Chapter 65: What Is Kobe Bryant Worth?

The office manager handed Rob the call and returned to her ledger.

Kobe sat back down.

Rob clicked the line open. “I’m here.”

The Adidas executive skipped the congratulations this time. “I spoke with my people.”

Rob pulled the Adidas folder back in front of him. The forty-eight-million-dollar proposal was still sitting on top, the same number Rob had told them wasn’t enough less than twenty minutes earlier.

“And?”

“We can move.”

Kobe settled into the chair.

“Fifty-three million,” the executive said. “Six years. Same basic structure, with more of the guarantee paid in the first three.”

Rob’s pen stopped above the legal pad.

Five million dollars.

Less than twenty minutes.

Kobe looked at the clock on the wall. He’d barely had enough time to put his bag over his shoulder, stand up, and decide he was leaving.

Rob didn’t react to the number. “Send the revised terms.”

“We will. But I need something from you first.”

“What?”

“Does that put us in front?”

Rob glanced across the table at Kobe. “It improves your position.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“It’s the answer I can give you.”

The executive went quiet for a moment. “We’re moving five million dollars, Rob.”

“I understand.”

“And you can’t tell me whether that makes us competitive?”

“I’ve already told you you’re competitive. I’m not going to use another company’s confidential proposal to negotiate yours.”

Another pause came through the speaker, followed by a quieter conversation somewhere on the Adidas end. Kobe couldn’t make out the words.

When the executive returned, his tone had changed.

“If we’re going to keep doing this, we need Kobe in the room.”

Rob’s pen moved again. “For what?”

“Not another contract presentation. Basketball. Marketing. Product. We want him sitting across from the people who would actually be working with him.”

Kobe looked up.

“We were serious about Kobe before the preseason,” the executive continued. “We’re more serious now. But if we’re talking about changing the scale of this relationship, our people need to hear what he wants directly from him.”

Rob looked across the table.

Kobe nodded once.

“We’ll work around the Lakers’ schedule,” Rob said. “Basketball comes first.”

“Understood.”

“And send the fifty-three in writing.”

“You’ll have it.”

Rob hung up.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The office manager’s calculator resumed clicking beyond the doorway as though five million dollars hadn’t just appeared during the time it took Kobe to almost leave the building.

Kobe looked at the Adidas folder.

“Fifty-three.”

“Assuming the paper matches the call.”

“They moved five million.”

Rob capped his pen. “They moved because they decided losing you might cost more.”

Kobe looked at the clock again.

Twenty minutes.

Five million dollars.

And Adidas still didn’t know whether it was enough.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The next morning, the money wasn’t the first thing Kobe noticed when he stepped into Rob’s office.

It was the messages.

Pink, yellow, and white slips overlapped beside the office manager’s telephone, some folded at the corners, others covered in handwriting squeezed into whatever space remained. There had to be twenty visible, with another stack held together by a rubber band near her ledger.

Rob followed Kobe’s attention. “That’s just this morning.”

Kobe glanced at the clock. “It’s barely ten.”

“Eleven reporters. Los Angeles, Philadelphia, New York. Somebody from Japan called twice.” Rob picked up several slips and flipped through them. “One of them called her house before breakfast.”

Kobe’s mouth twitched. Two local television stations were represented in the pile, along with the Philadelphia Inquirer, ESPN, and several names he didn’t recognize. Before he could look any closer, the telephone rang again.

The office manager answered on the second ring. “Good morning. Mr. Pelinka is unavailable at the moment, but I can take a message.”

Another slip joined the pile.

“What are you telling them?” Kobe asked.

“Nothing they shouldn’t know.” Rob headed toward the conference table. “We don’t leak contracts. We don’t tell reporters who’s leading, and we don’t invent numbers because we think they’ll help us. If they want an interview with you, I tell them you’re focused on the season. If they ask about negotiations, I tell them negotiations are ongoing.”

