Chapter 79: Might’ve Got Me Cheap

The press room smelled of old carpet, burnt coffee, and the heat coming off the television lights. A Lakers staffer was still squeezing writers into the last few open seats when Del Harris and Kobe came through the side door. Kobe’s hair was still damp from the shower, and one sleeve of his suit jacket had bunched near his elbow when he threw it on in the locker room.

There had to be sixty people packed into the room. Legal pads rested on knees, recorders crowded the table in front of them, and television cameras filled most of the space along the back wall. Kobe took his seat, straightened his sleeve, and pulled the microphone a little closer.

He knew this room.

Not this particular one, not with these reporters staring at him after this particular game, but the rhythm of it was familiar. He knew which questions needed an answer, which ones wanted a headline, and which ones were really three questions disguised as one. Twenty years of press conferences had taught him when to give them something and when to smile and move on.

Del settled into the chair beside him and looked over the packed room. “Everybody make it in?”

A few reporters laughed while somebody along the wall called out that they were still missing two chairs.

“They must have bigger news elsewhere,” Del said. “Go ahead.”

The first question came from a Lakers beat reporter near the front. “Del, when did you realize Kobe had a chance at Wilt’s record?”

“Probably around the same time everybody else did,” Del said. “I was more interested in the close game. Once we knew where Kobe was, though, there wasn’t much point pretending nobody knew.”

The reporter looked toward Kobe. “Did you know?”

“Not really in the game; it was a calm shooting night.” Kobe rested his forearms comfortably on the table. “I knew Wilt had the record. But that’s not something you’re thinking about when the game starts. Once they told me I was sitting on thirty-eight, then it came back pretty quickly.”

“And you decided to go for it?”

“Absolutely.”

That brought a laugh from the room. Kobe smiled with them.

“What am I supposed to tell you? I didn’t?”

Del chuckled beside him. “At least we don’t have to worry about getting the honest answer out of him.”

Another reporter picked it up. “How much did the record affect the way you played those last few minutes?”

“Not much. The game was still close, so I wasn’t going to start hunting bad shots for it. I figured if I kept playing, I’d get another opportunity.” Kobe paused, smiling slightly. ” And I did.”

The next question came immediately. “From pretty far behind the line.”

“Yeah, that part wasn’t planned.”

“I knew I was outside, just not that far.” Kobe laughed. “I wasn’t checking my feet. The clock was coming down and the defense was closing, so I got it up.”

The room laughed, and Kobe left it there. He knew better than to keep working a joke after it had already landed.

A wire reporter waited for the noise to settle. “The scoring record is going to get most of the attention, but you also finished with sixteen assists. That broke Ernie DiGregorio’s record for assists in an NBA debut. Did you know you were anywhere near that?”

“That one, no. It might sound bad, but I really didn’t know about him.” Kobe shook his head. “I knew I was finding people, but I wasn’t counting assists. Phoenix started bringing another defender pretty far out, and once they did that, somebody was going to be open.”

“Usually Shaq?”

Kobe said, smiling. “That’s a pretty good option.”

Del nodded. “We recommend it.”

A reporter in the second row looked down at the box score. “Fifty points, ten rebounds, sixteen assists, two blocks. Is there anything in there that surprised you?”

“The sixteen assists.”

The room reacted immediately, some laughing while several pens went back to paper.

He let them have that one before continuing. “Sixteen assists means we were getting good shots out of what they were doing defensively. I like that. Fifty is nice too, though. I’m keeping the ball.”

Another reporter asked what the night meant to him personally. Kobe had heard versions of that question hundreds of times before, and he knew there was no reason to make it complicated.

“It was special,” he said. “My family was there. First regular-season game at the Forum, first one that counts, and we won. I got to share the floor with Shaq, Eddie, all these guys for the first time when it actually mattered. I’m going to remember that.”

