Chapter 38: Summer League Thirty-Five Ten Ten

The fourth quarter opened with the same five who had controlled most of the afternoon, but the game no longer carried the nervous energy of the opening tip.

Detroit was running out of time, and everyone in the building knew it.

Their players came out of the break moving faster, pressing higher, and talking more than they had through the first three quarters.

The careful adjustments were gone.

They needed possessions now, and they were willing to make the game ugly to get them.

For the first few minutes, it worked.

Detroit hit a jumper off a broken possession, pressured Fisher into forcing a pass through traffic, then came back the other way and buried a three before the Lakers could get matched.

Their bench came alive.

Another stop followed, and Detroit pushed before the defense was organized, getting their center to the line when Knight arrived late.

Kobe stood along the lane with his hands on his hips while the first free throw dropped.

The run itself didn’t bother him.

The way it had happened did.

Fisher had rushed the pass.

Bowen had gambled on a passing lane.

Knight had been slow getting back, and Wallace had watched the ball instead of finding a body.

Small mistakes, but enough of them together could give a team something to believe in.

Kobe clapped his hands once.

“Wake up.

We’re selling this game.” Fisher nodded.

“I got you.” “Then slow down the pace.” The second free throw hit the back rim and kicked long.

Wallace boxed out his man, but the rebound sailed over both of them toward the elbow.

Kobe stepped down, caught it cleanly with two hands, and turned upcourt before Detroit could pressure him.

Fisher moved toward him for the handoff.

Kobe waved him off.

“Run.” Fisher hesitated for half a beat before turning upcourt.

“All right.

Do your thing.” Kobe crossed half court himself and slowed near the top of the key.

Detroit’s guard retreated into a crouch, leaving enough room to protect against the drive without completely surrendering the jumper.

Knight started toward Kobe to set a screen, but Kobe waved him away too.

From the corner, Fisher laughed.

“Cook him.” The defender glanced toward Fisher.

That was enough.

Kobe jabbed right and crossed left before the man’s eyes returned to him.

His first step got him even, and the second put the defender on his hip.

Detroit’s center stepped up from beneath the rim, chest squared and arms high, waiting for Kobe to challenge him.

Kobe never got there.

He stopped at twelve feet.

The center’s momentum carried him another half-step backward, and Kobe rose into the space he had surrendered.

The jumper dropped cleanly through the net.

The defender slapped his hands together behind him.

“Damn.” Kobe was already running back.

“Fish, left side.

Pick him up.” Detroit tried to answer through their best scorer.

Bowen fought around the first screen, slipped over the second, and stayed attached when the man tried to turn the corner.

Wallace stepped toward the baseline and forced the shot higher than Detroit wanted.

It caught the back rim and kicked toward the weak side.

Kobe came down from the wing and secured the rebound.

Wallace looked at him immediately.

“Again?” Kobe handed the ball to Fisher.

“You gotta get on it faster.” Wallace shook his head.

“Keep stealing my boards.

See what happens.” Kobe laughed as they ran upcourt.

Fisher had heard them.

“Ben, you really letting this skinny kid steal all your boards?” “Stay out of it.” “I’m just asking.” Bowen jogged past them.

“Everybody’s tired of you, Fish.” Fisher pointed after him.

“Nobody asked you.” The exchange lasted only a few seconds, but it loosened them.

Fisher crossed half court and raised a fist instead of attacking immediately.

Knight moved toward the high post.

Wallace settled near the block.

Bowen spaced toward the corner, and Kobe started from the opposite wing.

That was better.

Kobe cut underneath the basket and curled toward the elbow.

Knight caught enough of his defender with the screen to create a step of separation, and Fisher delivered the ball on time.

Detroit’s center stepped toward Kobe immediately.

The jumper was open.

Kobe didn’t take it.

The weak-side defender had already started leaning toward him.

Kobe waited until the man took another step into the lane, then fired the ball toward the baseline.

Wallace caught it underneath and finished before the help could recover.

“That’s how you do it,” Kobe said as they turned.

Wallace pointed at him.

“Keep feeding me.” Detroit scored on the next possession, but the little run had already lost its edge.

Fisher stopped forcing the pace.

Bowen went back to making Detroit’s scorer work for every catch.

Knight stayed attached to the center instead of chasing blocks, and Wallace controlled the paint.

Detroit missed on the other end, and the rebound kicked long toward the elbow.

Kobe tracked it down before Detroit’s guard could reach it.

Detroit called timeout.

Kobe walked toward the bench and accepted a cup of water.

Rambis waited until everyone gathered around before speaking.

“That’s better,” he said.

“You gave them life for two minutes.

Then you took it away.” Fisher nodded.

“We’re good.” Rambis looked directly at him.

“Did I ask?” Bowen immediately lowered his head to hide his smile.

Fisher spread his hands.

“Just saying, Coach.” Rambis pointed toward the court.

“Two more good possessions.

No lazy passes, no stupid fouls, and stop giving them chances to make this interesting.” His eyes moved toward Kobe.

