Chapter 76: Opening Night

The traffic outside the Great Western Forum was already two blocks deep when Joe Bryant turned off Manchester and followed an attendant toward a parking area reserved for players’ families and team guests.

In the backseat, Sharia nudged her mother for the second time, then craned her neck at the swirl of taillights. “We’re going to miss warm-ups,” she said, only half a complaint.

Pamela wore a dark purple coat, something lighter than formal but sharp enough that you could tell she’d planned it a month out.

“We’re fine,” she told her daughter.

“They don’t tip off until the clock says zero. And if we’re late, it’s because your father couldn’t leave the radio until the Eagles finished blowing another game.”

Joe didn’t respond, which meant she’d nailed it on the head.

He parked without hurry, glanced once at the dashboard clock, then at the thin drizzle beginning to collect on the windshield.

“We’re early,” he said, pointing to the group of fans lingering near the Forum entrance.

“You think any of them recognize a Bryant when they see one?”

Sharia laughed. “Only if you still had your hair.”

“That’s enough,” Pamela said, but she was smiling too.

She grabbed her bag and umbrella, checked once to see that Joe had the tickets, then started toward the main concourse.

Inside, the Forum was already filling even though there was still plenty of time before tipoff.

The air smelled of hot dogs and popcorn, the floors already littered with programs and crushed paper cups. Purple and gold seemed to cover everything, from the banners overhead to the shirts and jackets moving through the concourse.

Joe led them through security with the casual authority of someone who had done this a thousand times, stopping only to accept a plastic-wrapped rally towel from a volunteer. “They’re making them smaller every year,” he said, shaking his head. “What are you supposed to do, blow your nose with this?”

“Some people wave it,” Pamela said. “Show support.”

Joe grinned. “I’ll stick to my voice.”

They found their seats behind the Lakers bench, close enough to see the court’s border and hear sneakers squeaking during warm-ups.

Sharia settled in first, glancing at the row behind them, where three men in Italian-cut suits already had their jackets off and were nursing beers from clear plastic cups. “These are the best seats we’ve ever had,” she said, keeping her voice low.

“Your brother’s doing,” Joe said. He scanned the court, first the far baseline and then the cluster of Lakers warming up near the scorer’s table.

“Told me if we were coming, he wanted us close enough that he could hear me.” He paused, then pointed toward the court. “There he is.”

Kobe was already moving, dribbling at half speed and cycling through a layup routine with the practiced ease of someone who had stopped noticing how many cameras followed him.

Next to him, Shaq was already sweating through warm-ups, joking with a television reporter before throwing an arm around Kobe’s shoulders and pulling him into whatever had made him laugh.

The two of them looked, from this distance, like a billboard: Number 8, slight and upright, next to 34, whose mass made everyone else on the court seem like they were standing on their tiptoes just to be noticed.

Pamela leaned forward, resting a hand on the barrier. “He looks so small out there.”

“He’s always looked small,” Joe said.

He watched his son finish at the rim, take the return pass, then drift toward the perimeter.

Kobe’s eyes moved toward the cameras before traveling beyond the lens and into the seats behind the bench. They stopped when he found his family. A smile crossed his face, and he lifted a hand in a quick wave before turning back toward the court.

Joe smiled. “There it is. He found us.”

Pamela looked from Joe back toward the court. “You’re sure?”

“Kid could see us from the moon,” Joe said. “That’s how you know he’s not nervous.”

The arena was filling now, the noise rising with every minute until even conversation at their seats required a tilt of the head and a raised voice.

On the Jumbotron, the Lakers logo flashed before giving way to clips of Magic Johnson, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and James Worthy.

Each familiar face brought another roar from the crowd, the old Lakers still capable of shaking the building years after their best nights on this floor.

Pamela tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Did it feel like this when you played?”

Joe considered the question as he looked around. “It was loud, yeah. But nobody came for the first game. They came for the playoffs.”

He gestured toward the packed stands, the photographers gathering along the baseline and the television crews working courtside. “This is something else.”

Pamela smiled and squeezed his arm. “That’s our son.”

Joe kept his eyes on the court. “I know.”

The Lakers finished warm-ups and began disappearing into the tunnel. Kobe lingered behind for a few extra seconds, taking one last shot before tossing the ball toward a waiting staff member.

He glanced toward his family once more, then followed his teammates off the floor as the crowd sensed the shift and began rising from its seats.

Sharia had been quiet for the last few minutes, but now she leaned toward her mother. “I hope he gets the first shot.”

Pamela laughed. “I just hope he doesn’t fall over his own feet.”

Joe shook his head but couldn’t hide his smile. He remembered the first time his own father had watched him play in a game that mattered, and for a moment he simply watched the empty stretch of court where Kobe had been standing. Around them, the house lights began to dim.

Somewhere higher in the stands, someone started a chant. “Let’s go Lakers!” rolled through the Forum and was joined within seconds by thousands of voices until the words became almost indistinguishable inside the noise. Joe could feel it through the floor beneath his shoes.

Pamela leaned toward the court even though Kobe was already somewhere inside the tunnel. “Let’s go, baby.”

