Chapter 36: Summer League Halftime Bonus Chapter

The Lakers settled into line almost without thinking.

Fisher naturally drifted to the front, shoulders loose, eyes fixed on the opening at the far end of the tunnel.

Kobe fell in behind him, Bowen a step to his right, Wallace just behind them, and Knight bringing up the rear.

No one had assigned the order.

It had simply become routine over the past week.

Detroit waited on the other side of the divider only a few feet away, though it might as well have been across the building.

Neither team acknowledged the other directly, but every glance lasted a fraction longer than it needed to.

Their starters looked older, thicker through the shoulders, the kind of players who had spent years trying to claw their way onto an NBA roster.

One of their veterans stood near the front of the line, chewing gum like he had all day and watching the Lakers without making it obvious.

The sounds from the court rolled into the hallway in uneven waves.

Layups slapped against the backboard.

Rims rattled.

Sneakers squeaked across hardwood.

Every few moments the public-address announcer reminded teams that tip-off was approaching, his voice echoing down the concrete walls before fading into the noise.

Detroit’s point guard stretched with his arms overhead and glanced once toward Kobe before looking away.

Beside him, one of their wings looked Kobe over from head to toe, leaned toward a teammate, and muttered something just quiet enough to miss.

Kobe couldn’t hear the words, but he recognized the tone.

It reminded him of high school—skeptical, dismissive, convinced they already had the answer before the game had even started.

Fisher caught it too.

He rolled his shoulders once and smirked.

“They’re already talking about you.” Kobe smoothed the front of his jersey.

“Doesn’t matter until we play.” Bowen let out a quiet laugh.

“First chance they get, somebody’s gonna come at you.

Everybody wants the story.” “We’ll give ’em one,” Fisher said.

Wallace hadn’t taken his eyes off Detroit’s frontcourt.

After another second, he nudged Knight lightly with his elbow.

“Watch their center,” he said quietly.

“He’s gonna try to bury you under the rim.” Knight followed Wallace’s gaze.

“You want me to fight him early?” “Not yet.” The final minute before tip-off disappeared faster than the ten before it.

Someone farther down the hallway called for the Lakers to get ready.

Fisher straightened, then glanced back over his shoulder to make sure everyone was with him.

Kobe looked across at Detroit one last time.

Every face carried the same belief—that today could change everything.

He understood it.

He had worn that look once himself.

A referee stepped into the tunnel and raised an arm.

“Let’s go.” Both teams started forward.

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

The hallway gave way to bright lights, polished hardwood, and the steady murmur of a growing crowd.

Scouts lined the baseline with clipboards tucked beneath their arms.

Executives stood in small groups near the scorer’s table.

A handful of local reporters compared notes while fans slowly filled the bleachers, many wearing faded Showtime jerseys that had seen better days.

Fisher walked toward the top of the key, rolling his shoulders one last time.

Bowen loosened his arms as he crossed half court.

Wallace bounced lightly on his toes before settling into place.

Knight crouched near the lane to tighten one final shoelace, refusing to trust it until he’d pulled the knot twice.

Kobe bounced the ball once, then handed it back to the referee.

Around him, the noise slowly faded until all that remained was the rhythm he’d known his entire life—the sound of a basketball striking hardwood, the squeak of shoes finding balance, and the quiet stillness that always arrived a heartbeat before competition began.

He caught Bowen’s eye for an instant.

Bowen answered with the slightest nod.

“You good?” Fisher asked.

Kobe nodded once.

The teams stepped toward center court.

Detroit’s veteran exchanged a quick handshake with Fisher before taking his spot across from Knight.

The public-address announcer read through the starting lineups, each name drawing a different reaction from the crowd.

When Kobe’s name echoed through the arena, some people applauded.

Others simply watched, waiting to see if the seventeen-year-old lottery pick was worth the attention.

The referee walked into the circle with the ball tucked against his hip.

Kobe settled into his stance.

The whistle blew.

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The opening tip was messy.

Knight got a hand on it first, but Detroit wanted the loose ball more.

Bodies crashed to the floor before either team had a chance to settle, and by the time the dust cleared the Pistons were already flowing into their first set.

Their leading scorer wasted no time testing Bowen.

“So that’s the rookie everybody keeps talking about?” Bowen never answered.

He settled into his stance and let the possession come to him.

The scorer jabbed left, crossed right, then lowered his shoulder expecting to create space.

Instead he found Bowen waiting.

One bump.

Two.

The third move carried the ball just far enough from his hip.

Bowen stripped it clean.

“Go!” Fisher yelled.

The outlet found Kobe near midcourt.

Detroit immediately sent two defenders toward him, determined to force the ball out of the high school kid’s hands before he could get comfortable.

Perfect.

Detroit had already committed two defenders.

Someone else was open.

Kobe attacked anyway, drawing both defenders another step before firing the ball toward the corner.

