Chapter 78: About That Record...

One more point.

That was all that separated him from a record that had survived thirty-seven years.

Phoenix went straight at them.

Cassell brought the ball across half court and waved Manning up for a screen, trying to catch Kobe watching the scoreboard instead of the game.

Kobe fought over it, recovered, and stayed attached long enough to force Cassell toward the baseline.

The pass went out to Person, who missed long, and Shaq swallowed the rebound with both hands.

Kobe was already moving.

The Forum rose before he crossed half court, the noise building around him as thousands of people recognized the possibility at the same time.

Every person in the building knew what the next basket meant now. There was no hiding from it, and Phoenix knew too.

Person picked Kobe up almost at half court. Then Finley came over.

Kobe slowed as he realized what they were doing.

Two defenders. Not a soft double, either. They were face-guarding him, one on each side, practically inviting the other four Lakers to play basketball without him.

Kobe smiled. “Seriously?”

Person didn’t answer.

Fisher looked toward Kobe, saw the coverage, and wisely went somewhere else. He entered the ball to Shaq at the high post. Kleine stayed home this time, but the floor had opened everywhere else because Phoenix had committed two defenders to an eighteen-year-old guard standing thirty feet from the basket.

Shaq held the ball against his hip and stared at Kobe’s side of the floor. “Y’all scared of the kid now?”

“Shut up, Shaq,” Person snapped.

Shaq’s grin widened. “Motherfuckers.”

The possession continued.

Fisher cut through, Eddie flashed toward the wing, and Kobe changed direction twice, but Person refused to leave his body and Finley remained close enough to help.

Shaq finally kicked it back out with seven seconds left.

Fisher caught, drove, got cut off, and turned with five.

“Kobe!”

The pass came high. Kobe caught it nearly thirty feet out with four seconds left, Person already closing and Finley coming from his left. Kobe jabbed hard in that direction, forcing Person to shift just enough, then used Campbell’s screen as it arrived from the opposite side.

Horry had stepped up.

Kobe planted his right foot and took a step back, creating the sliver of space he needed.

Person recovered instantly.

One second on the clock.

Kobe rose.

Person rose with him, his hand swallowing Kobe’s view of the rim. Another defender crashed into his side, knocking him off balance in the air, but it was already too late. Kobe’s wrist snapped forward just as the red lights around the backboard ignited.

BZZZZZT.

The ball sailed over Person’s outstretched fingertips, spinning high into the lights.

Kobe came down through the contact, stumbling a step before catching himself. When he looked up, the shot was still climbing.

For a moment, the Forum seemed to disappear.

No screaming. No footsteps. No bodies.

Just the ball.

It reached its peak high above the floor and seemed to hang there for a second.

Then it fell.

Person turned.

Shaq stared.

Kobe didn’t move.

The ball dropped toward the front of the rim—

and never touched it.

Swish.

The net snapped straight up.

The Forum went silent for half a heartbeat.

Then it detonated.

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!”

“HE GOT IT!”

“THAT’S THE RECORD!”

“KO-BE! KO-BE! KO-BE!”

The sound crashed down from every level of the Forum at once.

Behind the Lakers bench, Joe Bryant exploded out of his seat.

“YES! YES! THAT’S MY BOY!” he screamed, both fists raised above his head.

Pamela had both hands over her mouth, tears already filling her eyes. “Oh my God! Kobe!” She grabbed Joe’s arm as Sharia bounced beside them, screaming at the top of her lungs.

“HE BROKE IT! DAD, HE BROKE IT!”

“I KNOW!” Joe shouted back, laughing now. “I KNOW!”

At the broadcast table, the play-by-play announcer could barely be heard over the roar.

“BRYANT—FOR THE RECORD—HE GOT IT! HE GOT IT! KOBE BRYANT HAS JUST PASSED WILT CHAMBERLAIN!”

His partner was laughing in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?”

The announcer raised his voice as the scoreboard flashed above them.

“FORTY-SIX POINTS! KOBE BRYANT HAS SET A NEW NBA RECORD FOR POINTS IN A DEBUT!”

