Chapter 80: The Reaction (Bonus Chapter)

The Bulls facility on a November morning was a study in controlled neglect. The paint on the doors had been touched up enough times that you could see the history in the brushstrokes, and the locker room always carried some mixture of detergent, tape glue, and sweat that never quite went away, no matter how many banners the franchise hung. A television sat on a metal bracket above the whiteboard, tuned to a cable channel running through the previous night’s NBA highlights. Nobody paid much attention to it. It was background noise more than anything else.

Michael Jordan sat at his locker lacing a fresh pair of black-and-reds while Ron Harper and Steve Kerr talked a few lockers down. Around them, guys were getting taped, pulling on practice gear, and drifting in and out of the training room.

The television moved through the previous night’s games until the anchor reached Philadelphia.

“—and the number one overall pick Allen Iverson announced himself with forty points in his NBA debut—”

Kerr looked toward the screen. “Forty?”

Harper nodded. “That’s a night.”

Jordan kept working on his shoes.

He tightened the last lace and stood, rolling his shoulders as the television moved on.

“Out in Los Angeles, though, somehow forty wasn’t the biggest rookie performance of the night. Lakers guard Kobe Bryant put up fifty in his NBA debut.”

Jordan stopped.

Across the room, Kerr turned toward the television. “Fifty?”

Jordan reached for his drink but stayed where he was.

The highlights were already rolling. He watched a couple without saying much, then the broadcast reached the steal.

Kobe took the ball the other way with nobody between him and the basket. Instead of simply putting it down, he went up, turned through the air, and brought the ball around before hammering the 360 windmill through.

Kerr laughed. “Wow, that’s some hang time.”

Harper let out a whistle. “He was feeling himself by then.”

Jordan smiled as the replay showed the dunk again from another angle. He couldn’t blame him. An open floor, the building already standing—you were allowed to enjoy yourself a little.

The broadcast moved on to the postgame press conference, catching Kobe just as the segment reached the question about his Adidas deal.

“Might’ve got me cheap.”

The press room erupted, and several people inside the Bulls locker room laughed with it.

Harper shook his head. “Oh, he’s got some mouth on him too.”

Kerr looked toward Jordan. “You like that one, Mike?”

Jordan took another drink, a small smile still on his face, not even bothering to respond.

The television moved on to another game, and just like that, the room started moving again. Conversations picked back up, tape ripped from rolls, and players began making their way toward the court.

Jordan finished his drink, tossed the bottle into the bin, and followed them out.

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By Saturday morning, Adidas had a problem that most companies would have happily paid seventy million dollars to have.

Everybody wanted Kobe Bryant.

Unfortunately, the marketing department had spent the better part of the morning explaining that wanting something and having it available for sale were two very different things.

The president discovered this when he walked into the conference room and found three executives arguing over a production schedule. A fourth was on the telephone, promising a retailer that someone would call him back before lunch. The table was covered with faxes, order sheets, and enough coffee cups to suggest that nobody had slept particularly well.

He set his briefcase down. “Good morning. Who are we disappointing today?”

“At the moment? Everybody,” the marketing director answered.

The president took his seat and reached for the nearest report. Retailers were asking for Kobe merchandise, regional sales representatives wanted to know what they could promise their accounts, and the advertising department had received more inquiries before nine than it had expected to handle all week.

He flipped through another page. “How much of this can we actually deliver?”

The marketing director exchanged a look with the man from production.

The president sighed. “That bad?”

“We have product coming,” production assured him. “Just not enough for what they’re asking.”

“And the campaign?”

“Scheduled.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Then no. We’re not ready.”

The president leaned back in his chair. He had spent months listening to people question the contract, and now he was sitting in a room full of people explaining why they couldn’t take everyone’s money fast enough.

He was having a wonderful morning.

The shoe executive slid a folder across the table. “I would like it officially recorded that I supported this deal from the beginning.”

The president laughed and opened the folder. “If you are finished, I’d like to know what we’re selling.”

That brought the conversation back to business.

The original plan had been straightforward: introduce Kobe to the public, build recognition through the season, and gradually expand the merchandise around him. His signature shoe would come later, once the designers had time to work with him and the company had a clearer idea of how to position it.

It had been a perfectly reasonable plan twenty-four hours earlier.

Now retailers were asking for products that hadn’t even been approved.

“We can bring the first advertisements forward,” the marketing director said. “We’ve already got the photography and enough material to put together a campaign. Television will take longer, but print can move.”

“How much longer?”

“I can get you a proper schedule this afternoon.”

“That works. I want it on my desk before you leave.”

The president turned to production. “Find out what we can increase without creating a warehouse full of merchandise if he has a bad week. I want actual numbers, not somebody’s best guess.”

Production nodded and started making notes.

“And the shoe?”

The shoe executive straightened in his chair. “That’s where I’d rather not cut corners. We can get Kobe back with the designers and move the next fitting forward, but I’d rather give him something he’ll actually want to wear than rush a shoe into stores.”

