Chapter 37: Summer League Get Well Soon Detroit Club 520

The locker room felt different at halftime.

Strips of discarded tape clung to the floor between chairs, empty paper cups crowded the edge of the trainer’s table, and somebody had dropped a towel near the doorway and apparently decided it belonged there now.

Kobe stepped around it and took his seat, leaning forward with his forearms against his thighs while he started peeling the tape from his fingers.

His breathing had already settled, but his body carried the evidence of the first half.

Sweat ran cold down his back beneath the jersey; his calves were tight from the constant changes of direction.

Fisher dropped into the chair beside him and immediately started talking, still too wired to sit quietly.

“That pass to me in the corner was some bullshit,” he said, dragging a towel across his face.

“I’m serious.

I came off the screen, turned around, and the damn ball was already there.” Kobe glanced over but kept working the tape loose.

Fisher lowered the towel and stared at him.

“How the hell did you even see me?” Before Kobe could answer, Bowen leaned back in his chair across the room and stretched his legs out in front of him.

“Probably because he knows where everybody is supposed to be,” he said.

“You should try it sometime.” Fisher looked over.

“Man, shut the hell up.” “I’m just saying.

It might help.” Fisher balled up the towel and threw it at him.

Bowen caught it against his chest, looked down at it with disgust, then tossed it straight back.

“And keep your nasty-ass towel over there.” A laugh moved through the room, even reaching Wallace, who sat with his elbows on his knees and a large bottle of water between his hands.

He had been quieter during the first few mornings they trained together, answering questions with a word or two and rarely starting a conversation himself.

That was beginning to change.

He took another drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, then looked toward Kobe.

“They’re gonna trap you harder.

Last couple possessions, your guy wasn’t even watching the ball.

He kept looking at their big, waiting for him to come up.” Kobe nodded.

He had seen it too.

Detroit had spent most of the second quarter changing coverages, but by the final few minutes they had started leaning toward the same answer every team eventually reached when one player was controlling too much of the floor: get the ball out of his hands and make somebody else beat them.

Knight had his jersey pulled away from his chest, trying to get some air underneath it.

“They’re sending more guys to the glass too,” he said.

“Their four crashed damn near every time at the end.” Wallace nodded once.

“Because they’re tired of me getting there first.” Fisher pointed across the room.

“See?

That’s what I’ve been saying.

Give Ben another week and he’s gonna be talking more shit than Bruce.” Bowen shook his head.

“Nobody talks more than you.” Kobe found himself smiling.

Bowen leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees.

“What do you think they try first?” There was no joke behind the question this time.

Kobe took a drink before answering.

“Pressure Fish earlier.

Trap me off the first screen.

Send somebody from the weak side if I get into the lane.” Fisher frowned.

“So basically piss everybody off.” “Basically.” Knight laughed, but Fisher was still thinking.

“What if they trap you before the screen even gets there?” Kobe set the bottle between his shoes.

“Then somebody’s open.” Bowen smiled immediately.

“Preferably me.” Fisher pointed at him.

“See, that’s your problem.

Everything always comes back to you getting a shot.” Bowen spread his hands.

“I’m a simple man.” The door swung open before Fisher could respond, and Kurt Rambis walked in with his clipboard tucked beneath one arm.

The conversations died down naturally.

He crossed to the dry-erase board, uncapped a marker, and drew two quick circles near the top of the key.

“We’ve spent the whole first half making them react.

Don’t throw that away because they come out desperate for three minutes.

Fisher, if they pressure you full court, don’t dance with the damn ball.

Get us into the offense.” Fisher nodded.

“Got it.” Rambis pointed the marker toward Knight and Wallace.

“If they trap Kobe, one of you flashes middle.

Whoever doesn’t flash goes straight to the rim.

Make them choose.” He drew the rotation once, quickly enough that everyone in the room understood what he wanted before he finished.

Then he wiped part of the board with his palm and looked toward Bowen.

“They’re going to try getting your man involved earlier.

He hasn’t done shit because you haven’t let him breathe.

Don’t start gambling now.” Bowen gave him an innocent look.

“I never gamble.” Fisher coughed into his towel to hide a laugh.

Rambis stared at Bowen for a second.

“Right.

Whatever the hell you call it, don’t do it.” Bowen’s grin widened.

“Got you, Coach.” Rambis turned toward Wallace.

“Keep owning the glass.