And somehow, over everything else, one sound began swallowing the rest.

“KO-BE! KO-BE! KO-BE!”

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!

“KO-BE! KO-BE! KO-BE!”

Kobe stood beneath the basket for just a second, staring up at his name while the Forum shook around him.

Kobe turned toward the scoreboard as forty-three disappeared beside his name. KOBE BRYANT — 46.

He blinked once and laughed.

Of course.

He had been so locked into the possession that he’d forgotten where his feet were.

The scoreboard changed again before the noise could settle: NBA DEBUT SCORING RECORD — KOBE BRYANT 46 — WILT CHAMBERLAIN 43.

Shaq hit him from the side so hard Kobe stumbled two steps. “You did it, kid!”

Kobe laughed as Shaq wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Eddie came flying in from the other side, slapping Kobe across the chest while Fisher grabbed the back of his jersey.

“Forty-six!” Eddie yelled. “First damn game!”

“Get off me,” Kobe said, still laughing. “We still gotta play.”

Shaq stared at him for a second before shaking his head. “This dude is sick.”

As Kobe turned upcourt, he caught one last glimpse of his family behind the bench. Sharia was still bouncing, Pamela was laughing through tears, and Joe was standing between them, staring at him with a look Kobe knew well.

For a second, he wasn’t Joe Bryant the former pro or the father who had spent years teaching him footwork, angles, balance, and patience.

He was just Dad.

Kobe held his eyes for half a second, then turned back toward the floor.

Then Phoenix attacked.

Cassell got into the lane and dropped a pass to Manning for two. The Suns retreated immediately, and when Kobe crossed half court again, the same two bodies found him. This time Kobe didn’t even pretend to hunt the shot.

“Keep doing it,” he muttered.

Person frowned. “Doing what?”

Kobe looked past him toward Shaq. “Leaving him.”

Person turned his head a fraction too late. Kobe fired the pass, and Shaq caught it deep, spun through Kleine, and ripped the rim down with both hands.

Shaq backpedaled with both arms spread. “Keep doubling him! Please!”

“GET BACK!” Del Harris screamed from the sideline.

“I’m going!” Shaq yelled, finally turning.

Kobe shook his head as he ran beside him.

Phoenix was running out of answers. Doubling Kobe left Shaq alone, and playing him straight hadn’t worked either.

The Suns stayed within reach anyway. Person buried a jumper, Horry got a transition finish, and Cassell continued probing for every opening he could find. With a little over three minutes remaining, the Lakers’ lead was only five, forcing Del to call timeout.

Kobe walked toward the bench breathing hard now. The exhaustion was finally beginning to settle into his legs. Forty-six points, fifteen assists, nearly an entire NBA game spent fighting through screens and bodies, and his eighteen-year-old body was reminding him that memory and experience did not make muscles immune to fatigue.

Shaq dropped into the seat beside him. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Kobe took a long drink, nodding.

Del stepped into the huddle with the board. “They’re doubling Kobe. Stop fighting it. We just got to rotate the ball.”

Kobe looked up, and Del caught the expression immediately.

“Don’t give me that look.”

A couple of players laughed. Del pointed the marker at him. “You’ve got forty-six. Congratulations. Hell of a night. Now win the game.”

BEEP.

Phoenix sent help again, but Kobe waved Campbell away and isolated Person instead. A hard crossover got Person leaning, and when Finley stepped toward the lane, Kobe stopped on a dime and rose from fifteen feet.

The jumper dropped.

Forty-eight.

The Forum erupted again.

Kobe backpedaled toward half court, expression barely changing, while Person looked toward Finley and shook his head.

Phoenix answered again, and with two minutes remaining the lead was six. Cassell tried to use another high screen, but Kobe slid over it this time instead of getting caught. Cassell changed direction. Kobe stayed attached. Cassell tried to accelerate, found nothing, and finally threw up a late jumper that caught the front rim.

Shaq secured the rebound.

“Slow it down!” Kobe yelled.