Kobe looked at the three folders.

Nike had agreed to reconsider its financial package. Reebok had already floated another three million without being asked. Adidas had gone further and actually put five million more on the table.

“And they keep calling.”

“They know something’s happening. Too many people are involved now. Executives. Lawyers. Marketing departments. Agents. Three companies don’t start moving this kind of money at the same time without somebody noticing.”

Rob’s telephone rang.

He answered it, listened for several seconds, and immediately settled into the same guarded tone Kobe had heard the day before.

“No, I’m not discussing specific terms.” A pause. “I understand what you’ve heard.” Another pause followed before Rob’s eyes shifted toward the folders. “Where did you hear fifty?”

Kobe stopped.

“No comment,” Rob said. “If I have something I can give you, I’ll call.”

He hung up.

“Fifty?”

“There’s a rumor somebody crossed fifty million.”

Kobe looked at Reebok’s folder first, then Adidas’s.

There were now two proposals above fifty.

Kobe leaned against the table. Once enough people knew a secret, keeping it secret became its own kind of competition. He’d seen that often enough in his first life.

“Why are we telling them nothing?”

Rob looked at him. “What are you suggesting?”

Kobe nodded toward the messages. “Tell them what’s true.”

Rob considered the telephone for another moment. “I can confirm all three companies are actively pursuing you. That’s true. I can confirm interest increased after the preseason. That’s true. Anything beyond that, they find themselves.”

“That’s enough.”

Rob called a reporter he trusted at the Los Angeles Times.

The conversation lasted less than five minutes. Nike, Adidas, and Reebok were actively negotiating with Kobe Bryant. Interest had intensified following his preseason. No decision had been made. Rob refused to discuss numbers, refused to identify a leader, and refused to say whether Kobe preferred one company.

When he hung up, Kobe looked at him. “That’s it?”

“I gave him something he can print.”

“And the rest?”

“They can do their jobs.”

The telephone rang again.

Neither of them reached for it.

By early afternoon, the questions had changed. Reporters weren’t asking whether three companies were pursuing Kobe anymore. They wanted to know how large the bidding had become. One report claimed the negotiations could produce one of the largest rookie endorsement agreements basketball had seen.

Rob folded the report. “This is what I meant. We confirm what’s ours to confirm. The rest isn’t our story to tell.”

By evening, it wasn’t theirs anymore.

Kobe sat on the edge of his hotel bed with dinner cooling beside him and the scouting material Del Harris had given him open near the tray.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Kobe watched himself come around a screen and fire a pass toward the weak side. Another highlight followed his pull-up over Dumars, then the drive past Hill.

But nobody was talking about the game.

The highlights disappeared, replaced by Ernie Johnson behind a TNT desk.

“More than fifty million dollars,” Ernie said. “That’s the number being reported tonight in connection with Kobe Bryant and what has apparently become a bidding war between Nike, Adidas, and Reebok.”

A graphic appeared beside him.

KOBE BRYANT — 18 YEARS OLD

Ernie glanced at it.

“That’s the part that makes this remarkable. Bryant hasn’t played a regular-season game yet.”

“I think it’s crazy,” one analyst said. “We’re talking about more than fifty million dollars for a kid who hasn’t played one NBA minute that counts.”

The former player beside him shook his head. “You’re looking at what he is today. These companies aren’t.”

“He’s eighteen.”

“Exactly. He’s eighteen, he’s in Los Angeles, and he’s playing with Shaquille O’Neal. If you’re giving him six or seven years, you’re not paying for November of 1996. You’re betting on what Kobe Bryant might be at twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five.”

“And if he isn’t?”

“Then somebody made a very expensive mistake.”

Ernie leaned forward slightly. “But doesn’t the competition itself change things? If Nike believes Adidas is willing to go that high, and Adidas believes Reebok is willing to go that high—”

“That’s my point,” the first analyst cut in. “At some point you’re not bidding against the player anymore. You’re bidding against each other.”

