Chapter 46: The Number Eight

The next morning, the locker room was already loud before Kobe walked in.

Fisher and Bowen were arguing about sports drinks, Fisher insisting the expensive stuff was no different from whatever came in the cheapest bottle at the grocery store while Bruce kept asking why he cared so much.

Shaq hadn’t arrived yet, but there was a different energy in the room.

Preseason was close enough now that practice no longer felt like preparation for more practice.

Kobe made his way to his locker and stopped.

Gold and purple hung against the dull metal.

Everything else was where it normally was.

His shoes sat beneath the bench, a towel was folded on the shelf, and the usual tape and a new packet of wristbands had been left beside it.

The jersey was the only thing that hadn’t been there yesterday.

Kobe reached inside and took it off the hanger.

It was lighter than he remembered.

The fabric was still stiff, untouched by sweat or a washing machine, and the stitching along the back was clean enough that he could feel every raised edge beneath his thumb.

BRYANT.

He ran his hand across the letters before turning the jersey slightly.

8.

His thumb stopped there.

He’d worn plenty of jerseys before.

Lower Merion.

AAU.

Different teams when he was growing up in Italy.

He remembered some better than others, but none of them had been this one.

For a moment, he saw the same number somewhere else.

High above an empty arena.

Beside another jersey with the same name and a different number.

Nobody would ever wear either of them for the Lakers again.

Kobe stared at the 8 in his hands.

Funny.

He remembered what it looked like at the end.

Here, it hadn’t even begun.

“Eight?” Kobe looked over.

Nick had stopped behind him on the way to his locker.

“Yeah.” Nick looked at the jersey for another second and nodded.

“Looks good.” “Thanks.” Nick started to move on, then glanced back.

“It’ll look better after you start playing.” Nick continued down the row and dropped his bag in front of his locker.

Kobe looked at the jersey once more before laying it across the back of the bench.

Then he sat and started getting ready.

Tape around the fingers.

Socks.

Shoes.

He tightened the left one, moved to the right, then went back and redid the left when it didn’t feel quite the same.

He opened the packet of wristbands, considered one for a second, then tossed it back onto the shelf.

Behind him, Fisher and Bruce were somehow still going.

“I’m telling you,” Fisher said.

“Gatorade is just blue sugar.” “It’s a sports drink.” “Blue sugar.” “You drink Kool-Aid.” “That ain’t got nothing to do with this.” Bruce laughed.

“It’s a hundred times worse than Gatorade…

But at least it’s not Powerade.” Kobe shook his head and reached for the jersey.

There was no ceremony to it.

He pulled it over his head, slipped his arms through, and tugged it into place.

The new fabric settled against his shoulders differently than he remembered, stiffer around the edges, the fit not yet softened by hundreds of practices and games.

He looked down at the 8.

Twenty years of memories attached to a number that, as far as everyone else in the room knew, hadn’t done a damn thing yet.

“Kobe.” He looked up.

Fisher was pointing at him.

“Settle this.

Name-brand or store-brand?” Bruce groaned.

“Why you bringing him into it?” “Because he got sense.” Kobe looked between them, then reached down for his shoes.

“Whichever one’s cold.” Bruce laughed.

Fisher stared at him.

“That wasn’t one of the choices.” “Then you need better choices.” Kobe smiled as Fisher went right back to arguing with Bruce.

Around them, lockers slammed, and conversations overlapped.

Someone turned the music up.

Nick called across the room for somebody to toss him the tape.

The door opened, and another player walked in.

Kobe tied his shoes and stood.

The 8 settled against his back.

Then he headed out with everyone else.

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The house was quiet when Kobe got home.

The television was on in the living room, low enough that he could hear the crowd from whatever game Joe was watching without making out the announcers.

Kobe kicked off his shoes by the door, carried his bag into the kitchen, and dropped it beside the counter.

He opened the refrigerator and stood there for a few seconds.

Leftovers filled most of the second shelf, containers stacked behind one another, but he didn’t feel like sorting through them yet.

He reached into the crisper, grabbed an apple, and shut the door.

Then he remembered the jersey.

Kobe crouched beside his bag and unzipped the main compartment.

He had folded it separately before leaving the facility, away from the damp practice clothes and towels.

He pulled it out, shook it open once, and draped it across the back of one of the dining chairs.

Purple and gold.

BRYANT.

8.

He looked at it for another second before biting into the apple.

The television went quiet in the other room.

Joe came into the kitchen a few moments later.

“You eat?” Kobe held up the apple.

Joe looked at it.

“That’s not what I asked.” “I just got home.” “Your mother left food.” “I saw it.” “And you picked an apple.” Kobe took another bite.