Fisher gave him the ball, and Kobe crossed half court with one hand raised. Twenty seconds disappeared from the clock before he even initiated the action. Phoenix was trapped between needing a stop and needing to prevent Kobe from touching the ball in space.

Kobe used that fear against them.

He came around Shaq’s screen, drew both defenders, took one dribble toward the lane, and saw Kleine step up. Three defenders. Shaq rolled, and Kobe bounced the ball between two sets of legs.

Shaq caught it in stride and hammered it through.

“Sixteen!” Fisher yelled as they turned upcourt.

Kobe finally laughed. “Man, stop counting.”

The Forum was chanting again. “KO-BE! KO-BE! KO-BE!” It rolled around the building, louder every time it came back. Kobe heard every syllable. He had heard crowds chant his name before, in another life, in another body, in buildings all over the world. He knew what it felt like when an arena belonged to you.

But not like this.

Not at eighteen. Not here. Not in Game One.

Phoenix came down needing something quickly. Person curled off a screen and caught the ball on the wing, but Kobe was already attached to him. He crowded his space, took away the jumper, and forced Person to put the ball on the floor. Person drove toward the middle, trying to use his body to shield the ball as he spun.

Kobe saw it.

The instant Person brought the ball across his body, Kobe struck. His right hand shot into the gap and ripped the ball cleanly away.

Loose ball.

Kobe grabbed it himself.

And suddenly there was nothing in front of him.

The Forum rose as one.

“GO!”

Kobe exploded up the floor, pushing the ball out in front of him as Phoenix scrambled behind. Person chased for the first few steps, then realized he wasn’t catching him. Finley tried from the opposite side, but Kobe was already crossing half court with open hardwood between himself and the basket.

Forty-eight points.

Nobody between him and fifty.

The noise climbed with every stride.

Kobe took one final dribble near the foul line, gathered the ball with both hands and launched himself off the floor.

Then he turned.

His back flashed toward the rim as his body spun through the air—ninety degrees, one-eighty, two-seventy. The ball dropped beneath him in his right hand, his arm sweeping it down and around in one violent circle.

By the time Kobe came back around, he was staring directly at the rim.

Three-sixty.

Windmill.

Kobe brought the ball over his head and hammered it through.

The rim snapped downward.

The Forum exploded.

“OOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!”

“OH MY GOD!”

“FIFTY!”

“WHAT THE FUCK!!”

Kobe hung on the rim for a fraction of a second before dropping to the floor. He landed, stumbled backward from the momentum, and looked toward the Phoenix baseline.

Nobody moved.

Person had stopped near the three-point line with his hands on his hips. Finley stood farther back, staring at the basket. Cassell slowly turned toward the Suns bench. Even the players waiting along the Phoenix sideline looked stunned, towels hanging motionless from their hands.

The scoreboard changed above them.

KOBE BRYANT — 50

The roar somehow got louder.

At the broadcast table, the announcer was nearly screaming into his microphone. “A STEAL BY BRYANT—HE’S ALL ALONE—OH! OH, MY! A THREE-SIXTY WINDMILL! KOBE BRYANT HAS FIFTY POINTS IN HIS NBA DEBUT!”

With just over a minute remaining, the Forum was still roaring from Kobe’s three-sixty windmill. Every replay brought another explosion, and every flash of KOBE BRYANT — 50 sent the crowd into another chant.

“FIF-TY! FIF-TY! FIF-TY!”

Del looked at the scoreboard, then toward the scorer’s table. Phoenix was finished. There was nothing left worth risking.

“Timeout!”

The horn sounded. Del motioned toward the reserves, then pointed at Kobe, Shaq, Eddie, Fisher, and Campbell.

“That’s it. Starters are done.”

As the reserves pulled off their warm-ups, the Forum realized what was happening. The entire building rose.

“KO-BE! KO-BE! KO-BE!”

Kobe stood near midcourt for a moment and took it in. Thousands were on their feet, applauding above their heads and screaming his name. Behind the bench, Pamela and Sharia were cheering while Joe stood between them, clapping with his eyes fixed on his son.

Shaq bumped Kobe with his shoulder. “Come on, superstar. They’re waiting on you.”

