Chapter 41: Making the Cut Bonus Chapter

The next morning, Rambis changed the tone without announcing it.

When Kobe came out of the locker room, a dozen unfamiliar players were already on the second court.

Some looked young enough to still be carrying college habits.

Others looked like they had been doing this for years.

One man had tape wrapped around both knees.

Another had the thick shoulders of somebody who had spent most of his career fighting for minutes in smaller leagues.

Kobe recognized a few faces from the CBA and overseas, but most of them were just names on the edge of somebody’s roster.

Fisher stopped next to him.

“Who the hell are these dudes?” An assistant passing by heard him.

“Competition.” Fisher frowned.

“That sounds worse than an answer.” The assistant tossed him a practice jersey.

“Maybe you’ll pay attention.” Bowen walked past them toward the court.

“He probably won’t.” Fisher looked at Kobe.

“Why does everybody wake up ready to talk shit to me?” Kobe smiled.

“You make it easy.” Rambis blew his whistle before Fisher could keep going.

Light against dark.

First to twenty-one.

Ones and twos.

That was all they got.

Kobe liked that better.

The first possession started ugly and stayed that way.

His defender picked him up high and never really gave him space after that.

Kobe changed direction near the wing and felt a forearm ride into his hip.

When he tried to turn the corner, the same arm was still there.

No whistle.

Kobe looked at the man.

The man looked back.

“What?” Kobe nodded once.

“Nothing.” Wallace came up to screen.

Kobe waited until his defender leaned into him again, then brought him straight toward Ben.

The screen stopped him cold.

“Aw, fuck.” Kobe turned the corner, drew the big, and slipped the ball down to Wallace for the finish.

The defender caught up on the way back and rubbed his chest.

Fisher had his own problem a few minutes later.

He fought over a screen, took an elbow across the jaw, and immediately looked toward the sideline.

“Come on, man.” The official waved him on.

Fisher pointed at his face.

“He damn near took my head off.” “Play.” Fisher looked toward Rambis.

Rambis just pointed downcourt.

Fisher sighed and started running.

“Everybody blind today.

Got it.” Kobe passed him near half court.

“You still got your teeth?” Fisher ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek.

Kobe grinned.

Bowen’s matchup turned into something else entirely.

He and the wing across from him had been grabbing each other off the ball for several possessions, each one pretending the other had started it.

Eventually the wing shoved Bowen’s hand away.

“Get off me.” The wing threw his hands up.

“Man, what the fuck?” Kobe had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

A few possessions later, Bowen got called for hooking the same man’s arm.

He spun toward the official.

“For what?” Fisher was already grinning.

As they changed ends, Fisher passed Bowen and gave him a solemn nod.

“Stay strong.” Bowen shoved him away.

The scrimmage kept getting more physical.

Nobody was trying to impress with pretty possessions anymore.

The older players bumped cutters, sat on drives, pulled at jerseys, and made every rebound feel like somebody had to lose something to get it.

Wallace took the hardest hit of the morning.

A long miss came off the rim, and Ben went up between two bigger players with both hands extended.

He got the rebound, but an elbow caught him across the mouth on the way down.

He hit the floor hard.

Everybody nearby stopped.

Wallace rolled onto one knee and stood before the trainer even reached him.

Blood was already running down his chin.

Rambis blew the whistle.

“Ben.

Bench.” Wallace wiped his mouth and looked at the blood on his hand.

“I’m good.” Rambis stared at him.

“You’re bleeding.” Wallace checked his hand again.

“It’s not that bad.” Another drop hit the floor.

Knight looked down.

“That’s definitely blood.” Rambis pointed toward the bench.

“Sit down before you decorate the whole court.” Wallace looked like he wanted to argue, but the trainer had already grabbed him by the arm.

Fisher turned away and covered his mouth.

Kobe saw him shaking.

Wallace noticed too.

He shook his head and let the trainer pull him away.

Ben was back before Kobe expected him to be.

His lip was swollen and there was still a little gauze tucked near the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t say anything about it.

He just checked back in, planted himself under the rim, and ripped an offensive rebound away from a taller center.

Fisher was on the wing.

“Ben!” Wallace kicked it out.

Fisher caught it and made the three.

The game ended at twenty-one, though nobody seemed particularly interested in the score once it was over.

Kobe stayed near half court, hands on his hips, catching his breath while the other players grabbed towels and water.

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The next few days were quieter, but not less important.

There were no crowds waiting outside the gym and no reporters lining the hallway.

Instead, there were phone calls.

Agents stepped into offices and shut doors behind them.

Players disappeared for an hour and came back trying not to look too pleased with themselves.

The basketball had stopped for the moment.

Now came the part where everyone found out what the last few weeks had actually earned them.

Three days after the final summer league game, the phone rang at the Bryant house.

Kobe picked it up upstairs and barely got out a hello before Bowen said, “I’m in.” Kobe sat on the edge of his bed.