The highlights started again behind them.

Kobe splitting two defenders.

Kobe rising from the elbow.

Kobe finding Shaq underneath.

“These are preseason games,” the analyst said.

“And Nike, Adidas, and Reebok know that. They’re bidding anyway.”

Ernie looked toward the monitor.

“Whatever the final number turns out to be, one thing is clear. Kobe Bryant hasn’t played his first regular-season game yet, and three of the biggest names in the shoe business already seem convinced he’s worth fighting over.”

Kobe stopped listening.

A week ago, Rob had been calling executives and explaining why Kobe’s value had changed.

Now he didn’t have to.

Every Nike executive could turn on TNT and hear Adidas mentioned beside Kobe’s name. Adidas could hear Reebok. Reebok could hear people wondering whether fifty million was the offer—or merely where the bidding had reached.

Nobody had leaked a contract.

Kobe hadn’t given an interview.

People simply cared enough to keep asking.

Kobe looked down at the scouting report beside his dinner.

Yet Ernie Johnson was saying his name on national television beside fifty million dollars.

The segment ended. Football replaced his face.

Kobe switched off the television.

By the following morning, the three folders had changed again.

Nike: fifty-five million dollars over seven years, with more guaranteed money paid early and a larger national advertising commitment.

Adidas: fifty-eight million over seven, another five-million-dollar jump from the verbal offer Kobe had watched them make, plus the requested meeting with senior basketball people.

Reebok: sixty million over eight, more money payable early, additional performance incentives—and something neither of the others had included.

A deadline.

Kobe looked at the number first.

Sixty million dollars.

There was no pretending it was ordinary. His father had spent years playing professional basketball without seeing anything resembling it. His parents could be secure for the rest of their lives. Properly handled, their children could be secure. Kobe knew what sixty million guaranteed dollars could become if someone treated it with discipline.

Then he looked beneath the number.

Eight years.

And at the bottom of the page:

Offer valid for twenty-four hours.

“That deadline isn’t decorative,” Rob said. “They can pull it.”

Kobe worked through the remaining terms. The guarantee was clean. Reebok had moved money toward the beginning of the contract and layered incentives on top. The rest was familiar now—appearances, advertising, exclusivity, extension language.

“How long?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. I already told them twenty-four hours was aggressive.”

Kobe closed the folder. “What happens if I say no?”

“They can pull it. Maybe they come back. Maybe they don’t. There’s no guarantee Sixty is sitting here two days from now.”

Kobe looked at REEBOK printed across the cover.

Sixty million dollars for wearing shoes.

He understood why the deadline existed. The number was large enough to make waiting feel irresponsible.

It still bothered him.

“Tell them I’m not signing with a twenty-four-hour clock on sixty million.”

Rob didn’t reach for the telephone. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Forget Nike and Adidas for a second. If I put this contract in front of you by itself—sixty million guaranteed—would you seriously consider signing it?”

“Yes.”

Rob waited.

Kobe tapped the deadline. “I’m considering the offer. I’m not considering this.”

That got Rob to look down at the page.

After a moment, he nodded. “That’s different.”

He made the call with Kobe sitting across from him.

“We appreciate the proposal and the improvements you’ve made. Kobe is taking the decision seriously, but he’s not prepared to make an eight-year commitment under a twenty-four-hour deadline.”

Rob listened.

“No. I’m not asking you to hold it indefinitely.”

Another pause.

“If sixty million is contingent on an answer tomorrow, then we’ll have to pass.”

He listened once more.

“I understand.”

Rob hung up.

Nothing happened.

The telephone didn’t immediately ring again. No fax arrived with sixty-five million. Reebok didn’t call back begging them to reconsider. For the moment, sixty million dollars sat on the table with the possibility that it might disappear.

Kobe felt that.

Rob eventually pulled Nike and Adidas toward the center. “You ever think we’d get here?”

