Chapter 67: Seventy Million Reasons

SportsCenter ran the segment three times in its first hour.

A banner stretched across the bottom of the screen:

KOBE BRYANT SIGNS $70M DEAL WITH ADIDAS

The broadcast cut to footage of Kobe driving past a defender and throwing down a dunk in a Lakers preseason game.

It was late October, and the NBA’s regular season hadn’t begun, but an eighteen-year-old rookie who had yet to score his first official point was already one of the biggest stories in basketball.

The anchor faced the camera. “Los Angeles Lakers rookie Kobe Bryant has signed a seven-year, seventy-million-dollar endorsement agreement with Adidas. The deal reportedly includes a ten-million-dollar payment shortly after signing, an extraordinary commitment to a player who hasn’t appeared in a single NBA regular-season game.”

The broadcast moved to two analysts seated across from one another.

“Seventy million dollars,” the first repeated, tapping the newspaper on his desk. “I don’t care how good this kid looked in October. Michael Jordan is still playing basketball. Penny Hardaway is getting buckets. Adidas just committed seventy million dollars to a teenager who hasn’t played one meaningful NBA minute.”

His colleague leaned forward. “You’re looking at it like a basketball contract. It isn’t one. Adidas is buying seven years of a player in Los Angeles, playing alongside Shaquille O’Neal, who just averaged twenty-three points a night in the preseason.”

“I don’t understand why everyone is using preseason games as some measuring tool.”

“Playing against NBA players is a measuring tool. Look, they’re not paying him for what he is today. They’re paying for what they believe he can become.”

“That’s a very expensive belief.”

“Of course it is. But Nike already has Michael Jordan. Adidas needs somebody who can become the face of its basketball business for years to come.” He glanced at the monitor, where Kobe’s highlights continued playing.

The first analyst shook his head. “And what happens if he isn’t? What happens if he gets hurt? What happens when teams start preparing for him? Kevin Garnett came straight out of high school last year, and people are still debating how good he can become. Now we’re putting seventy million dollars behind another teenager?”

“That’s the risk. But if Adidas waits until everybody agrees Kobe Bryant is a superstar, what do you think happens to the price?”

The other man looked down at the newspaper.

His colleague smiled. “Exactly.”

The anchor returned to the discussion. “So when do we find out whether Adidas made the right decision?”

“Not after twenty games,” the second analyst answered. “You don’t judge a seven-year investment after twenty games.”

The first laughed. “Well, if he averages five points, somebody at Adidas is going to lose their job.”

The broadcast returned to Kobe’s highlights, the seventy-million-dollar figure appearing across the screen once more.

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The newspapers approached the announcement from different angles.

The Los Angeles Times examined Adidas’s investment alongside Kobe’s remarkable preseason and the Lakers’ acquisition of Shaquille O’Neal.

In Philadelphia, the Inquirer traced the story back to Lower Merion, where Kobe had been playing high school basketball only months earlier.

National sportswriters compared him with the rest of the celebrated 1996 draft class, particularly Allen Iverson, the first overall selection.

What none of the reports could explain were the provisions that had convinced Kobe to sign.

The guaranteed money made the headlines.

His royalty structure, product control, and rights to his personal marks remained between Kobe, his representatives, and Adidas.

The public knew the number.

They didn’t know what came with it.

By noon, sports radio stations across the country were taking calls about the contract.

Reporters brought it up at NBA practices, asking established players what they thought of an eighteen-year-old receiving that kind of commitment before his first regular-season game.

Some questioned whether Adidas had paid too much.

Others wondered what the deal might mean for the next generation of basketball stars.

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Chicago had turned cold overnight, but Michael Jordan was already sweating through his morning workout when a member of the Bulls’ training staff approached him with a newspaper.

“Mike, you see this?”

Jordan finished his repetition before taking the newspaper. Kobe Bryant’s photograph occupied the sports section beneath a headline announcing his seven-year, $70 million Adidas agreement.

He glanced at the figure.

“Seventy million?”

“Ten million up front, apparently. Kid hasn’t even played a regular-season game.”

Jordan took a towel from the bench and wiped his face. “That’s what they’re paying for now?”

“They’re calling him the future.”

Jordan smiled faintly. “Must be nice to be the future before you’re the present.”

He skimmed the article, his attention settling on Kobe’s preseason statistics.

Twenty-three points. Seven assists. More than two steals a game.

“Heard the kid can play,” the man said.

Jordan gave the numbers another glance. “Looks like he had himself a nice October.”

“That’s it? Seventy million dollars, and all he’s getting from you is a nice October?”

“What do you want me to say?” Jordan folded the newspaper. “He’s played eight exhibition games.”

The man chuckled. “Adidas must see something. That’s a lot of money to put behind a rookie.”

“They’re buying potential. Nothing wrong with that.” Jordan handed the paper back. “But potential doesn’t win you anything.”

“You think Nike’s kicking itself for letting him go?”

Jordan smiled. “I think Nike’s doing just fine.”

“Come on, Mike. Seventy million dollars. They’re putting that kid right up there with you.”

“Putting him where?” Jordan asked.

The man laughed.

“Let him play a season first,” Jordan continued. “Then we can talk about where he belongs.”

He picked up the basketball resting against the wall and headed toward the court.

“You ever meet him?”

“No.”

“Well, you’ll see him soon enough.”

Jordan bounced the ball once, catching it at his waist. “I want to see what seventy million dollars looks like when somebody’s guarding him.”

He pushed through the doors and stepped onto the hardwood.

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Allen Iverson was halfway through removing his sneakers when the reporters gathered around him. Practice had ended, and a few of his teammates were still shooting at the opposite basket. He sat on the edge of the scorer’s table, one foot planted on the floor, and looked up as a microphone appeared in front of him.

