Chapter 88: The Price of Winning

The San Antonio River Walk was busy that evening. Restaurants lined the water, their lights reflecting across the surface as tourists wandered between shops and cafés.

The Lakers had taken over several tables at a Mexican restaurant overlooking the river, and after their double-overtime victory against Houston, most of the players were grateful for an opportunity to sit down.

Kobe stretched his legs beneath the table, feeling the lingering soreness in his knees. The Rockets had pushed them harder than anyone this season. Fifty-eight minutes of basketball, a 127–118 victory, and another thirty-five points added to his growing reputation.

Unfortunately, winning hadn’t made his legs any less tired.

Across from him, Shaq was complaining.

“I’m telling you, Hakeem was trying too damn hard. Man already got his championships. Why he gotta make everything so difficult?”

Eddie Jones looked up. “You ever seen Hakeem give anybody an easy night?”

“Man, I thought that game was never gonna end,” Shaq complained.

Kobe laughed. “You looked ready to kiss the referee when that buzzer sounded.”

Fisher nearly choked on his drink.

“Yeah, running up and down with this body ain’t easy,” Shaq said, pointing at Kobe. “I had thirty-four points and fifteen rebounds. What the hell else you want?”

Kobe shrugged. “Could’ve made it thirty-six. Maybe we wouldn’t have needed overtime.”

The table erupted. Campbell agreed that Kobe had a point, which immediately started another argument about loyalty. Shaq demanded to know whose side he was on, only for Campbell to announce that he supported whoever was winning.

“We won!” Shaq protested.

“Then why you complaining?”

Shaq stared at him before throwing his hands up. “I can’t stand none of y’all.”

Kobe was still laughing when Shaq reached across the table and stole a tortilla chip from Fisher’s plate.

“Hey!”

“Rookie tax.”

The laughter continued as the waiters brought out their food. Plates of fajitas, enchiladas, rice, and beans crowded the tables, and the conversation gradually shifted toward their first six games.

Kobe mostly listened.

He’d spent enough years in NBA locker rooms to understand how quickly a team’s atmosphere could change. Winning made everything easier. Arguments ended faster, teammates tolerated one another’s habits, and nobody complained quite as loudly about playing time.

But he genuinely liked this group.

Shaq, in particular, was different from the teammate Kobe remembered. Or perhaps Kobe was the one who had changed. They still competed, argued, and gave each other plenty of shit, but neither seemed interested in turning every disagreement into something personal.

“Hey, Shaq,” Campbell said. “You hear Robinson’s not playing tomorrow?”

Shaq looked up. “David?”

“Yeah. Still out.”

“Man, that’s disappointing. I wanted to see him.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Of course! That’s my guy!”

“Your guy?”

“What, I can’t like David Robinson?”

Kobe chuckled. “You were talking about dunking on him last week.”

“That’s basketball! I can like somebody and still put him on a poster.”

Campbell laughed. “Well, you’ll have to settle for Greg Anderson.”

At the other end of the table, Kurt Rambis finally looked up from the notes he’d been reviewing.

“Enjoy yourselves,” he said. “But if you think tomorrow’s going to be easy because Robinson isn’t playing, you’re in for a surprise.”

Shaq turned toward him. “Come on, Kurt. You telling me Greg Anderson’s gonna stop me?”

“No. I’m telling you basketball involves five players.”

“Six if you count the refs,” Campbell muttered.

Rambis ignored the laughter.

“Avery Johnson runs their offense. Sean Elliott can score, Vernon Maxwell can get hot from outside, and Dominique Wilkins can still put thirty on somebody who doesn’t take him seriously.”

“Dominique’s about forty,” Shaq said.

“Thirty-six,” Kobe corrected.

“Same damn thing.”

Rambis shook his head. “Wilkins just helped Panathinaikos win the European championship. He’s not coming back to the NBA to sit around. Don’t underestimate him.”

Kobe certainly wouldn’t.

He remembered Dominique Wilkins as one of the most explosive scorers of his generation. The Human Highlight Film. Nine All-Star selections, a scoring title, and two Slam Dunk Contest championships.

Even after his Achilles injury, Wilkins had remained dangerous. His athleticism wasn’t what it had once been, but his footwork, touch, and understanding of defensive positioning were more than enough to punish careless opponents.

The conversation eventually moved on, but Kobe found himself watching his teammates with an appreciation he hadn’t always possessed in his previous life.

He still wanted to win more than anything.

That hadn’t changed.

But he was learning to enjoy the moments between victories, too.

By the time dinner ended, several players were ready to head straight back to the hotel. Kobe followed Shaq onto the River Walk, where the cooler evening air offered some relief from the crowded restaurant.

A tourist called Shaq’s name from across the water.

Shaq raised a hand.

“See that? They love me in Texas.”

Kobe gave him a look that said, You sure about that?

Shaq gave him a shove on the shoulder, and the two continued toward the hotel, arguing about whether thirty-four points in double overtime was more impressive than thirty-five from a rookie.

Neither was willing to concede.

And for the moment, Kobe almost forgot how sore his legs were.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The following evening, the Alamodome was already filling when the Lakers came out for warmups.

Kobe worked through his shooting routine, paying particular attention to his legs. They still felt heavier than usual, especially when he pushed off his left foot. He’d played through worse fatigue in his previous career, but he knew better than to pretend it didn’t matter.

Across the court, Dominique Wilkins was knocking down jumpers from the elbows.

The veteran worked through several post moves before finishing a drive with a two-handed dunk that drew cheers from the crowd.

“He still has some bounce, huh?”

Kobe turned to find Eddie Jones beside him.

“More than enough.”

“Elden’s gonna have a long night.”

“Only if we leave him alone.”