They’re sending another body now, so hit first.” “Got it.” “Knight, keep their center away from the rim.

Set the screen and make his ass choose whether he’s staying with you or going after Kobe.

Don’t give him both.” Knight nodded.

Kobe waited for his turn, but Rambis barely gave him one.

Their eyes met across the room, and Rambis tapped the marker against the board.

“They trap you, move it.

They switch, attack it.

They back off, shoot it.

Don’t make this complicated.” “I won’t.” Rambis looked around the room again.

“And quit looking at the damn scoreboard.

We’re not protecting a lead.

We’re playing another half.

First three minutes matter.

If they come out throwing punches, hit them back before they convince themselves they’ve got a chance.” That was the closest thing to a halftime speech they were getting.

Rambis tossed the marker onto the tray, picked up his clipboard, and headed for the door.

“Same five start the half.

Be ready when they call you.” The door swung shut behind him.

Knight stared at it for a moment before shaking his head.

“Man really gets in, says exactly what he wants, and gets the hell out.” Bowen reached for his water.

“What else you want him to do?

Read us a poem?” Fisher laughed.

“Maybe light some candles.

Tell us to believe in ourselves.” Wallace lowered his bottle.

“You need that?” Fisher turned toward him with exaggerated disbelief.

“Ben, whose side are you on?” Wallace’s mouth twitched.

The whistle from the hallway came a few minutes later, followed by a staffer calling for the teams.

Fisher pushed himself out of his chair and slapped both hands against his thighs.

“All right.

Let’s see how desperate they really are.” Bowen stood beside him and adjusted the waistband of his shorts.

“Just don’t turn it over when they press you.” Fisher looked offended.

“Why the hell would you even put that into the universe?” Knight laughed as he stood and rolled his shoulders.

Wallace finished the last of his water, screwed the cap back onto the bottle, and set it beneath his chair.

Fisher turned toward Kobe before heading for the door.

“You ready?” Kobe rose, tugged once at the bottom of his jersey, and flexed his taped hand.

“Yeah, let’s go.” Bowen passed behind him and slapped Fisher lightly on the shoulder.

“You’ve been tired since the first quarter.” Fisher followed him toward the door.

“Keep talking, Bruce.

Next open three, I’m looking you off.” Bowen glanced back with a grin.

“Then you better make the damn shot.” .

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Detroit came out of halftime exactly the way Kobe expected.

The first trap arrived before he had fully crossed half court.

T heir point guard angled him toward the sideline while the second defender sprinted up from the wing, both men closing hard enough that Kobe could hear their shoes scraping against the hardwood behind him.

He let them come.

One more dribble drew the second defender completely out of position, and Kobe snapped the ball between them to Wallace at the top of the key.

Wallace caught it with nobody within six feet of him and immediately turned toward the basket.

Fisher cut from the weak side the moment Wallace received the pass.

Wallace saw him and delivered the ball on time.

Fisher attacked the opening, got a shoulder past the rotating defender, and drew contact at the rim.

The layup rolled off, but the whistle came immediately.

As Fisher walked toward the line, he pointed at Kobe and shook his head.

“They really gonna keep doing this shit?” Kobe backed toward half court with the beginning of a smile.

“I hope so.” Fisher laughed.

“Yeah, easy for you to say.

I’m the one getting knocked on my ass.” Detroit tried it again on the next possession.

He slowed near the sideline, deliberately leaving enough space for the defender to believe he could close it.

The moment the man lunged, Kobe spun away from the pressure and fired the ball to Bowen in the corner.

Bowen caught it, gave the closing defender a quick pump fake, and watched him sail past before calmly stepping into the three.

The shot dropped cleanly through the net.

Bowen was already backpedaling when Fisher pointed at him.

“About damn time.” Bowen glanced toward him.

“Keep giving it to me and you might get another assist.” “That wasn’t my pass.” “Then tell Kobe I said it.” Kobe was already turning toward the other end.

Detroit had spent halftime deciding to force the ball away from him, and three possessions into the third quarter, all they had accomplished was creating cleaner shots for everyone else.

The trap itself wasn’t the problem.

The problem was what happened behind it.

Once two defenders committed to Kobe, Wallace and Knight suddenly had room in the middle, Fisher could cut without his defender seeing both man and ball, and Bowen had more space in the corners than he had seen all afternoon.

Detroit tried to answer by running.