A woman from a national paper raised her hand next. “Kobe, you’ve heard the criticism since you declared. People said you should have gone to college, questioned how quickly your game would translate, and Adidas guaranteed you seventy million dollars before you’d played a regular-season NBA game. After tonight, do you feel like you proved something?”

Kobe knew where the question was going before she finished asking it. He could give her the safe answer about believing in himself and taking things one game at a time. He had given that answer plenty of times before.

Tonight, he didn’t particularly feel like giving it.

“I think the people who believed in me yesterday still believe in me,” he said. “The people who didn’t probably aren’t changing their minds after one game. That’s fine. We’ve got a whole season.”

“And Adidas?”

Kobe looked at her. “What about them?”

“Seventy million looked like a pretty big gamble when they signed you.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Kobe’s mouth.

“How much did you say?”

She smiled too. “Seventy million.”

“Might’ve got me cheap.”

The room erupted.

Kobe leaned back while the comment rolled through the rows. Del dropped his head, laughing into his hand, and several reporters immediately started talking over one another.

“Kobe, are you saying you’re worth more than seventy million?”

“Should they have paid you more?”

“Are you calling Adidas tomorrow?”

Kobe waited. There was no reason to fight sixty voices.

When the room finally settled enough for him to answer, he smiled. “I didn’t say any of that.”

“All right,” Del said once he recovered. “Let’s move on before his agent hears about this.”

Kobe glanced over at him. “Rob’s probably already heard.”

Del was laughing, and Kobe was enjoying himself, and the reporters knew they had already gotten the quote they were going to use. For the next few minutes, the room loosened up.

Someone eventually asked about the 360 windmill that had given Kobe fifty.

“What were you thinking there?”

Kobe laughed. “Honestly?”

“Please.”

“I had forty-eight, I had an open floor, and the crowd was already standing.”

The reporter waited for more.

“That was pretty much it.”

A Philadelphia reporter got the next question. “Kobe, you mentioned the crowd. Did you hear what Allen Iverson did tonight?”

“Yeah. Somebody told me at halftime.”

“Forty points.”

Kobe nodded. “Hell of a game.”

“Did that get your attention?”

“Of course it did. Forty in your first one? That’s big.”

“Did it motivate you at all in the second half?”

Kobe smiled because he could already see tomorrow’s story forming in the reporter’s head.

“I was already pretty motivated.”

“So not at all?”

Kobe kept silent.

A few reporters laughed.

Kobe looked toward the Philadelphia writer. “Allen’s a competitor. So am I. Somebody tells me at halftime he dropped forty, yeah, I’m going to notice.” Kobe smiled. “I’m just glad his game was first.”

The room cracked up.

Someone asked if Kobe expected comparisons between the two of them now.

“They were already comparing us. That’s what people do.” Kobe shrugged. “He had a great night. I had a great night. I’m sure we’ll both have bad ones eventually too.”

The questions continued for another several minutes. They talked about Shaq, about the Forum crowd, about the Lakers’ defense and about what Phoenix had done differently in the second half. Kobe handled each without rushing. When a reporter tried asking the same Adidas question from a different direction, Kobe smiled and told him, “You already got your headline,” which drew knowing laughter around the room.

Eventually somebody asked Del what came next.

“Practice,” Del said.

“Nothing changes after tonight?”

“Sure, something changes. He’s going to be tired at practice.”

Kobe laughed. “That’s rough.”

For once, Kobe had nothing to add. He simply nodded as though Del had finally said something sensible, which earned another smile from the room.

Del continued, “We’ll watch the film, clean some things up, and get ready for the next one.”

The Lakers staffer finally stepped forward and announced the last question. By then, some reporters were already rewinding their recorders or comparing notes, and Kobe knew exactly which answer they were checking.

A minute later, the session ended. Kobe stood, fixed the sleeve of his jacket, and followed Del toward the side door. As they passed the last row, he heard his own voice coming through somebody’s recorder.

Might’ve got me cheap.

Kobe smiled and kept walking.