“In where?” “Man, don’t do that shit.” “Do what?” Kobe smiled.

“The Lakers, Kobe.

The fucking Lakers.” That wiped the joke from Kobe’s face.

“They called you?” “My agent called this morning.

I gotta go in, sign some stuff, do whatever else they want me to do, but yeah.

It’s happening.” Bruce went quiet for a second, then added, “Shit, man.

I’m really in.” Kobe leaned back against the wall.

He could hear Bruce moving around on the other end of the line, probably pacing.

“Congratulations.” “Yeah.

Thanks.” Bruce exhaled hard into the receiver.

“I thought they were gonna make me wait.

Maybe another workout, maybe camp, maybe tell me they’d call and then never fucking call.” Kobe knew how close that was to the life Bruce had originally lived.

In the timeline he remembered, Bowen had spent years bouncing between France and the edge of the NBA before finally finding somewhere he could stay.

Eventually, he would become one of the league’s most hated defenders, win three championships, and collect eight All-Defensive selections.

None of that belonged to him yet.

Right now, Bruce was just a young player trying not to sound overwhelmed because somebody had finally told him yes.

“You earned it,” Kobe said.

“I know.” Bruce paused.

“Well…

I was hooping my ass off.” Kobe sighed.

“There’s that ego I was missing.” “Fuck you.” Bruce laughed too, and some of the tension disappeared from his voice.

“Fish already called me, by the way.” Kobe frowned.

“How the hell does Fisher know?” “I was gonna ask you.” Kobe shook his head.

“I have no idea.

That dude knows everything.

Somebody needs to check his phone.” Bruce laughed again.

“He probably got a cousin working in the front office.” Kobe shook his head.

“You tell Ben yet?” “Not yet.” “Give him a call.” “I will.” Kobe continued, “Then go celebrate or something.” Bruce laughed.

“Celebrate with what money?” Kobe laughed.

“Fair enough.” Bruce went quiet again, only this time Kobe could tell there was something else coming.

When he finally spoke, his voice had lost most of the joking edge.

“Hey, Kobe.

For real, though…

I appreciate you, man.” Kobe knew exactly what he meant, which was why he decided not to let the conversation go anywhere near sentimental.

Kobe smiled.

“You earned it on your own, Bruce.” “Thanks, man.” The line clicked dead, and Kobe sat there for another moment with the receiver still in his hand.

Somewhere in Los Angeles, Bruce Bowen was probably staring at paperwork that had changed the direction of his life.

Kobe put the phone down and smiled.

One down.

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Ben’s situation was messier.

Pelinka called later that afternoon, and Pam answered downstairs before holding the receiver toward Kobe as he came into the kitchen.

“Rob.

He sounds tired.” Kobe took the phone.

“What happened?” “Hello to you too.” “Hello.

What happened?” Pelinka sighed.

“I liked this relationship better when I only had to worry about you.” Kobe leaned against the counter.

“Ben?” “Yes, Ben.” “What are they offering?” “Jesus Christ.

Can I finish one sentence?” “Go ahead.” “The Lakers want to keep him around.

They like what he did in Long Beach, they like the rebounding, they like the defense, and apparently getting his mouth split open and trying to keep playing helped his case more than I would have expected.” Kobe smiled.

“Guaranteed?” There was a pause.

“Kobe.” “That means no.” “That means I’m working on it.” “Rob we need him.” Rob went silent.

Kobe waited.

“You know,” Rob finally said, “most people don’t tell their agent how to negotiate somebody else’s contract.” “They also don’t recruit clients for him either.” Rob groaned.

“You’re becoming an exhausting client.” Kobe laughed.

“Get Ben the guaranteed money.” “I’m trying.

Other teams noticed him, which helps.

The Lakers know that.

Everybody knows that.

Let me handle it.” “All right.” Rob sounded genuinely surprised.

“That’s it?” “You’re not going to argue?” Kobe laughed.

“Rob.” “What?” “Good work.” The silence on the other end lasted just long enough to tell Kobe he’d caught him off guard.

“Yeah, well…

somebody has to clean up after you.” “Talk to you later.” Kobe looked toward the kitchen.

Pam was standing by the refrigerator listening without even pretending she wasn’t.

The line went dead.

Kobe handed the phone back, and Pam put it on the counter.

“Good news?” “Looks like Ben might stay.” “The quiet one?” “Yeah.” “I like him.” Kobe looked at her.

“You met him once.” “He thanked me for dinner.” Kobe frowned.

“So?” Pam gave him a look.

“Some of your friends don’t.” Kobe frowned.

“Who?” She walked out of the kitchen.

“Mom.” Pam kept going.

“Who?” He heard her laughing from the hallway.

By the end of the week, Bowen’s deal was done.

Wallace’s took more work, but eventually that got handled too.

