Chapter 83: Should've Turned Off Fatigue

The press room at Madison Square Garden was packed by the time Shaq arrived. Television cameras crowded the back wall, reporters filled every seat, and another group stood along the sides with recorders already raised. Kobe wasn’t with him. He’d been caught in the tunnel by television crews who all wanted the same thing: something about the dunk.

Shaq had barely settled behind the microphone before the questions started. “Shaq, you and Patrick have had some major battles. What did you think of tonight?”

“Pat’s Pat. One of the best big men ever. Strong as hell too.” Shaq rolled one shoulder. “I’m gonna feel hella sore tomorrow.”

A few reporters laughed before someone farther back called out, “What about Kobe dunking on him?” Shaq’s expression changed immediately. “Man.” That got another laugh. “You saw it?” the reporter asked. “I was right there. Thought I was about to get a rebound. Then Kobe came flying through and—” Shaq stopped himself, already laughing. “Nah. I ain’t doing Pat like that.”

“Did he get him clean?”

Shaq stared at the reporter. “You saw the same replay I saw.”

That got the room going again. Across the press area, Ewing was answering questions from another group of reporters, towel around his neck, never looking over. Someone called out, “They’re already saying it’s the dunk of the year.”

“Y’all trying to get me killed.”

Even the Lakers’ PR representative laughed. A reporter from Orlando waited for the room to settle before asking, “Shaq, you’ve played with another great young guard in Penny Hardaway. How does Kobe compare?”

Shaq smiled. “Oh, here y’all go.”

Pens came up throughout the room. Shaq saw them and shook his head. “Penny was special. Still is. We did a lot together in Orlando.”

“But?”

“I ain’t even said ‘but’ yet.”

Shaq rubbed his chin. “Look, Penny could do things most guards couldn’t do. But I ain’t never seen a rookie doing this. Fifty in his first game, coming into the Garden playing like this, trying to jump over seven-footers…” He shook his head. “This little dude got something wrong with him.”

The reporter jumped on it. “Are you saying Kobe’s better than Penny?”

“Nope.”

“You just said—”

“I know what I said.”

The room erupted. Across the room, someone finally asked Ewing the question everyone had been circling. “Pat, they’re already showing the dunk on SportsCenter.”

Ewing adjusted the towel around his neck. “That is what SportsCenter is for.”

“What happened?”

“He dunked the ball.”

“Did his elevation surprise you?”

“No.”

“So you expected him to dunk on you?”

Ewing slowly looked at the reporter. “Next question.”

Shaq dropped his head, shoulders shaking. Ewing finally looked over. “Something funny, Shaq?”

Shaq straightened immediately. “No, sir.”

That broke the room again. A few minutes later, Ewing finished his questions and headed toward the door.

The Lakers’ PR representative waited for the laughter to settle before pointing toward the back. “Last question.”

“Shaq, you’re 3–0. How good can this team be?”

“We gotta see if we can make it four tomorrow.” Shaq stood and pushed the chair back.

Someone called after him, “Who’s Charlotte got?”

He walked out laughing. Behind him, reporters were already reaching for phones and notebooks. Some had the Lakers’ 3–0 start. Others had Shaq talking about Penny.

Almost everybody had the same photograph.

The highlight reached Chicago quickly, and Steve Kerr started laughing almost as soon as it appeared on the Bulls’ locker-room television. “Oh my God. Rewind it.”

Someone grabbed the remote. Kobe burst through the gap, planted off his left foot, and went up as Ewing rotated. Ewing rose with him. Kobe kept coming.

Pippen shook his head. “Pat, come on, man.”

That started it. The Bulls had spent too many years battling Ewing and the Knicks to let him survive the moment quietly. Somebody wanted the replay slowed down. Somebody else wanted it frozen at the worst possible frame.

Jordan grinned. “That boy’s crazy.” He watched Kobe posterize Ewing again. “But I like his heart.”

Pippen started laughing. “I’m sending that tape to Georgetown. See if Coach Thompson can get Pat some help.”

Even Jordan cracked up.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

In Philadelphia, Allen Iverson wasn’t laughing quite as much. He was watching television with a few friends when the Lakers-Knicks highlights came on. Kobe appeared, attacked the gap, and dunked on Ewing.

Somebody beside him muttered, “Damn,” but Iverson barely heard him. The jumping didn’t bother him. He knew what he could do off the floor. It was everything attached to Kobe’s jump that annoyed him—the height, the arms, the reach.

“Man, everything is easier when you six-six.”

One of his friends laughed. “Ain’t nothing easy about dunking on Patrick Ewing.”

Iverson looked over. “I ain’t say the dunk was easy. I am saying if I had the height, I’d be jumping out the roof.”

“And then what?”

“Then the league got a problem.”

That got the room roaring. Someone pointed at the television. “You doing that to Ewing?”