Joe smiled and kept his eyes on the darkness ahead of them. A few seconds later, the first voice rolled through the speakers.

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In the tunnel, Kobe stood next to Eddie Jones, shifting from foot to foot and running a finger along the edge of his wristband.

The heat felt different from preseason, trapped between players, coaches, trainers and camera crews waiting for the introductions.

Beyond the tunnel, the crowd rose and fell in waves each time the PA announcer spoke.

At the end of the line, Shaq rocked from heel to toe and grinned when a camera found him. A “SHAQ!” chant rolled through the Forum, growing louder when he answered with a mock salute.

Kobe glanced down at the 8 across his jersey and tugged it into place.

He had worn this number before, but standing here made it feel new again.

No championships yet, no banners with his name on them, no twenty years behind him.

The lights faded and the introductions began. Eddie Jones went first, followed by Cedric Ceballos and Elden Campbell. Then the announcer’s voice climbed.

“And at center—seven foot one, from Louisiana State, number thirty-four, Shaquille O’Neal!”

The Forum exploded. Shaq jogged onto the court, soaked in the noise for a few seconds, then turned toward Kobe and jerked his head.

Kobe smiled as the announcer continued. “And at guard—six foot six, from Lower Merion High School, number eight, Kobe Bryant!”

The noise hit him hard enough that the years seemed to fold together. Kobe had heard louder crowds with championships on the line, but never in his first year.

He broke into a jog, slapping hands as he came through his teammates. Once on the floor, Kobe looked behind the Lakers bench and quickly found his family. His mother was standing, Sharia waved both arms, and his father pointed. Kobe smiled and pointed to the Bryant on his back.

Across the floor, Phoenix gathered near its bench. Sam Cassell talked with Wesley Person while Robert Horry stood nearby in Suns colors, a sight that still looked strangely wrong to Kobe. A.C. Green looked almost exactly as Kobe remembered him, and Joe Kleine waited near center court.

He looked up at the scoreboard.

0–0.

He had stood at the beginning of this road once before, except the first time he had been sitting on the bench.

The official stepped into the circle. Shaq crouched across from Kleine while Kobe settled beside Cassell, a small smile appearing as the whistle reached the official’s mouth.

The ball left the official’s hand, and twenty years of memory disappeared beneath instinct.

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The tip was chaos, as it always was with Shaq. He barely left the floor, just raised an arm and knocked the ball forward to Eddie Jones. Phoenix immediately clogged the paint with Kleine and Horry, expecting the Lakers to go straight inside.

Kobe took the ball at the top and let the possession breathe.

Cassell was playing low, already leaning toward the screen as if he planned to go underneath until Kobe proved he couldn’t.

Kobe started right, saw the lane disappear, then pulled the ball back.

Shaq posted again, deeper this time. Kleine tried to hold his ground, but Shaq planted his left foot and extended a hand.

Kobe waited until Wesley Person glanced toward the ball, then fired the entry pass over him.

Shaq caught, drop-stepped and flipped a soft hook over Kleine before the help arrived.

The ball dropped through and the Forum roared.

Phoenix came right back fast.

Cassell initiated a horns set with both bigs high, and Kobe recognized the action almost immediately.

Instead of jumping to the first screen, he stayed attached and let it develop. He denied the return pass to Cassell, but Horry slipped into the opening and buried a jumper from the free-throw line.

The teams traded baskets over the next few possessions.

Kobe moved the ball, found Campbell for a layup and picked Cassell up full court on the other end. Cassell waited for Kobe to reach, ripped the ball through his arms and drew the foul.

Kobe gave the official a look as Cassell walked past him smiling.

Three years in the league had already taught Cassell plenty of tricks.

Phoenix tried the same weak-side action a few possessions later. Kobe saw it developing but waited the extra beat before helping. When Horry curled, Kobe stayed home long enough for Eddie to recover, then closed hard and deflected the pass out of bounds.

Del Harris gave him a single nod from the sideline.

Kobe’s first basket came moments later.

Person rushed a three, Shaq swallowed the rebound and fired a one-handed outlet toward Ceballos.

Kobe was already running.

Ceballos attacked the lone defender and missed through contact.

The ball exploded off the back rim and climbed above everyone underneath.

Ceballos reached for it.

Horry boxed out.

Kleine turned to find the ball.

None of them saw Kobe coming.

He sprinted in from the perimeter, planted between two bodies and launched, rising over teammates and Suns alike. Kobe ripped the ball out of the air with his right hand and hammered it through before anyone else could get above the rim.

The collision underneath sent bodies stumbling in every direction, but Kobe hung on the iron for a beat, legs swinging over the traffic, before dropping to the floor and taking off the other way.

The Forum erupted.

“OH MY GOD!”

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

People behind the Lakers bench were grabbing each other. Half the bench was already standing, towels flying as Kobe hung from the rim for a beat with bodies stumbling beneath him.

The announcer nearly shouted over the replay.

“KOBE BYRANT! STRAIGHT OUT OF THE RAFTERS!”

Behind the Lakers bench, Pamela shot to her feet with one hand over her mouth. Joe was already turning toward the people behind him, saying something nobody could hear over the noise.