“It’s a little appetizer.” Joe shook his head and started toward the refrigerator.

He made it two steps before noticing the jersey.

He stopped.

“When’d you get that?” “Today.” Joe walked over and picked it up by the shoulders.

His eyes went to the name first, then dropped to the number.

“Eight?” “Yeah.” “You picked it?” Kobe nodded.

“Why eight?” “ABCD.” Joe looked over the top of the jersey.

“What about it?” “My number was one-forty-three.” Joe waited.

Kobe kept eating.

After a few seconds, Joe said, “Okay.” Kobe smiled.

“You get the number 8 when you add it up.” Joe ran his thumb along the edge of the number.

“That’s really why?” “Part of it.” “What else?” “I wore eight in Italy.” Joe looked up.

“When you were little?” “Yeah.” “You remember that?” “Course I do.” Joe shook his head.

“Can’t remember to put a glass in the sink, but you remember a jersey number from when you were six.” Kobe pointed toward the sink with his apple.

“My glass is in there.” “Today.” Kobe laughed.

“It’s progress, aint it?” Joe looked back at the jersey.

“So camp and Italy.” “Pretty much.” Joe glanced at him.

“Pretty much?” Kobe took another bite.

“That’s it.” Joe watched him for a second longer.

Kobe could tell from his face that he didn’t entirely believe him, but Joe let it go.

“All right.” He turned the jersey around, checked the front, then flipped it back again.

His attention returned to the name above the number.

The teasing faded from his face, just enough for Kobe to notice.

Joe ran his thumb once across the lettering.

BRYANT.

Kobe had grown up seeing that name on his father’s jerseys, in old photographs and newspaper clippings from before he was born.

Now Joe was holding one with Kobe’s number beneath it.

“That’s crazy,” Joe said.

Kobe looked at him.

“What is?” Joe tapped the name.

Kobe smiled.

“You’ve seen your name on a jersey before.” “Only mine.” Kobe looked at the purple and gold in his father’s hands.

“Yeah.” Joe held it out a little farther, taking in the whole thing.

“It looks great; purple and gold go well with the Bryant name.” Kobe smiled.

“You bet it does.” Joe nodded once and lowered the jersey.

“Harris tell you anything today?” “Not much.” “You know what I’m asking.” “Rotation?” Joe nodded.

“They’re still moving everybody around.

Different groups, different minutes.” “How many you getting?” “Don’t know yet.” Joe handed the jersey back.

“Then don’t worry about it.” “I’m not.” “You get five, play five.

You get twenty, play twenty.

Let Harris worry about the rest.” Kobe nodded.

“That’s the plan.” Joe left it there.

Kobe draped the jersey over the chair again while Joe opened the refrigerator and started moving containers around.

Joe set a container of rice on the counter, then glanced back toward the jersey.

“You know I kept my first one.” Kobe looked over.

“Your first pro jersey?” “Yeah.” “You still got it?” “Somewhere.” “You don’t know where?” Joe shrugged.

“Ask your mother.

She knows where everything is.” Kobe smiled.

“That’s true.” “Probably packed away with stuff I haven’t seen in fifteen years.” “Then how do you know you still have it?” “Because if I threw it away, your mother would’ve held it over my head for about fifteen years.” Kobe laughed.

Joe carried the food toward the microwave, then stopped and nodded toward the jersey.

“Don’t be in such a hurry with that.” Kobe looked at him.

“With what?” Joe gestured toward the chair.

“First jersey.

First camp.

All of it.” He opened the microwave.

“It’ll feel normal soon enough.” Kobe’s eyes went back to the jersey.

For everyone else, it was new.

For Joe, it was his son’s first NBA jersey.

Something worth stopping in the kitchen to look at for a minute.

Kobe knew how quickly things like that stopped feeling new.

“Yeah,” he said.

“I know.” Joe slid the container into the microwave.

“You don’t know yet.” Kobe almost smiled.

If only you knew.

The microwave started humming.

Joe leaned against the counter and folded his arms.

“You nervous?” “About preseason?” “About playing.” Kobe shook his head.

“No.” Joe studied him.

“What?” “Nothing.” “You don’t believe me?” The microwave beeped a few minutes later.

Joe pulled the container out, set it on the counter, and pushed it toward him.

“Eat.” Kobe looked down at it.

“You heated it for me?” “I heated it because I got tired of watching you eat an apple.” Kobe laughed and put the apple down.

Joe started back toward the living room, then stopped beside the chair.

One shoulder of the jersey had folded underneath itself.

He fixed it without saying anything.