“Then I’m getting some of you out.” Kobe lowered the cup.

“Coach—” Rambis raised one finger.

“Don’t start.” Kobe closed his mouth.

Rambis pointed toward the floor.

“Go.” Detroit attacked immediately after the timeout.

Their point guard used a high screen, got Fisher on his hip, and tossed a floater over Knight.

It caught the front rim and bounced high.

Wallace established an inside position, but Detroit’s center reached over him and tipped the ball toward the opposite baseline.

Kobe chased it down.

He secured the ball against his chest just as the defender came over his back.

The whistle blew.

“Over the back.” Kobe handed the ball to the official and headed upcourt.

Fisher crossed half court and gave it back to him near the top.

Detroit showed another soft double, the second defender hovering near the elbow instead of fully committing.

Kobe waited until the defender edged closer and Bowen slipped behind him, then bounced the pass through the opening.

Bowen caught it in stride and finished off the glass.

Kobe was already pointing Fisher toward his assignment before the ball had even cleared the net, more concerned with getting organized defensively than whatever had just been added to the stat sheet.

Detroit missed again, and this time Wallace ripped down the rebound himself.

He turned toward Kobe with an exaggerated grin before Kobe could say anything.

Kobe sighed.

“Happy?” The Lakers began using more of the clock.

Detroit kept pressing, but their rotations were a fraction slower now, and Kobe attacked only when the opening presented itself.

A hard drive earned him two free throws.

A few possessions later, he caught at the elbow, turned over his right shoulder, and buried another jumper before the defender could get a hand up.

As Detroit prepared to inbound, the PA announcer’s voice carried across the gym.

“Bryant with thirty-three.” Fisher looked over.

“Thirty-three?” Kobe pointed toward Detroit’s guard.

“Your man.” Fisher laughed as he turned.

“I’m going, damn.” The number didn’t change anything.

Kobe continued watching Detroit’s coverage instead of the scoreboard.

They were too tired to trap as aggressively now.

Their big was retreating earlier.

The guard defending Kobe had begun sitting on his first move instead of reacting to it.

Detroit came up empty again, and Fisher brought the ball across.

Rambis’s voice carried from the sideline.

“Last one, Kobe!” Kobe looked toward him.

Rambis pointed at the bench.

Fisher saw it too.

He dribbled near the top and looked over.

“You want it?” Kobe held out his hand.

“What do you think?” Fisher laughed and passed it over.

Kobe pushed toward the elbow and stopped hard.

The defender nearly ran into him before catching his balance.

A sliver of space opened between them.

Kobe rose.

The defender’s hand came up late.

The ball left Kobe’s fingers cleanly and dropped straight through.

Fisher threw both arms into the air.

“This motherfucker.” Kobe smiled as he turned back.

Thirty-five.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Detroit barely had time to inbound before Rambis reached the scorer’s table.

At the next dead ball, the horn sounded for the substitution.

Kobe saw the reserve waiting for him and walked toward the sideline, already shaking his head.

Rambis pointed toward the bench.

“You’re done.” “I can finish.” Rambis stared at him.

“I know, but we’re up twenty-three, and I’m not explaining to Jerry why his seventeen-year-old lottery pick rolled an ankle in a game we already won.” Kobe opened his mouth.

Rambis cut him off.

“Sit your ass down.” Behind Kobe, Fisher covered his mouth.

Kobe turned.

“Don’t.” Fisher raised both hands.

“Didn’t say anything.” Bowen called from farther down the floor.

“Just sit down, Kobe.” Kobe smirked and walked toward the bench.

The reserves stood as he approached.

Hands slapped his back and shoulders, and somebody grabbed the back of his jersey.

One player farther down shouted, “Thank God.

Maybe somebody else can shoot now.” Kobe grabbed a towel.

“Make one first.” The bench erupted.

Kobe dropped into his chair smiling.

Across the floor, Jerry West remained in his seat near the baseline.

Their eyes met for a moment.

Jerry gave him one slow nod.

Kobe returned it.

Then he turned his attention back to the game.

Without him, the Lakers didn’t collapse, but the offense lost some of its shape.

The next possession wasn’t as clean.

One reserve cut too early, another drifted toward the same corner, and Detroit came back the other way and caught Bowen on a backdoor cut after nobody called the screen.

Bowen slapped his hands together.

“Talk!

Somebody call that!” A few possessions later, Wallace grabbed another rebound and nearly launched the outlet into traffic before pulling the ball back at the last possible second.

“Good decision!” Kobe shouted.

Wallace turned and stared at him while jogging upcourt.

Kobe grinned.

Wallace pointed at him.

“Don’t start.” Rambis eventually pulled Wallace too.

Wallace dropped into the chair beside Kobe with a towel around his neck and looked at the scoreboard.

“Good win.” Kobe looked at the clock.

“It’s not over.” Wallace stared at him, then at the twenty-plus-point lead, then back at Kobe.

The final minutes disappeared without much drama.