It took a while for the Forum to calm down.

A few possessions later, Cassell ducked under Campbell’s screen again, and this time Kobe stopped behind it and buried the three.

Phoenix switched Person onto him.

Kobe gave the ball up, cut behind Person when he turned his head and took the return pass from Eddie for a layup.

On another drive, he drew contact and split the free throws.

Ten points.

Phoenix called timeout soon afterward.

The rest of the quarter tightened. Kobe kept the ball moving, fed Shaq when the entry was there and attacked when Phoenix gave him space.

The Suns answered often enough to prevent the Lakers from creating any real separation.

The horn sounded with Los Angeles holding a slim lead. Kobe glanced at the scoreboard as he headed toward the bench: ten points, three assists and two rebounds.

Del Harris clapped him once on the shoulder. “That was a great start Kobe. Sit down for a minute. You’re going back in without Shaq.”

Kobe grabbed a towel and took his seat.

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The first extended stretch Kobe played without Shaq felt like a different game. The paint no longer belonged to the Lakers by default. Michael Finley attacked from the perimeter, Danny Manning worked the middle, and Wayman Tisdale gave Phoenix another option inside.

Kobe took control.

He rejected a screen, drove left and stopped near the elbow for a clean pull-up. When Phoenix sent a second defender at him on the next possession, he waited for the help and fired to Fisher in the corner.

Fisher buried the three and slapped Kobe’s hand as they ran back. “Good look.”

“Keep hitting those threes,” Kobe said.

Phoenix answered through Manning and Tisdale, keeping the game within a possession.

Kobe added another basket after chasing down his own miss, pump-faking Finley and finishing an up-and-under through contact.

A few possessions later, Steve Nash entered for Cassell. Kobe almost smiled when he saw him.

Nash was still a rookie, still learning how quickly NBA defenders could erase space. Kobe knew that wouldn’t last long.

He pressured Nash high, then baited a pass on the following possession and jumped the lane.

Kobe pushed the break and found Ceballos cutting behind the defense for an easy finish.

When Shaq returned, the floor changed again.

Phoenix immediately pulled another defender toward the paint, but Shaq’s first hard screen gave Kobe enough room to bury a three from the wing.

On the next Phoenix possession, Shaq disrupted Manning’s action and Kobe collected the loose ball. He took off, found a defender waiting near the rim and stretched his second step around him before finishing softly off the glass.

With less than a minute left, Kobe came around a Shaq screen and attacked Horry. Horry reached as Kobe went past, sending him to the line.

Both free throws dropped.

Twenty-five.

Phoenix answered before the horn, and Kobe used the Lakers’ final possession to draw the defense before giving the ball up rather than forcing a shot.

Halftime arrived with Los Angeles ahead 54–50.

Pamela squeezed Joe’s hand as the players headed toward the tunnel. “He did well.”

Joe watched Kobe disappear from view and smiled. “Yeah. He did.”

Kobe glanced once at the score before following Shaq toward the locker room.

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The locker room was hot and crowded at halftime, trainers moving between players while towels, bottles and discarded warmups collected around the benches. Kobe sat with a towel across his shoulders as Del Harris stepped into the middle of the room with the whiteboard.

“We’re up four, and they’re going to keep loading up on the paint,” Harris said. “I need everyone to hit their shots. We need to pull them out of the paint and make them guard the perimeter.”

While the coaches moved between groups, someone turned up the television in the corner. Scores from around the league rolled across the screen until Eddie glanced up from his seat.

“Iverson had forty.”

Kobe looked over. “Forty?”

Eddie nodded. “Against the Bucks. Forty points in your first game is crazy work.”

Kobe smiled before he could stop himself.

He remembered thirty.

Iverson had scored thirty the first time around, not forty. Apparently that had changed too.

Shaq noticed the smile while reaching for his drink. “That’s a lot of points for a little dude.”

Kobe laughed. “You ever seen him play? He is a problem.”

“This is going to be an interesting season.” Shaq took a drink and nodded toward Kobe. “You two are gonna be fun.”

Kobe nodded.

Forty in your first NBA game deserved respect.

Eddie leaned back against his locker. “Rookies showing off tonight.”

“Looks that way,” Kobe said, still smiling.

Del Harris finished talking with one of his assistants and stepped back toward the whiteboard. “All right, fellas. Let’s focus.”

The conversations faded on their own as everyone turned back toward him.

“They’re going to come out aggressive,” Harris said. “First five minutes, take care of the ball and make them defend. Shaq, keep getting deep. Kobe, Eddie, when the help drops, move. Don’t stand there watching.”

Shaq nodded. “They can’t guard me down there. Keep looking for me.”

A couple of players laughed, and Harris drew the next action. “Make the extra pass, defend without fouling, and let’s finish strong.”

Kobe leaned forward and tightened his shoes while the coaches finished talking.

The buzzer sounded outside.

Shaq pushed himself off the bench and headed for the door, Kobe falling in behind him as the noise from the Forum spilled into the hallway.

Iverson’s forty was still somewhere in the back of Kobe’s mind.