Kobe watched him pull the fabric straight, smoothing it once across the back until the name and number lay flat.

Then Joe stepped away.

“Dad.” Joe turned.

Kobe nodded toward the jersey.

“You like the eight?” Joe looked at the number.

“Ask me after you score in it.” Kobe laughed.

“That’s how we’re doing it?” “That’s how we’re doing it.” “And if I don’t score?” Joe started toward the living room again.

“Then we blame the number.” Kobe smiled.

“Not me?” “Depends how bad you play.” “Appreciate the support.” “Anytime.” Joe disappeared down the hallway, and a few seconds later the television got louder again.

Kobe pulled the food closer and picked up a fork.

Before taking the first bite, he glanced toward the dining chair.

His father had left the jersey perfectly straight.

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By Friday, the hallway outside the locker room had the restless feel of something about to start.

Two equipment trunks sat against the opposite wall, strips of white tape already marked for the first trip, while trainers and staff moved in and out carrying bags that hadn’t been there the day before.

A new sheet of paper had been taped just inside the locker-room entrance.

That was what had everyone’s attention.

Nick, Fisher, and Bowen were gathered around it when Kobe came down the hall.

Eddie joined them a second later, then Ben, until five grown men were crowded around a single piece of paper like somebody had posted the answers to a test.

Nick leaned closer.

“Clippers again?

Why we gotta play the Clippers in preseason, too?” Fisher shrugged.

“We gotta play somebody.” “We already see them enough.” Bruce passed behind them without stopping.

“You’ll survive.” Nick looked after him.

“Appreciate the concern.” Bruce kept walking.

Eddie leaned over Fisher’s shoulder.

“When’s the first day off?” Fisher traced a finger down the page.

“Man, that’s what you’re looking for?” “First thing.” “Season ain’t even started.” “Exactly.” That got a laugh from Nick.

Ben said nothing.

Kobe noticed that before anything else.

Ben stood slightly behind Fisher, towel hanging over one shoulder, his eyes moving slowly down the schedule.

He wasn’t looking for an off day.

He wasn’t complaining about opponents or checking how many times they had to travel.

His eyes stopped at each game before moving to the next.

Kobe knew what he was counting.

Minutes.

From farther down the hallway came Shaq’s voice.

“Who we got first?” “Golden State,” Fisher called back.

“Alright.” That was it.

A moment later, Fisher headed inside.

Eddie followed him, still talking about the schedule.

Nick gave the page one last look before disappearing through the doorway.

Ben remained a few seconds longer.

He read the sheet from top to bottom once more.

Then he walked inside without saying anything.

Kobe waited until the doorway cleared before stepping closer.

He scanned the page.

Opponents.

Dates.

Locations.

Most of it barely registered.

His eyes stopped at the first game.

Lakers vs.

Warriors @ Great Western Forum Kobe stared at the line.

The Forum.

For a moment, the hallway around him seemed farther away.

He remembered the tunnel.

The old smell of the building, hardwood and rubber mixed with popcorn from somewhere beyond the stands.

He remembered the quiet underneath the arena and how quickly it disappeared once you stepped toward the court.

He remembered the light.

He remembered what twenty thousand people sounded like when the noise stopped being something beyond the walls and hit you all at once.

Kobe knew that building.

He knew the walk from the locker room to the court.

He knew how the floor felt beneath his shoes.

He knew what the place sounded like after a win and what remained after everyone had gone home.

Except he didn’t.

Not yet.

His eyes returned to the first line.

Same building.

Different beginning.

“You ready?” Kobe looked over.

Shaq had doubled back.

His gym bag hung from one shoulder, and his eyes moved from Kobe to the schedule.

“For Golden State?” “For all of it.” The question caught Kobe differently than he’d expected.

He looked back at the page.

“Yeah.” Shaq studied him for a second, then nodded.

“Aight.” He started away.

That was all.

No advice.

No speech about what the first game felt like.

Shaq had played enough of them to know there wasn’t much worth saying before one.

Kobe watched him go.

Someone came up behind Kobe and tapped him between the shoulder blades.

“Move, rook.” Nick squeezed past him toward the schedule.

“Thought you already read it.” “I want to etch it into memory; it saves time later.” Kobe shook his head and headed inside.

The hallway kept moving around him.

Trainers passed in both directions.

One of the equipment guys dragged another case toward the others, its wheels rattling over the seams in the floor.

Somewhere inside the locker room, somebody yelled for tape.

Kobe reached the doorway and glanced back once.

The schedule was still there, one corner beginning to curl away from the wall.

Lakers vs.

Warriors @ Great Western Forum.