“Allen, you hear about Kobe Bryant’s Adidas deal?”

Iverson grinned. “Seventy million? Yeah, I heard. Good for him.”

“You played against him at the McDonald’s All-American Game. What do you remember?”

“He could play. Good handle, good size. Wasn’t scared to take a shot.” Iverson pulled off his sneaker and dropped it beside the table. “I knew he was going to the league.”

A Philadelphia reporter stepped forward. “You went first in the draft. Kobe went thirteenth. Does it surprise you that he’s getting this kind of attention?”

Iverson looked at him. “Why would it?”

“Well, twelve teams passed on him, and now Adidas is giving him seventy million dollars.”

“Then maybe you should ask those twelve teams what they think.”

A few reporters laughed.

“Do you feel like he’s stealing some of the spotlight from you?”

Iverson shook his head, smiling. “Man, what spotlight? We’re both rookies. Neither one of us has done anything yet.”

“But people are already comparing you two.”

“They were doing that before the draft.”

“And now he’s got one of the biggest shoe deals in basketball.”

Iverson leaned back against the table. “Look, Kobe got his deal. I got mine with Reebok. I’m happy for him. What you want me to do, call Reebok and ask for another twenty million?”

The reporters broke into laughter.

The Philadelphia reporter waited for it to settle. “You don’t think seventy million puts some pressure on him?”

“Probably.” Iverson shrugged. “But that’s his business. I got enough to worry about right here.”

He nodded toward the court, where one of his teammates missed a jumper and chased the rebound toward the baseline.

“You were the first pick,” the reporter continued. “Doesn’t that make you want to prove you’re the better player?”

Iverson gave him a puzzled look. “You think I needed Kobe to get seventy million dollars to want to be the best?”

“No, but—”

“I’m trying to beat everybody. That’s why I’m here.”

He stood and gathered his sneakers, but another reporter called out before he could leave.

“Allen, when you finally play Kobe, you think you’ll have something to prove?”

Iverson stopped.

“Same thing I got to prove against everybody else.”

“What if he drops thirty on you?”

Iverson smiled. “Then I better get thirty-one.”

The reporters laughed again. Iverson tucked his sneakers under one arm and headed toward the locker room.

“Allen! One more question!”

He raised a hand without turning around.

“That’s all y’all getting today.”

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Back in Los Angeles, Jerry West had six interview requests on his desk by nine o’clock. ESPN wanted a sit-down, two newspapers wanted exclusive access, and someone had proposed a photo shoot before Friday’s season opener.

Jerry Buss walked in carrying the Los Angeles Times.

“Seventy million dollars,” Buss said, dropping into a chair. “Not bad for the thirteenth pick.”

West held up a message slip. “ESPN wants him tomorrow.”

“Give them ten minutes.”

“He’s got practice.”

“After practice, Jerry.”

“He’s already talking to reporters after practice.”

Buss smiled. “You’d think we were trying to keep him a secret.”

West tossed the slip onto his desk. “I’m trying to keep him on a basketball court.”

“He can do both.”

“Then let’s not fill his calendar before he’s played his first game.”

Buss considered that. “Five minutes with ESPN. After practice. No special treatment.”

West nodded. “I’ll have public relations handle it.”

“And the Adidas people?”

“That’s Rob Pelinka’s problem.”

Buss laughed. “Glad somebody else has one.”

He picked up the newspaper again, studying Kobe’s photograph. “Shaq, Kobe, Los Angeles. People are going to want to watch this team.”

“They’ll keep watching if we win.”

“You ever let yourself enjoy anything?”

West looked at him. “I traded Vlade Divac for an eighteen-year-old. What do you think?”

Buss grinned and rose from his chair. At the door, he tapped the newspaper.

“Seventy million, Jerry. We might’ve gotten ourselves a bargain.”

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By the time Kobe reached the locker room, Shaq had already found a copy of the Times.

“Look who finally showed up!” Shaq announced, holding the newspaper above his head. “Mr. Seventy Million himself.”

Kobe dropped his bag beside his locker. “You gonna read the whole article to me?”

“Nah. Just looking for the part where you buy me something.”

Derek Fisher leaned around his locker. “Forget him. I want free shoes.”

“Get in line,” Kobe said.

Shaq lowered the paper and studied Kobe’s photograph. “Man, Adidas better make you look good. Can’t have my little brother out there wearing ugly shoes.”

“You worried about my shoes?”

“I’m worried about what happens when you start thinking you’re richer than me.”

Kobe grinned. “You brought it up.”

Fisher laughed as Shaq folded the newspaper and tossed it onto the bench.

Eddie Jones glanced at the headline. “Congrats, man. That’s a hell of a deal.”

“Thanks.”

“Just don’t expect anybody to take it easy on you now.”

Kobe pulled his practice jersey over his head. “Wasn’t expecting them to.”

Eddie picked up his bag. “Because every guy who sees that number is going to want a piece of you.”

Fisher pointed at Kobe. “Starting with me. Kobe dinner’s on you.”

“Get your own damn food.”

“You heard that?” Fisher called across the room. “Seventy million dollars, and he’s cheap!”

Shaq threw an arm around Kobe’s shoulders as they headed toward the court.

“Don’t worry, young fella. I’ll protect you.”

“From what?”

“Everybody trying to take your money.”

Kobe looked at him. “You were the first one asking for some.”

Shaq grinned.

“That’s different. We’re family.”

Kobe shook his head and slipped out from under Shaq’s arm, jogging ahead onto the court.

“Hey!” Shaq called after him. “I’m still waiting on those shoes!”

Kobe didn’t turn around.

“As I said, get in line!”