Kobe looked at him. “You’re asking me?”

“I’m twenty-six.”

“So no?”

“Shockingly, my long history of negotiating sixty-million-dollar shoe contracts didn’t prepare me for this.”

Kobe laughed.

They spent the next half hour comparing what had changed. Nike had strengthened its advertising commitment. Adidas wanted Kobe in a room with its basketball people. Reebok had pushed more money forward. Different approaches, but the same basic answer.

More money.

Eventually Rob stopped writing.

“What?”

Rob laid the pen across his legal pad. “What number is enough?”

Kobe’s eyes moved between the folders.

“We started at forty-five, forty-eight and fifty-two,” Rob said. “Now we’re at fifty-five, fifty-eight and sixty. At some point another three or five million has to stop changing the decision.”

Kobe didn’t answer immediately.

There obviously was a number. Money mattered. It meant security for his parents, capital for the businesses he wanted to build, and freedom to make decisions without asking somebody else to finance them. Sixty million dollars wasn’t another car or a larger house.

Properly handled, it was independence.

But Rob’s question made him look at the proposals differently.

His hand stopped on the Nike folder.

The swoosh pulled images from years that hadn’t happened yet. Air Jordans behind glass. Lines outside stores. New colors disappearing from shelves. Old shoes returning years later and selling again. Michael’s name moving product long after the first check had cleared.

Kobe kept those memories to himself.

“How much did Michael make Nike last year?”

Rob frowned. “You mean how much Nike paid him?”

“No.” Kobe looked up. “How much did Michael make for Nike?”

Rob leaned back. “I don’t know. Nobody outside Nike knows exactly.”

“But it’s a lot.”

“Air Jordan is an enormous business.”

“How enormous?”

“Big enough that Nike doesn’t treat Michael like somebody they just pay to wear shoes.”

Kobe’s thumb stayed against the edge of the folder.

“When somebody buys an Air Jordan, how much does Michael get?”

Rob didn’t answer immediately.

“That’s a different question.”

Kobe waited.

“Jordan participates in the product economics,” Rob said. “Royalties are part of it. The exact arrangement isn’t public, and his relationship with Nike is more complicated than a normal endorsement contract.”

“A percentage?”

“Yes.”

Kobe looked down.

Fifty-five million. Fifty-eight million. Sixty million.

For days, that was how they’d measured the negotiation. Nike offered forty-five. Adidas offered forty-eight. Reebok offered fifty-two. Somebody moved, somebody answered, and the number at the top of the page grew.

Now Kobe was looking at the other side of it.

How much could they make from him?

He opened Nike’s proposal again. Guarantee. Payment schedule. Advertising commitments. Appearances. Exclusivity. Incentives. Page after page explaining what Nike would give Kobe and what Kobe would owe Nike.

He checked Adidas.

Then Reebok.

After a while, he stopped turning pages and placed all three proposals beside one another.

$55 million.

$58 million.

$60 million.

A few months ago, numbers like those would have been impossible to imagine. Even now, Kobe understood what they meant. Security. Freedom. The ability to make sure his family never had to worry about money again.

But another number surfaced in his mind.

#1

For an instant, the office disappeared. He remembered the Hall—the walls stretching beyond him, the names, the careers, the lives measured against one another. He remembered the opportunity he’d been given and what he’d decided to do with it.

Undisputed.

Not one of the greatest.

The greatest.

Kobe looked down at the three contracts again.

Fifty-five million couldn’t give him that. Neither could fifty-eight. Neither could sixty.

Taking the largest number because it was the largest was the kind of decision that made a man rich. Kobe hadn’t come back just to become richer.

If his name was going to sit above everyone else’s when he returned to that Hall, then every decision had to build toward something larger than the check sitting in front of him.

His eyes returned to the contracts.

For days, he’d been asking which company was willing to pay the most for Kobe Bryant.

Now he needed to ask what they were willing to build around him.