Bowen caught it, saw the closeout coming, and immediately swung it back.

Kobe stepped into the open elbow jumper.

It rolled off the rim.

Knight had already buried Detroit’s center beneath the basket, leaving Wallace with a clear lane to the rebound.

Wallace grabbed it above everyone’s fingertips and hammered it back before the defense could recover.

The Lakers never celebrated.

They were already sprinting back.

Detroit adjusted immediately.

Their coach barked from the sideline, waving his scorer through a series of staggered screens designed to shake Bowen loose.

It almost worked.

Almost.

Bowen slipped over the final screen just as the shot went up, forcing enough hesitation to send it long.

Wallace secured the rebound and handed it to Fisher, and this time Kobe slowed the pace instead of racing ahead.

Kobe held up two fingers.

Fisher nodded immediately, and the offense flowed into its next set.

Knight climbed into position for the screen.

Wallace rolled hard enough to pull both bigs with him.

Fisher drifted toward the weak side while Bowen flattened into the corner.

Kobe came off Knight’s screen and pulled up from the elbow, but the shot caught the back rim and bounced long toward the free-throw line.

He slipped between two bigger forwards, pulled down his own miss with both hands, and immediately pushed the ball back out before Detroit could reset.

Kobe recognized it before anyone else.

His skip pass found Fisher standing alone beyond the arc.

“Take it.” Fisher did.

The shot rattled out.

He slapped his hands together in frustration.

Kobe was already turning up court.

“You’ll get another.” Detroit stopped worrying about stopping one player.

The next trip down they trapped Kobe thirty feet from the basket.

He welcomed it.

Both defenders committed before he bounced the ball cleanly between them.

Fisher caught it in stride, attacked the lane, and forced the last defender to help.

Wallace gathered and finished before the help defender could recover.

As Fisher jogged back he laughed.

“They really gonna keep doing that?” “They’ll stop,” Kobe said.

“They’ll have to.” The timeout came less than four minutes into the game.

Detroit’s coaches surrounded the clipboard before the players even reached the bench.

One assistant pointed toward Kobe while another erased their defensive coverage and started drawing something new.

Across the floor Rambis barely raised his voice.

“They’re loading up early now,” he said.

“Trust the next pass.” Nobody had any questions.

Back on the floor, Detroit abandoned the traps and started switching every screen, trying to keep fresh defenders on Kobe without sending help.

It worked for exactly two possessions before Kobe began punishing the mismatches.

A smaller guard earned a quick turnaround from the left block.

The next trip a slower forward found himself chasing Kobe through two screens before watching another jumper fall cleanly through the net.

When Detroit collapsed into the paint, Kobe simply stopped hunting shots.

The ball moved.

Fisher buried a three from the wing.

Bowen knocked down another from the corner after Kobe drew two defenders into the lane.

Wallace owned the glass, collecting rebound after rebound while Knight quietly carved out space with bruising screens that never appeared in the box score but showed up on every possession.

The frantic energy from the opening minutes slowly disappeared.

Every possession began unfolding at Kobe’s pace.

When he pushed the ball, both teams sprinted.

When he slowed, everyone else slowed with him, waiting to see what he had already seen.

By the middle of the first quarter, their bench had stopped shouting instructions.

Now they were arguing among themselves.

Near the scorer’s table, Jerry West watched without saying much.

One of the scouts beside him leaned forward.

“He looks like a veteran.” Jerry never looked away from the floor.

“He plays like one.” The scout nodded quietly.

By the time the first quarter reached its final minute, the trash talk from the opening tip had disappeared.

Shoulders sagged.

Hands rested on hips between free throws.

Players looked toward their bench after every defensive breakdown, searching for an answer that wasn’t there.

The Lakers held for the final possession.

Knight stepped high.

Fisher curled around him.

Both defenders followed.

Kobe slipped between them before either realized they had left Wallace alone behind the play.

The bounce pass arrived perfectly on time.

Wallace gathered and hammered home the dunk just before the horn.

The arena finally sounded like more than a Summer League gym.

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Detroit came out for the second quarter determined to change the game.

They started throwing different defensive looks at Kobe almost immediately.

One trip they switched every screen.

The next, they trapped him as soon as he crossed half court.

Then they backed away completely, daring the seventeen-year-old to beat them one-on-one instead of letting him pick them apart.

Kobe didn’t care which coverage they chose.

Every adjustment gave him something else to attack.

The first time they switched, Kobe immediately backed the smaller guard toward the left block.

He never rushed the possession.

One dribble.

A shoulder fake.

The defender leaned just enough.

Kobe spun back toward the middle and floated the ball softly over the help defender before either big could rotate.

The shot barely disturbed the net.

Detroit’s bench yelled for an earlier double team before the ball had even been inbounded.

The next possession, the double came exactly as expected.

Two defenders sprinted toward Kobe the moment he caught the ball on the wing.