Detroit continued competing, but the urgency had drained out of them.

Fisher eventually came out and immediately began arguing that one of his turnovers shouldn’t have counted.

Bowen walked past him.

“You threw it directly to the other team.” “He wasn’t supposed to move there.” Bowen stared at him.

“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve said all day.” Fisher pointed toward Kobe.

“Tell him.” Kobe didn’t look away from the floor.

“Bad pass.” Bowen burst out laughing.

The horn finally sounded.

There was no giant celebration.

They had known for most of the fourth where the game was headed.

The Lakers stood, exchanged handshakes, and moved toward midcourt.

Kobe was still smiling when Fisher caught up and punched him lightly on the arm.

“You know you’re making this hard for the rest of us, right?” “How?” “Now everybody’s gonna expect us to do this every game.” Wallace was waiting near the tunnel with Knight.

The five of them disappeared into the concrete hallway together, and the noise from the court gradually faded behind them.

Knight adjusted the strap of his bag.

“Think we made enough mistakes for Rambis to yell tomorrow?” Fisher snorted.

“I had two turnovers.

He’ll find something.” “Three,” Kobe said.

Fisher stopped walking.

“What?” “You had three.” Fisher stared at him.

“You were counting my turnovers from the bench?” Fisher hurried after him.

“Man, worry about your own turnovers.” “I do.” “Clearly not enough if you’re counting mine.” The locker room was louder than it had been at halftime, but the tension was gone.

Shoes came off.

Jerseys landed over chair backs.

Someone turned on a radio in the corner, low enough that the music blended with the conversations around the room.

Knight stretched his legs halfway across the floor and groaned as he peeled off his socks.

“Finally.” Fisher looked over.

“What are you celebrating?” “My feet are free.” Bowen stared at him.

“Put those things away.” Knight laughed.

“I don’t care.

I’ve been waiting two hours for this.” Wallace took one look in Knight’s direction and moved his water farther away.

“Keep them over there.” A staffer came through several minutes later carrying a stack of papers.

“Box scores.” Fisher was out of his chair immediately.

“Let me see that.” The staffer laughed and handed him one.

Fisher found his own line first.

“Four assists, three turnovers, one steal.” He nodded thoughtfully.

“I’ll take it.” Bowen leaned over his shoulder.

“You shot two-for-eight.” Fisher lowered the sheet.

“Why are you looking at that?” Fisher leaned closer.

“Thirty-five points.” Something in his voice made Wallace lower his water bottle.

Fisher’s finger moved across the page.

“Ten rebounds.” Knight sat up.

Fisher looked at the next column and stopped again.

“Ten assists.” The room went quiet for a beat.

Bowen slowly lowered his shirt.

“No way.” Fisher held the paper higher.

“Thirty-five, ten, and ten.” Knight leaned forward.

“Triple-double?” Bowen looked at him.

“No, Travis.

That’s his shoe size.” Knight stared at him.

Bowen cracked a smile.

“Yes, it’s a triple-double.” Wallace looked toward Kobe.

“First game too.” Fisher stared across the room.

“Your first Summer League game and you put up thirty-five, ten, and ten?” Kobe held out his hand.

“Let me see.” Fisher gave him the sheet.

Kobe looked over the line.

Thirty-five points.

Ten rebounds.

Ten assists.

His eyes continued across the page until they reached the last number that interested him.

Three turnovers.

His mouth tightened.

Fisher caught it immediately.

Fisher looked genuinely offended.

“Thirty-five points.

Ten rebounds.

Ten assists.

And you’re worried about three turnovers?” “They gave them possessions.” “So did your thirty-five points!” Kobe looked back at the sheet.

“Could’ve been cleaner.” Fisher stared at him.

“You had a thirty-five-point triple-double.” Kobe tapped the turnover column.

“And somehow we tied here.” Fisher looked down at his own three turnovers, then slowly back at Kobe.

“Oh, fuck you.” Bowen lost it.

Kobe folded the box score neatly and slipped it into his bag.

By the time they finished dressing, the exhaustion had begun catching up with everyone.

The hallway outside was quieter now.

Most of the crowd had cleared.

He had played a good game, and by tomorrow there would be film of it in somebody else’s hands.

Coaches would rewind the possessions Detroit had gotten wrong.

Defenders would study where he liked to catch the ball, which shoulder he preferred to turn over, when he gave the ball up against pressure, and how quickly he recognized the second defender.

Kobe adjusted the strap of his bag and continued down the hallway.

Thirty-five points would get attention.

Ten rebounds would surprise people.

Ten assists would make them reconsider what they thought they knew about the seventeen-year-old guard the Lakers had traded for.

None of that interested him nearly as much as what came next.

For the first time all afternoon, the thought of tomorrow interested him more than what he had done today.

Now they could start trying to stop him.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

A little bit of a late post tonight, but hey: better late than never 😂.

I wasn’t about to let the night end without getting this chapter out to you guys.

I appreciate every single one of you following along with the story.