“I’m trying at least.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The Lakers’ bus was considerably quieter. Kobe took a window seat and rested the side of his face against the cold glass while Manhattan moved past outside. A few rows ahead, Shaq turned around.

“You know what they tried to do to me?” He continued, “They asked me about Penny.”

That got Kobe to look over. “What’d you tell them?”

“Told ’em Penny was special. Then I said I ain’t never seen a rookie doing what you’re doing.”

Kobe stared at him. “Why would you give them that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“You know what they’re going to print.”

“That’s their problem.”

“They’re probably calling Penny right now.”

Shaq shrugged. “Sounds like Penny’s problem.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

By the time they reached the charter, most of the energy from Madison Square Garden was gone. Shaq moved slower than usual after forty minutes of wrestling with Ewing. Around him, players stretched, put on headphones or let the trainers work on whatever had tightened up during the game.

On the plane, Eddie Jones dropped into the seat across from Kobe. “You gonna sleep?”

“Eventually.”

Kobe adjusted the pillow behind his head. “I’m thinking about Muggsy.”

Eddie stared at him.

“He’ll pick my pocket three times if I’m half asleep.”

Eddie shook his head. “This obsession is not healthy.”

Kobe closed his eyes. “People around here can use a little obsession.”

Eddie laughed and settled back. Eventually the cabin quieted around them, and Kobe found himself remembering airports after midnight, stiff legs after flights, and hotel rooms where he’d wake and needed a second to remember which city he was in.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

They reached Charlotte before sunrise. Kobe got to his room, dropped his bag, and sat on the edge of the bed. His legs were heavy and his back was tight, but he knew the difference between this soreness and what nights like this would eventually become.

Twenty years later, the Knicks game and overnight flight would’ve followed him well into the next afternoon. Now not so much.

When Kobe woke, pale morning light had found its way around the curtains. He sat up slowly, tested his back, then stood and stretched.

Not bad.

Better than not bad, actually.

Kobe laughed softly and walked to the window. A few hours of sleep had already given him half his legs back. He pulled the curtain aside while his mind moved through Charlotte’s players.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The Hornets were already on the floor when the Lakers came out for warmups.

Muggsy Bogues moved with the ball low and tight, changing direction without wasting a step. Glen Rice was already shooting spot-up jumpers, the ball barely touching his hands before another one went up. Anthony Mason was impossible to miss near half court.

Then Kobe saw Vlade.

Seeing him in teal shouldn’t have felt strange. The Lakers had traded him to Charlotte for the draft rights that brought Kobe to Los Angeles. But Kobe’s memories didn’t end there. Years from now, in the life he’d already lived, they would somehow become teammates again.

Vlade spotted him and smiled. Of course he did.

“So,” Vlade said when they met near midcourt, “you are the reason I live in Charlotte now.”

Kobe retorted. “I didn’t make the trade.”

“I blame you.”

Kobe snickered and headed back toward the Lakers’ side. Across the floor, Dell Curry knocked down another three. For an instant, another Curry flashed through Kobe’s memory, launching shots from distances that would’ve gotten most players benched in 1996.

Different Curry. Different time.

He still couldn’t leave a Curry open.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Rice hit a three on Charlotte’s first possession.

Muggsy scored on the next one.

Nothing complicated about either play. Eddie got caught on Mason’s screen, then Shaq looked away from the paint just long enough for Vlade to slip a pass behind him. Five points before the Lakers had really settled in.

Kobe got two back from the elbow, but he noticed Shaq trailing the play as he ran back.

“Come on, big fella.”

“I’m coming.”

“You walking.”

“I’m seven-one. It looks different.”

Kobe laughed and picked up Tony Smith.

Charlotte kept at it. Muggsy pushed whenever he had room, Mason crashed everything, and Rice seemed to spend the entire quarter running around screens. Vlade mostly stayed out of Shaq’s way and waited for somebody to make a mistake.

Shaq finally got him on the block, backed him down, and turned for the hook.

Front rim.

Mason came down with it.

“Damn,” Shaq muttered.

Del finally called timeout.

After a few adjustments and a break, the game resumed.

They were better after the timeout, just not much fresher.

Kobe got a steal and started up the floor before realizing nobody was running with him. He slowed near half court and looked back.

Eddie was coming. Campbell was farther behind. Shaq wasn’t even pretending.

Kobe shook his head. “Damn.”

Muggsy heard him. “Long night?”

“Mind your business.”

That little man really did talk.

Once everyone finally arrived, Kobe got the ball back and pulled up before Muggsy could come digging at it.

Swish.

The horn came not long after.

Charlotte 23, Los Angeles 18.

Kobe took a towel from Fisher and sat down. He had nine. Rice had eleven. None of that bothered him nearly as much as how heavy everybody looked.

.

.

.

.

.

.

We were really close to earning two extra chapters last week, so maybe we can hit it this time.

Thanks again for all the support, and keep the comments coming. I always enjoy reading what you guys think about each chapter!