Chapter 40: Breaking News

Kobe came downstairs a little after nine to the smell of eggs and something baking.

Joe was at the kitchen table with the sports section spread open beside his coffee, while Pam stood at the counter with flour dusted across the front of her shirt.

Joe didn’t look up.

“You want eggs, or you want to read about yourself first?” Kobe considered.

“Is there a difference?” Pam snorted.

“You’d think after four games, it’d get old.” Kobe just shrugged and opened the fridge.

There was a low hum from the tiny TV wedged between cookbooks; someone on the local morning news was talking Lakers, voice smooth and manufactured, the cadence always rising on “Kobe Bryant” before flattening out for the rest.

He grabbed the orange juice, poured, and sat opposite Joe.

The newspaper was already folded to the Lakers story.

There was a photo, grainy and awkward, of Kobe driving past a pair of defenders, his arm fully extended, the look on his face not one of joy, but of someone making a precise adjustment midair.

The headline, by comparison, was microscopic: “BRYANT MAKES HIS MARK IN LONG BEACH” Kobe read the subhead: “Seventeen-year-old rookie averages thirty-six points over four games in Long Beach.” Then a paragraph about how “the former Lower Merion standout” showed “a veteran’s poise,” and a quote from Rambis saying the kid had “a real knack for getting to his spots.” Joe said, “Thirty-six a game, and they still don’t call you a guard.

You’re just a rookie.” Kobe took a sip.

“Better than nothing.” Pam set a plate of eggs in front of him.

“Eat before those get cold.” She glanced down at the article, then toward the TV.

“You see this?” she asked Joe, nodding toward the headline.

Joe didn’t answer, but Kobe saw the grin in the corner of his mouth.

From the living room, the sound of the television shifted, the anchor voice replaced by a new one: deeper, more urgent, the kind reserved for tornado warnings or political coups.

The screen filled with footage of a man in a suit and a Lakers cap, holding up a purple jersey for the cameras.

Then the words crawling across the bottom of the screen caught his eye.

SHAQUILLE O’NEAL IS A LOS ANGELES LAKER.

Beneath it came the number that made Joe lower his newspaper.

Seven years.

$120 million.

Kobe looked at the TV.

Shaquille O’Neal’s face filled the screen.

The smile was impossible to ignore.

The anchor’s voiceover ran through the resume: twenty-four years old, three All-Star selections, already in the Olympics, the future of the franchise.

The anchor called it the “blockbuster of the summer.” The next cut was to the Orlando Magic GM, red-faced and reading from a statement about “making every good-faith effort to retain a Hall-of-Fame talent.” Then another cut, this time to the 405, where a traffic reporter claimed that local radio “can’t stop talking about the Lakers’ new one-two punch.” He finished his breakfast while the coverage kept going.

Every angle seemed to get its turn: the contract, Shaq leaving Orlando, what Jerry West had pulled off, and what a star that big could become in Los Angeles.

Before long, they were already talking about championships and whether Shaq could bring Showtime back to the Forum.

Pam finished her prep, wiped her hands, and sat at the table with them.

The sound of Shaq’s laughter carried from the TV into the kitchen.

Joe said, “You score forty-six, and the next morning it’s like it never happened.” Kobe shrugged.

“Doesn’t change what I did.” Pam watched another Shaq dunk shake the rim on the television.

“Lord, look at that man.” Kobe followed her eyes to the screen and smiled.

He finished his breakfast in silence.

The TV rolled on: more Shaq, more speculation, a long segment about cap space and Hollywood opportunities, a feature on how the Forum was already preparing for a “Showtime revival.” A mention of Jerry West, of team culture, of the pressure that comes with playing in L.A.

Then, as if as an afterthought, the anchor added, “And in other Lakers news, rookie Kobe Bryant continued his hot streak at Long Beach with forty-six points last night.

The team hopes the seventeen-year-old can grow into a complementary piece next to the new star big man.” The TV segued into coverage of the Olympics, then the Dodgers’ pitching rotation, and then a traffic accident in Van Nuys.

The room went quiet except for the hum of the fridge.

Joe set his coffee down.

“Can’t really blame them.” Kobe glanced across the table.

His father didn’t look bothered by it.

If anything, the small smile still hanging around his mouth said enough.

Pam looked over from the counter.

“You coming with me to the store?” Kobe shook his head.

“I’ve got film.” “Of course you do.” She smiled.

“Should’ve known better than to ask.” He rinsed his plate, set it in the sink, then headed upstairs to his room, the echo of Shaq’s voice trailing after him from the kitchen.

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By the time Kobe left for the gym, Shaq was everywhere.

His face was on televisions behind restaurant counters, his name came through car radios at stoplights, and every sports show in Los Angeles seemed to be asking some version of the same question: what the hell had Jerry West just built?

Kobe heard it again on the drive to the gym.

A local sports station had spent most of the morning taking calls, and the opinions were getting more ridiculous by the minute.

One caller from Inglewood had already guaranteed a championship.

Another wanted to know whether the Lakers could win seventy games.

The host finally cut him off.

“Seventy?

They haven’t practiced together yet.” The caller didn’t care.

“They got Shaq.” The host laughed.

“Yeah, I heard you the first four times.” Kobe drove with the window cracked, listening as the next caller brought up Seattle.

That started an argument about Gary Payton and Shawn Kemp, which turned into Houston, then Utah, then inevitably Chicago.

One man waited on hold for nearly twenty minutes just to announce that none of it mattered because Michael Jordan was still alive.

Kobe laughed at that one.

At least somebody had remembered there were other teams in the league.

The radio host eventually brought the conversation back to the Lakers.

“Look, Shaq changes everything.

That’s obvious.