Once the door closed behind them, the press room became a muffled hum. Del waited until they were halfway down the corridor before looking over at him.

“That one’s going to follow you around.”

“The Adidas line?”

“No, the sixteen assists. Of course the Adidas line.”

Kobe laughed. “I thought it was pretty good.”

“It was pretty good.”

That surprised him enough to make him look over.

Del smiled. “Doesn’t mean you’re not going to hear it for the next six months.”

Del couldn’t know how true that was.

They walked a few more steps before Del added, “Talk radio’s going to have a field day tomorrow.”

Del laughed and clapped him once on the shoulder.

“Have a good night, Kobe.”

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Overnight, the story changed.

For most of the evening, Allen Iverson owned the rookie headlines. Forty points in his debut had moved across the wire before the Lakers even reached halftime. By the time the East Coast games ended, sports desks already had their story.

Then Kobe kept scoring.

Forty-three became forty-six. Forty-six became forty-eight. Then came the steal and the 360 windmill for fifty.

Suddenly, finished pages weren’t finished anymore.

On a late Los Angeles sports roundup, an anchor stared at the faxed box score in his hand. “Fifty points, ten rebounds, sixteen assists.”

His partner looked over. “A triple-double?”

The highlights rolled behind them: the three that broke Wilt Chamberlain’s 37-year-old debut scoring record, a pass to Shaq after Phoenix sent help, and finally the windmill.

“First Iverson gives you forty,” the second anchor said, laughing, “and somehow that’s not the craziest debut tonight.”

Then the press-conference clip arrived.

How much did you say?

Seventy million.

Might’ve got me cheap.

By morning, the quote was running beside the numbers.

50 PTS — 10 REB — 16 AST — 2 BLK

There was skepticism too. One analyst reminded viewers that the league had film now and teams would adjust.

His partner nodded.

By sunrise, one of the morning papers had made its way across Los Angeles.

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The sports section was already open on the kitchen table when Wilt Chamberlain sat down.

He didn’t have to search for the story.

KOBE: FIFTY PTS

Underneath it, in smaller type:

WILT’S RECORD FALLS

Wilt picked up the paper and read quietly for a moment.

“Fifty,” he said.

The woman across from him looked over her coffee. “That’s a pretty good way to lose a record.”

Wilt smiled. “Yeah. He didn’t leave any doubt, did he?”

“Thirty-seven years.”

“It had a good run.”

He kept reading until he found the box score.

“Ten rebounds. Sixteen assists.” He looked up. “Sixteen?”

“That’s what it says.”

“That’s a lot of passing for a man with fifty points.”

She laughed. “Apparently he broke the debut assist record too.”

Wilt looked back at the paper.

“Two records on one night?”

“On his debut.”

He smiled and shook his head. “He could’ve left something for everybody else.”

The morning highlights started on the television behind them. Wilt turned as Kobe rose over the defense and buried the three that moved him past forty-three. The Forum erupted before Kobe had made it back down the floor.

Wilt nodded.

“That’s a nice shot.”

The next clips showed Kobe finding Shaq inside, another basket to reach forty-eight, and then the steal that sent him alone toward the other end.

Kobe took off.

Turned.

Windmilled it through.

Wilt laughed immediately. “Oh, he was feeling good.”

The broadcast moved to the press conference.

How much did you say?

Seventy million.

Might’ve got me cheap.

Wilt’s smile widened.

“That’s a good line.”

“You like him.”

“I like his confidence.” Wilt glanced at the box score again. “Fifty and sixteen is something.”

He folded the newspaper, but stopped before setting it down.

“You know what I had in my first game?”

She smiled into her coffee. “I know exactly what you had.”

“Twenty-eight rebounds.”

Wilt tapped Kobe’s ten on the page and he let out a deep, booming laugh.

“He ain’t break that one.”

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Sorry for only dropping one chapter today. Work ended up being a lot busier than I expected today, hella meetings.

🐍 Out.