The starters walked off together. Del met Kobe at the sideline, grabbed his hand and pulled him close.

Del shook his head. “Hell of a night.”

The final minute began ticking away, but the chant continued around them.

“KO-BE! KO-BE! KO-BE!”

Kobe leaned back and looked up at the scoreboard.

50 PTS — 10 REB — 16 AST — 2 BLK

Kobe looked at the numbers and finally allowed himself to smile.

He had imagined his NBA debut thousands of times as a kid. In Italy, he’d imagined it on outdoor courts and in empty gyms. He’d imagined the introductions, the first basket, the crowd, the jersey. The first time he’d actually lived it, reality had been nothing like those dreams.

Now he’d been given another one.

Shaq leaned over from the seat beside him. “Wilt’s gonna be mad.”

Kobe looked at him. “He’ll be all right, he still got the 100 points.”

The final horn sounded a moment later. Kobe rose with the rest of the bench, and he and Shaq walked onto the court while the Forum remained on its feet.

Sharia reached him first, practically crashing into him before he could get away from the bench.

“Fifty.”

Kobe laughed, wrapping an arm around her. “Hello to you too.”

“Fifty, Kobe. In your first game.” She pulled back and stared at him. “And that dunk? What is wrong with you?”

“You liked it.”

“I screamed so loud my throat hurts.”

“So you liked it.”

She punched him in the shoulder. “Shut up.”

Pamela was laughing when she pulled him into her arms. “Look at you.”

Kobe hugged her tighter. “Hey, Ma.”

She held him for another second before leaning back. “You scared me half to death flying around that rim.”

“I knew what I was doing.”

“You’re eighteen. You don’t know anything.”

Kobe grinned. “I knew enough to get fifty.”

“Oh, now he’s talking.” Pamela tapped his cheek. “I’m proud of you, baby.”

Joe had stayed quiet through all of it. When Kobe finally looked at him, his father shook his head slowly.

“What?” Kobe asked.

Joe stepped forward and hugged him. “Nothing. I’m just trying to figure out when my son became this damn good.”

Kobe laughed into his shoulder. “You taught me.”

Joe pulled back, keeping both hands on his shoulders. “I taught you some things. That tonight?” He shook his head. “That was you.”

For once, Kobe didn’t have a comeback.

Joe pulled him in one more time. “Hell of a first day at work, son.”

“Yeah,” Kobe said, hugging him back. “Hell of a first day.”

For months, everyone had an opinion about him. He was too young. He should have gone to college. High school basketball wasn’t the NBA. Then Adidas gave an eighteen-year-old who had never played a regular-season minute seventy million dollars, and the questions only got louder.

Too much money. Too much attention. Too soon.

Kobe had heard all of it.

He also knew one game didn’t make any of those people wrong forever. He’d lived long enough once already to know how quickly praise could turn, how little fifty points in November would matter if he stopped getting better.

But tonight?

Tonight, he could enjoy.

At the broadcast table, the cameras remained on the court while the crowd continued chanting his name.

“Think about what this kid walked into tonight,” the announcer said. “Eighteen years old. Straight out of high school. No college basketball. He signs a seven-year, seventy-million-dollar deal with Adidas before ever playing an NBA game, and there were plenty of people asking whether all of this had come too fast.”

His partner laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t ask him that tonight.”

“No, I don’t think I would either.”

The camera found the scoreboard again.

“Fifty points, ten rebounds, sixteen assists and two blocks. He breaks the NBA debut scoring record, breaks the debut assist record, and does it in his first night as a professional.”

“And the scary part? He’s eighteen.”

The first announcer was quiet for a moment as another chant rolled through the Forum.

“KO-BE! KO-BE! KO-BE!”

“There will be more games. There will be bad nights. There will be teams that spend a lot of time figuring out how to defend him. We don’t know what Kobe Bryant’s career is going to become.”

His partner looked across the court toward Kobe.

“But I think Adidas is feeling pretty good about that contract right now.”

Both men laughed.

The crowd kept chanting.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said, “you just witnessed history!”