Instead of fighting through it, he pivoted once and fired a pass to Knight flashing into the middle of the floor.

Knight caught it cleanly, hesitated for the briefest moment, then remembered Rambis’ instructions.

Don’t put the ball on the floor.

He immediately swung it to Fisher cutting down the lane.

Fisher gathered, drew Wallace’s defender toward him, then dropped the ball behind his shoulder.

Wallace rose through contact, finished with two hands, and landed with another whistle echoing through the building.

Fisher pointed at Knight while jogging back.

“That’s it.

Don’t think.

Just move it.” Knight grinned.

“Worked, didn’t it?” Detroit’s frustration became easier to spot with every minute.

Their scorer quit talking and started searching for fouls instead.

Bowen stayed attached to him through every screen, never reaching, never gambling, forcing him to work for every catch.

Midway through the second quarter the scorer finally created a sliver of daylight near the right wing.

Before he could rise into his jumper, Bowen’s hand appeared in front of the ball, forcing him to hesitate.

The pause lasted less than a second, but it was enough.

Kobe rotated from the weak side, challenged the release without fouling, and the shot spun harmlessly off the front rim.

Wallace secured another rebound, tucked the ball against his chest, and calmly found Fisher instead of forcing a risky outlet.

The rhythm of the game had shifted without anyone noticing.

Early possessions had been frantic, full of players trying to prove they belonged.

Now every trip belonged to whoever made the next correct decision.

Kobe slowed the pace whenever Detroit looked ready to speed it up and pushed the ball whenever he saw someone jogging back instead of sprinting.

Fisher fed off it.

After missing his first attempt, he buried his next three without hesitation, then knocked down another from nearly the same spot two possessions later.

As they crossed half court Bowen bumped Fisher’s shoulder.

“About damn time.” Fisher laughed.

“Keep talking.

Makes me shoot better.” Bowen smirked.

“I was talking before you started making ’em.” Detroit tried one final adjustment before the half.

They abandoned the traps and packed the paint, inviting Kobe to settle for jumpers.

He happily accepted the invitation.

The next trip down they gave him just enough space to shoot.

Kobe rose from just inside the arc before the help defender could close the gap.

The jumper barely moved the net.

Nobody on Detroit’s bench said a word.

They had invited him to score, and he had accepted.

A pull-up from eighteen feet.

A turnaround fading toward the baseline.

Two free throws after catching a defender flat-footed with a quick first step.

The points came quietly, almost unnoticed, because every basket felt like the inevitable result of whatever mistake Detroit had just made.

By now the defense wasn’t reacting to Kobe’s scoring anymore.

They were reacting to the possibility of it, and that hesitation created opportunities everywhere else.

Near the scorer’s table Jerry West watched with his arms folded while one of the Lakers scouts scribbled notes fast enough to tear through the paper beneath his pen.

The scout glanced at the stat sheet, then back toward the floor.

“He’s already got…” He stopped counting and shook his head instead.

Jerry never looked away from the game.

“Don’t watch the points,” he said quietly.

“Watch what everybody else is doing.” The scout followed his eyes.

Fisher was playing with confidence.

Bowen looked comfortable.

Wallace controlled the glass.

Knight had stopped hesitating every time he touched the ball.

Jerry nodded almost to himself.

“That’s leadership.” The final minute belonged entirely to the Lakers.

Detroit had grown hesitant, looking toward its bench after nearly every whistle as if someone might suddenly have the answer.

Kobe brought the ball across half court and held it near the logo while the clock bled away.

Fisher circled high.

Knight stepped into another crushing screen that forced two defenders to chase the same man.

The opening lasted less than a heartbeat, but Kobe saw it immediately.

He split the gap, drew both help defenders with him, then slipped a bounce pass between two reaching arms.

Wallace caught it in stride and hammered the ball through the rim before anyone could contest it.

The horn sounded while the ball was still dropping through the net.

The crowd rose louder than it had at any point all morning.

Detroit walked toward its bench in silence, shoulders slumped, while assistant coaches were already rearranging magnets across the clipboard before the players reached them.

Fisher slapped Wallace across the back as they headed toward the locker room.

“Hell of a screen, big fella,” he said to Knight on the way past.

Knight smiled.

“I think I finally figured out what I’m supposed to do.” Wallace shook his head with the faintest grin.

“About time.” As Kobe crossed the sideline, Detroit’s veteran point guard slowed beside him, still trying to make sense of what he’d just watched.

“You don’t play like a rookie.” Kobe glanced over.

“Hell,” the veteran muttered, shaking his head, “I’ve played against guys with ten years in the league who don’t control a game like that.” Kobe smiled faintly.

“It’s only halftime.” .

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So, as promised, here are the two chapters.

I ended up dropping 10 chapters this week, which is really insane tbh.

😂 I’ve been writing like Kobe’s been making me show up for 4 A.M.

writing sessions.

Seriously though, thank you.

And now that Summer League has officially started…