“I agree. Move the meetings up. Don’t let the standards slip.”

The marketing director flipped back through his notes. “There’s another problem.”

The president looked at him. “Of course there is.”

“We don’t actually have much with his name on it yet.”

That got everyone’s attention.

“We have the campaign material,” the marketing director continued. “We have photography. We have the apparel concepts that were already approved. But if retailers want something they can put on a shelf right now, we’re limited.”

“How limited?”

“More limited than they’re going to like.”

The president rubbed a hand across his chin. “What can we get out quickly without putting garbage in stores?”

“Basic apparel is easiest. Shirts, sweatshirts, hats. Anything complicated takes longer. We can also move some of the existing advertising material into stores while production catches up.”

The marketing director looked through another stack of papers. “Retail wants images too. Posters, counter displays, anything they can put near the basketball section. That we can move faster.”

“Then move it.”

“How much?”

The president looked at him. “Enough that I don’t have another meeting tomorrow morning where everybody tells me customers want something we don’t have.”

The excitement outside the building was moving considerably faster than anything inside it. Factories still needed schedules, advertisements still needed approval, retailers still needed shipments, and the shoe itself still had to be designed before anyone could put it in a box.

The finance officer cleared his throat. “Reporters keep asking for a response to Kobe’s comment about the contract.”

“What response?”

“They want to know whether we agree that we got him cheap.”

The president stared at him for a moment.

“We’re not answering that.”

“Someone suggested we might want to speak with Rob Pelinka before—”

“Absolutely not.”

The answer came so quickly that the marketing director nearly spilled his coffee.

The president shook his head. “The last thing I’m doing this morning is calling Rob Pelinka to ask whether he’d like another seventy million dollars.”

That got everyone in the room to quiet down.

“Tell the reporters we’re delighted with Kobe. Tell them we’re looking forward to the season. Tell them we signed a seven-year contract and we’re very happy with it.”

The marketing director wrote it down. “You don’t want to have a little fun with the quote?”

“Oh, I’m having plenty of fun. I’m just not putting it in a statement.”

The president stood, and the others began gathering their folders. They had retailers to call, schedules to revise, and a shoe that suddenly seemed a great deal more urgent than it had the day before.

He picked up his briefcase, then paused before reaching the door.

“One more thing. Get me the latest sales figures as soon as they’re available. I want to know how much of this excitement is turning into actual orders.”

“Of course.”

“And find out when Kobe can come in to see the designers. Work around his basketball schedule. I don’t want us dragging him in here every time he has a good game.”

The marketing director nodded. “We’ll have something for you this afternoon.”

“Thank you.”

The president glanced back at the original marketing calendar sitting in the middle of the table. Months of planning, dates, launches, and meetings, all laid out neatly across the season.

He smiled.

“You might want to redo that.”

Then he walked out.

For a moment, nobody moved.

The marketing director looked down at the calendar.

“Well,” he said, reaching for his pen. “There goes my weekend.”

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Allen sat near the edge of the bed with breakfast spread around him, listening to his cousin tell a story he’d already heard twice. Somebody was flipping through channels on the television, another friend was stretched out in the chair by the window, and every few minutes the phone started up again.

His cousin glanced toward it. “You gonna get that?”

Allen looked at the phone, then back at his food. “Nah.”

“What if it’s important?”

Allen laughed. “They’ll call back.”

His friend by the television shook his head. “Man gets one good game and don’t answer the phone anymore.”

“One good game?” Allen looked over at him. “That’s how we describing it?”

His friend smiled. “I’ve seen better.”

Allen threw a napkin at him. “Get the fuck outta here.”

Everybody laughed, and that was about as serious as the conversation got. Allen was enjoying himself. He’d waited his whole life to play in the NBA, and now that the first one was behind him, he could finally sit around with his people and talk about it without wondering what it would feel like.

A few minutes passed before basketball came up again. It wasn’t some big conversation. One of his friends was talking about the next game, his cousin was trying to remember who they played, and Allen was only half listening while he finished eating.

Then he said, “I’m getting fifty-one.”

His cousin looked up from the paper. “What?”

“Fifty-one.”

His friend turned away from the television. “In your next game?”

“Yeah.”

His cousin looked at him for a second, then smiled. He knew exactly where that number had come from.

“Fifty-one sounds nice,” Allen said.

His friend started laughing. “You been thinking about that all morning?”

“Nah.” Allen took a drink. “Maybe twenty minutes.”

Allen went back to his breakfast, still smiling.

The conversation moved on almost immediately. Somebody wanted to go shopping later. Somebody else was hungry again despite the pile of wrappers surrounding them. Allen’s phone started ringing for what felt like the hundredth time.

This time he picked it up.

His cousin glanced over. “Finally.”

Allen checked the number and smiled.

“See? Told you they’d call back.”