Their point guard pushed after every rebound, looking for shots before the Lakers could set their defense.

One possession nearly worked.

A long miss kicked toward the sideline, Detroit recovered it, and their forward immediately fired ahead to a big man charging down the middle.

Wallace sprinted with him and got a hand on the pass, knocking it loose instead of trying to make a play at the rim.

Kobe came down from the wing, gathered the bouncing ball with both hands, and was moving before Detroit realized possession had changed.

Knight was already running.

Kobe took two dribbles and lofted the ball toward the rim.

Knight reached it without breaking stride, caught with both hands, and hammered it through.

The bench came up behind them as Knight hung for half a second before dropping to the floor.

He pointed at Kobe while running back.

“Do that shit again.” Kobe laughed.

“I gotchu.” Detroit’s coach called a timeout less than three minutes into the half.

Kobe walked toward the bench without looking at the scoreboard.

He knew the lead had grown from the sound of the gym alone.

The crowd had changed.

Every time Detroit sent the second defender now, people were already reacting before Kobe made the pass, waiting to see where the opening would appear.

Rambis met them near the sideline.

“They want the ball out of his hands, fine.

Keep making them pay for it.” He pointed toward Fisher.

“Don’t stand around watching the trap.

Cut behind it.” Then toward Wallace and Knight.

“Middle stays occupied.

One flashes, one dives.

Don’t bring both defenders to the same damn place.” His eyes moved to Kobe last.

“They’re going to stop eventually.” Kobe wiped his mouth with the front of his jersey.

“I know.” Detroit kept trapping for another few possessions, but there was less conviction behind it now.

Kobe could feel the hesitation.

The second defender came a step later.

The rotations behind the trap weren’t as sharp.

On one possession, Kobe split the two defenders before they could close the gap, took one dribble into the lane, and forced the center to step up.

Wallace slipped behind him.

Kobe bounced the ball between the center’s legs and Wallace caught it underneath for an easy finish.

Wallace slapped Kobe’s hand on the way back.

“That was disrespectful.” “He opened his legs.” Wallace stared at him for a second before laughing.

“Ayo, chill, man.

That shit sounded crazy.” The next Detroit possession ended with a contested jumper over Bowen.

Kobe had already started moving toward the paint before the shot came off.

He slipped inside his man, tracked the ball off the back rim, and pulled it down with both hands.

The moment his feet touched the floor, he turned and pushed.

Fisher ran the right lane, Bowen took the left, and Kobe carried the ball straight through the middle until Detroit’s defense collapsed.

He could have kicked it either way.

Instead, the backpedaling center gave him half a step too much space.

Kobe planted inside the free-throw line, rose before the big could recover, and buried the pull-up.

That was when Detroit finally abandoned the trap.

Kobe noticed before anyone said anything.

Their second defender stayed home on Fisher.

The center dropped instead of showing.

His own defender crouched lower and gave him another foot of space, apparently deciding that keeping Kobe in front was preferable to watching him carve apart four-on-three situations.

Fisher brought the ball up on the next possession and passed to Kobe on the right wing.

His defender crowded him immediately, trying to make the catch uncomfortable.

Kobe jabbed left.

The defender shifted.

Kobe crossed right and was past him before the help could arrive.

Two steps carried him into the paint.

The big rotated late and caught Kobe across the arm, but Kobe powered through the contact and laid it high off the glass.

The whistle blew as the ball dropped through.

Kobe landed, turned toward the baseline, and clenched his fist.

“And 1!” Fisher was already coming toward him, shouting, “Yeah!

Count that shit!” Kobe slapped his hand and walked to the line while the Detroit defender argued with the official.

The free throw was clean.

Detroit tried a bigger defender next.

Kobe took him straight to the left block.

The man leaned into his back, testing his strength, but Kobe gave him one hard dribble toward the middle, showed the shoulder, then spun baseline when he bit.

The ball kissed high off the glass before the help could arrive.

On the next possession, Kobe worked off Knight’s screen, curled toward the elbow, caught Fisher’s pass in rhythm, and buried the jumper.

Detroit changed the matchup again.

It didn’t matter.

They had spent the first part of the quarter trying to keep Kobe from taking over as a scorer.

Now that the floor had opened, he punished whatever they gave him.

A smaller guard got backed into the post.

A slower forward got dragged outside and beaten off the dribble.

When the center dropped beneath a screen, Kobe pulled up.