But they already had Van Exel, Eddie Jones, Ceballos, Elden Campbell.

They’ve got some young guys coming in.

Bryant had himself a hell of a run down in Long Beach.

Fisher looked solid.

The question isn’t whether they have talent anymore.

The question is how the hell Del Harris is supposed to fit all of it together.” That was a better question.

Kobe turned into the lot and immediately saw what the signing had done to the building.

Three television vans were parked near the entrance, cables running across the pavement toward reporters setting up live shots.

A photographer stood near the doors with a camera hanging against his chest, and another reporter was arguing with a Lakers employee who apparently had no intention of letting him inside.

Kobe grabbed his bag and headed toward the entrance.

“Kobe!” He kept walking.

“Kobe, quick question!” He raised a hand.

“Have you spoken to Shaq yet?” Kobe glanced back.

“Nope.” “Are you excited to play with him?” “Yep.” The reporter waited.

Kobe waited too.

“That’s it?” “You said a quick question.” The cameraman was caught off guard.

Kobe smiled and slipped through the doors before the reporter could try again.

Fisher was already inside, sitting in front of his locker with one shoe on.

He looked up when Kobe entered.

“How many got you?” “One.” “No way only one?” Kobe dropped his bag.

“They gotta ask better questions.” A television played from the lounge outside the locker room.

Nobody was really watching until Shaq appeared again.

Fisher leaned sideways to see around the doorway while tying his other shoe.

“They still talking about this?” Bowen glanced toward the screen.

“What else they gonna talk about?” “Baseball or some other shit.” The television moved through the Lakers roster while two analysts argued over where the team belonged in the West.

One had Los Angeles behind Seattle and Utah but ahead of Houston.

The other thought adding Shaq immediately put the Lakers beside anybody in the conference.

“Everybody needs to calm down,” the first analyst said.

“O’Neal is a monster.

Nobody’s arguing that.

But you don’t win the West in July.” “I’m not saying they won it.” “You damn near did.” “I said they’re dangerous.” “They were dangerous last year.” “Now they have Shaq.” The first analyst threw his hands up.

“See?

That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Fisher walked into the lounge.

“I’m with that dude.” Kobe came through behind them, carrying his shoes.

“Bryant had a good week in Long Beach,” one analyst said.

“There’s something there.” “Sure.” “You don’t sound convinced.” “Because I’m not supposed to be convinced yet.

Let the kid play an NBA game first.” “That’s fair.” “I’m not knocking him.

I like him.

I just don’t know what he is yet.” Fisher glanced at Kobe.

Kobe caught it.

“Don’t.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You were about to.” Kobe laughed and headed for the court.

Rambis didn’t acknowledge any of the noise outside.

The first hour was almost painfully ordinary.

They stretched, shot, ran through transition work, and spent enough time on defensive rotations that Fisher eventually groaned when Rambis sent them back to the baseline.

“Again.” Fisher put his hands on his hips.

“That was good.” Rambis stared at him.

Fisher nodded.

“Again sounds good.” Bowen passed him on the way back.

“Smart.” “I know when to fight my battles.” “You were about to lose that one.” “I didn’t ask you.” They reset.

The work continued until Rambis finally called them off the floor and sent them toward the film room.

Nobody needed to be told twice.

Wallace had already sweated through his shirt, Knight was dragging a towel over his face, and Fisher had spent the last five minutes claiming the air conditioning had stopped working.

The film room was cooler, which immediately improved Fisher’s mood.

“See?” he said as he dropped into a chair.

“Civilization.” Knight sat behind him.

“You complain too much.” “I was hot.” “We were all hot.” “Then you should’ve complained too.” Rambis walked in.

“You done?” Fisher sat up.

“Yep.” “Good.” The Phoenix tape started.

Rambis moved through it quickly.

He wasn’t interested in the final score or the shots that had made the crowd react.

He stopped on bad spacing, late rotations and possessions where the right decision had happened for the wrong reason.

He froze one defensive possession with Bowen caught halfway between the corner and the paint.

“Bruce.” Bowen leaned forward.

“Yeah.” “What are you doing?” “Helping.” “Who?” Bowen stared at the screen.

Rambis waited.

Fisher turned around in his chair.

“That’s a good question.” Bowen pointed at him without looking away from the screen.

“Shut up.” Rambis rewound the possession.

Phoenix drove.

Fisher cut off the lane.

Bowen took an unnecessary step toward the ball, leaving the corner open.

The pass went out, and the shooter missed.

Rambis froze it again.

Bowen sighed.

“All right.” “All right what?” “I didn’t need to come down.” “There we go.” Fisher nodded seriously.

“Growth.” Bowen kicked the back of his chair.

“Hey.” “Growth.” A few guys laughed.

Rambis moved on.

Knight got caught opening his hips too early on a screen.

Fisher missed Wallace rolling completely on another possession.

Wallace rotated late from the weak side and still managed to block the shot, which only made Rambis more irritated.

He paused the tape.

“Ben, that’s bad defense.” Wallace frowned at the screen.

“I blocked it.” “You did.” Wallace looked at Rambis.

Rambis raised an eyebrow.

“So?” A couple of guys started laughing.

Wallace shook his head.

“Man.” “You won’t block everything.” Wallace leaned back.

“I’ll try.” That got Rambis too.

He fought the smile for half a second before pointing the remote at the screen again.

“Just rotate earlier.” The next clip was Kobe’s.

He came off a screen, rejected it, got into the lane and tried to squeeze a pass through traffic that Phoenix knocked away.

Rambis paused it.

Kobe already knew.

“You see it?” “Corner.” “Before you even got into the lane.” “Yeah.” “Good.” Rambis pressed play.

No speech.

No compliment.

Just the mistake and the correction.

Kobe preferred it that way.