’t smile, didn’t try to soften the moment.

He just wrote the lineup on the board, big block letters and then turned to face the group.

“Fisher, Bryant, Bowen, Wallace, Knight.

That’s the start,” he said.

“Subs will run in this order: Greene, Garcia, Williams, and the rest.” He held up a page of notes.

“Detroit’s going to run sets you’ve seen a thousand times.

Don’t guess; just play the coverage.

Communicate and rebound.

On offense, run the action and trust the extra pass.

Scouts want to see if you can execute, not if you can score forty.” He paused, then fixed his eyes on Fisher.

“Don’t foul in transition.” Fisher nodded.

“Bowen, no gambles on D.” Bowen nodded but didn’t stop grinning.

“Wallace, anchor the paint.

Don’t chase the first block.” Wallace’s voice was quiet but clear: “Yes, Coach.” “Knight, screens and boards.

If you catch the ball, make the next read.

Don’t dribble.” Knight grinned, “No dribbles, got it.” Rambis looked at Kobe last but said nothing.

He just nodded, a gesture of expectation and, maybe, approval.

“That’s it,” Rambis said.

“First group, five-minute warning.

Use the bathroom if you need it, and stay loose.

See you at the tunnel.” He left without waiting for a reply.

For a few seconds, the room settled back into its usual rhythm.

Tape tore from the roll.

Locker doors clanged shut.

Somewhere down the hall, a whistle echoed through the building.

Fisher was the first to break the silence.

“Coach looked right at me when he said not to foul.” Bowen didn’t even look up.

“Probably had a reason.” “I barely foul.” Bowen snorted.

“That’s one way to remember it.” Fisher pointed at him.

“Just worry about your guy.” “Always do.” “Good.

Makes my job easier.” A quiet laugh escaped Wallace before he caught himself, shaking his head as he stood.

Knight looked over at Kobe while tightening the last lace on his shoe.

“Ready?” Kobe slid his wristband into place and nodded once.

“Let’s go.” The five of them finished their routine.

Kobe zipped his bag, put it under the bench, and checked every pocket for good luck.

Fisher was on his feet first, rolling his shoulders as he reached for the door.

Bowen fell in behind him without a word, Wallace grabbed his water jug, and Knight followed after, stuffing the last of his gear into his locker.

He gave the room one final glance to make sure nothing had been left behind, then pulled the door shut behind him as he stepped into the hallway.

The closer they got to the court, the louder the building became.

Basketballs pounded against hardwood.

A whistle shrilled somewhere beyond the tunnel.

The five of them walked toward the light at the end of the tunnel without breaking stride.