When he stepped higher the next time, Kobe turned the corner and finished with his left.

He wasn’t chasing points.

He was taking what Detroit gave him, and they kept giving him too much.

Their frustration started showing.

Bowen forced their best scorer into another contested miss, their point guard screamed at the center after a blown rotation, and their coach wandered far enough onto the floor that an official had to wave him back.

The more Detroit argued, the quieter the Lakers became.

Midway through the quarter, a missed three kicked toward the weak side.

Kobe stepped in front of Detroit’s forward, absorbed the contact against his back, and secured the rebound before firing the outlet to Fisher.

Fisher had numbers but pulled the ball out instead of forcing the break.

Kobe noticed immediately.

A week earlier, Fisher would have attacked the opening simply because it was there.

This time, he waited for everyone to get into position, raised his fist, and called the set himself.

Kobe jogged past him.

“Nice pace,” and cut toward the baseline.

Wallace was starting to enjoy himself too.

He flattened Detroit’s power forward with a legal screen that brought half the Lakers bench to its feet, then beat the same man to the offensive glass on the next possession.

Later, Knight forced a miss inside while Wallace sealed his man underneath.

Kobe came down from the wing and grabbed the rebound before Wallace could reach it.

Wallace glanced at him as they ran upcourt.

“You stealing my boards now?” “You should’ve jumped.” “I had two motherfuckers on me.” “Sounds like an excuse.” Wallace stared at him, then shook his head with a grin.

“Man, fuck you too.” Detroit finally put together a run late in the quarter.

Two quick threes cut into the lead, Fisher forced a pass through traffic and turned it over, and Detroit scored again in transition.

Their bench came alive for the first time since halftime, and the crowd followed.

It wasn’t much, but Kobe knew how quickly a game could turn when a team started believing again.

He killed that belief on the next possession.

Detroit tried to inbound quickly, but their point guard looked toward the sideline a second too early and gave the play away.

Kobe stepped into the passing lane, stole it cleanly, and pushed the ball ahead to Fisher.

Then he took off.

Fisher drew the lone defender before slipping the ball back, and Kobe caught it without slowing, gathered off two feet, and threw it down.

The Lakers bench erupted before his feet touched the floor.

Fisher was already laughing as they ran back.

“That’ll do it.” “Get back,” Kobe said, pointing toward the other end.

Detroit never found the same momentum again.

Kobe kept attacking mismatches, but he worked the glass just as hard.

The Lakers held for the final possession of the quarter.

Fisher crossed half court and looked toward Kobe, but Kobe waved him to the opposite side.

Knight came high to screen, Wallace occupied the paint, and Bowen stayed in the weak-side corner.

Kobe drove right, and the weak-side defender immediately took two steps toward him.

That was enough.

Kobe fired the ball across the court to Bowen.

Bowen caught it with less than two seconds left and rose before the defender could recover.

The horn sounded with the ball in the air.

A second later, it dropped cleanly through the net.

Bowen turned toward Fisher with both hands raised.

“You see that shit?

That’s how you end a fucking quarter.” Fisher laughed as they headed toward the bench.

“Yeah, yeah.

Don’t start.” Wallace met them near the sideline, breathing harder now but still smiling.

“They look tired.” Knight glanced toward Detroit’s bench.

“They are tired.” Fisher looked at Kobe.

“You wanna finish this, or we letting somebody else have fun?” Kobe grabbed a towel and looked across the court.

Detroit’s players weren’t talking anymore.

One sat hunched forward with his hands on his knees while another stared at the floor as their coach spoke.

They looked beaten, but Kobe had been around basketball too long to mistake looking beaten for being finished.

He wiped the sweat from his face.

“They’re not done until the clock says they’re done.

We finish it.” Fisher’s grin returned.

Wallace nodded, and Bowen dropped into his chair beside them.

The lead was theirs, but there was still another quarter to play.

As far as Kobe was concerned, that meant there was still work to do.

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And that wraps up another week!

We officially finished at #42 in the rankings with 294 Power Stones!

Seriously, thank you to everyone who has been voting, leaving reviews, commenting, and continuing to support the story.

I’m not gonna lie, though 294 hurts a little.

I know we can hit it.

Last week was also pretty crazy on my end.

Seeing the story continue climbing has been awesome, especially with how much you guys have been supporting these recent chapters.

This week’s first target: 300 Power Stones.

Let’s make sure we hit it this week.