Knight’s future remained less certain, although the Lakers kept him around while his agent worked through his options.

The group wasn’t going to remain exactly as it had been, but neither was everyone packing up and disappearing.

What Kobe noticed afterward had nothing to do with contracts.

It was the small stuff.

Guys stopped treating the locker room like borrowed space.

Fisher left clothes hanging from his locker overnight.

Bowen had toiletries sitting on the shelf above his nameplate.

One afternoon Kobe walked in and found a pair of Wallace’s shoes tucked neatly underneath his locker.

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July eventually disappeared into August.

The Olympics took over television, Shaq’s signing stopped being breaking news every twelve minutes, and the collection of television vans outside the Lakers facility gradually vanished.

The building itself started changing instead.

Equipment arrived in boxes.

Staff members Kobe hadn’t seen during Summer League returned from whatever they’d been doing.

Lockers that had sat empty began getting nameplates.

Then the veterans started coming back.

Elden Campbell appeared first, followed by Eddie Jones, and suddenly the workouts felt different.

These weren’t free agents fighting for somebody to remember their names.

These were NBA players with established roles, habits, and opinions about how things were supposed to be done.

Kobe found himself paying attention to everything: how Eddie moved without the ball, where Campbell preferred his catches, which passes veterans expected to arrive without having to call for them.

Nick Van Exel made his entrance considerably harder to miss.

Kobe and Fisher were shooting when a voice came booming down the hallway.

“Who moved my shit?” Fisher stopped with the ball tucked against his hip.

Somebody outside answered him.

“No, no.

Don’t give me that.

My locker was right there.” Kobe smiled before Nick even entered the gym.

A few seconds later Van Exel appeared in the doorway, still looking over his shoulder.

“I leave for one damn summer and y’all start redecorating.” He turned and noticed Kobe and Fisher standing there.

Nick looked between them.

“Which one of y’all took my locker?” Fisher pointed at Kobe without hesitation.

Kobe stared at him.

“Really?” Nick looked Kobe up and down, then shook his head.

“Nah.

Wasn’t him.” Kobe raised an eyebrow.

“How you know?” “My shit wouldn’t fit in that little-ass locker.” Fisher burst out laughing.

Kobe looked down at himself, then back at Nick.

“Good to meet you too.” Nick grabbed a ball from the rack.

“You Bryant?” “Yeah.” Kobe waited for whatever came next.

Nick walked several feet behind the three-point line and launched without warming up.

Swish.

He caught the return bounce and looked at Kobe.

“Don’t believe everything you hear about me.” Kobe smiled.

“Never heard of you.” Fisher lost it, and damn near rolled on the ground laughing.

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By September, the facility didn’t feel like the place Kobe had walked into for Summer League anymore.

The gym was louder, the practices sharper, and there were fewer possessions where mistakes could be covered by effort alone.

Eddie talked constantly on defense.

Campbell made the paint feel smaller simply by standing in it.

Nick argued about foul calls in games without referees.

Fisher spent most days trying to prove he belonged with players who had already spent years in the league.

Kobe loved the change.

September kept moving, and more of the building filled in around them.

There were fewer empty lockers now.

More trainers.

More coaches.

More players drifting in and out.

Training camp was close enough that conversations had started changing from summer plans to rotations, conditioning, preseason schedules, and what the team might actually look like once everyone was finally in the same room.

There was still one locker that hadn’t been claimed.

Kobe passed it often enough that eventually he stopped consciously looking at it.

He knew who was missing.

Everybody did.

The biggest signing in basketball had spent most of the summer with the Olympic team, and nobody at the facility seemed particularly concerned about when he would finally appear.

Shaquille O’Neal would get there when Shaquille O’Neal got there.

Kobe didn’t ask.

There was something almost useful about leaving the meeting somewhere in the future.

Shaq belonged to too many memories at once.

Some were among the best Kobe had.

Others were anything but.

Trying to decide how he felt about meeting a twenty-four-year-old version of a man he had already loved, hated, fought beside, fought against, won championships with, and eventually made peace with seemed pointless.

So Kobe left it alone.

One afternoon, after a long workout, he came back into the locker room to grab his bag.

Fisher and Nick were arguing somewhere down the hallway about where they were eating.

Wallace had already left.

Kobe slung his bag over his shoulder and started toward the door before something near the empty locker caught his eye.

A large black equipment bag sat on the bench underneath it.

Kobe slowed.

He was certain it hadn’t been there that morning.

There was no name on the locker yet, but a pair of enormous basketball shoes sat beside the bag, still inside a box.

Kobe stared at them for a moment.

Fisher’s voice carried from the hallway.

“Kobe!

You coming or what?” Kobe looked toward the door, then once more at the shoes.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and walked out.

Whatever happened next could wait until tomorrow.

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GIF, and all the support you guys continue to show the story.

Every milestone means more chapters, and I’m going to keep holding up my end of the deal.