A few minutes later, Kobe crossed paths with Wilkins near the scorer’s table.

“Bryant.”

“What’s going on, Dominique?”

Wilkins shook his hand.

He laughed. “Man, I saw the highlights. Keep shooting like that, somebody’s gonna start picking you up at half court.”

Kobe grinned. “Then I guess I’ll have to start shooting from there.”

By tipoff, the arena had grown considerably louder.

San Antonio started Avery Johnson, Vernon Maxwell, Sean Elliott, Dominique Wilkins, and Greg Anderson.

Los Angeles countered with Kobe, Eddie Jones, Bruce Bowen, Elden Campbell, and Shaquille O’Neal.

Shaq rolled his shoulders as he stood beside Kobe near midcourt.

“I’m about to have some fun this game.”

“Just don’t get carried away.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Shaq asked.

“Don’t pick up three offensive fouls trying to put somebody through the basket.”

“Three? Man, I ain’t getting three.”

“All right. Two.”

Shaq laughed. “Just throw me the damn ball.”

“Get position.”

“Against Anderson? Shit, I’ll have position all night.”

The referee tossed the ball.

Shaq won the opening tip, directing it toward Kobe, who brought it across half court and immediately looked inside.

Without David Robinson protecting the paint, there was no reason to complicate their first possession.

Shaq established position against Anderson on the left block. Kobe delivered the entry pass before San Antonio could send help.

One dribble.

A turn toward the middle.

Shaq rose through Anderson’s contest and hammered the ball through with both hands.

Bang.

2–0, Lakers.

“That’s gonna be there all night,” Shaq announced.

Anderson didn’t respond.

San Antonio’s first possession was considerably slower. Avery Johnson crossed half court, raised his hand, and waited for his teammates to settle into position.

Wilkins caught the ball near the left elbow.

Campbell stepped forward.

One jab step was enough to make him shift his weight.

Wilkins rose into a smooth seventeen-foot jumper.

Swish.

On the next possession, the Lakers tried returning to Shaq, but Wilkins helped toward the paint before Kobe could deliver the entry pass. Kobe swung the ball to Eddie instead, who found Campbell near the free-throw line.

His jumper missed.

Anderson secured the rebound, and Johnson immediately found Maxwell running along the right side.

Bowen sprinted toward him.

Too late.

Maxwell pulled up from beyond the arc.

Splash.

5–2, Spurs.

“That’s money, baby!” Maxwell shouted.

Bowen shook his head.

“My bad.”

The first few minutes revealed exactly what Rambis had warned them about.

San Antonio wasn’t trying to outrun Los Angeles. Johnson controlled the tempo, Wilkins operated from the elbows and mid-post, Elliott moved through screens, and Maxwell searched for opportunities along the perimeter.

Every possession forced the Lakers to defend through several actions.

And after Houston, their legs weren’t responding quite as quickly as they needed.

Kobe began attacking Johnson’s smaller frame, using Shaq’s screens to create space. On one possession, he split Johnson and Anderson before lifting a soft floater over the center’s outstretched arm.

The ball dropped through.

“That’s it!” Shaq shouted. “Keep putting pressure on ’em!”

But Wilkins continued causing problems.

He scored over Campbell from the elbow, then backed him down on another possession before turning into a fadeaway.

Campbell contested both attempts.

Neither mattered.

“Man!” Campbell shouted. “I’m right in his face!”

Shaq shook his head. “Y’all better figure it out before he gets twenty.”

Despite the joking, Los Angeles couldn’t establish control.

Shaq was effective whenever he received the ball deep, but the Spurs began sending help before he could turn toward the basket. Wilkins or Elliott would step toward the paint, forcing him to hesitate.

On one possession, Shaq attacked quickly enough to draw a foul while finishing through Anderson.

He turned toward Kobe with both arms spread, celebrating the basket.

“And one, baby!”

Kobe grinned. “You gotta make the free throw first, for the one.”

Shaq’s smile disappeared.

The ball bounced off the rim.

Kobe grinned. “See what I mean?”

By the end of the first quarter, the Spurs had made something clear.

They weren’t intimidated by the Lakers’ undefeated record.

And Kobe was beginning to understand why.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The second quarter brought fresh legs, but not much relief.

Del Harris introduced Derek Fisher and Ben Wallace, hoping to increase the tempo and give his starters some help defensively.

Fisher immediately pushed the ball after a defensive rebound and found Kobe cutting toward the basket.

Anderson stepped across to challenge him.

Too late.

Kobe caught the pass in stride, gathered off two feet, and threw down a powerful dunk.

The Lakers’ bench jumped to its feet.

“HEY GET UP THERE!” Shaq shouted.

Kobe pointed toward Fisher.

“Nice pass, Fish!”

For a moment, Los Angeles appeared to have found something.

Then Wilkins came off another screen and buried a jumper over Campbell.

San Antonio quickly settled back into its preferred rhythm.

The Spurs were also becoming increasingly comfortable leaving Bruce Bowen open.

Kobe drove past Johnson and drew help before kicking the ball to Bowen in the corner.

Wide open.

Clang.

The ball bounced off the rim.

A few possessions later, Shaq drew a double-team and found Bowen on the wing.

Another three.

Another miss.

“Come on, Bruce!” Shaq complained.

“That’s the shot they’re giving us,” Kobe told him. “Stay ready.”

Bowen nodded, though his frustration was obvious.

Kobe understood the problem. Bowen was already an excellent defender, but he hadn’t developed the dependable three-point shooting Kobe remembered from later in his career.

The Spurs knew they could help against Shaq without paying much of a price.

With under four minutes remaining, Kobe drew Johnson and Wilkins toward him before finding Bowen alone beyond the arc.

Bowen caught, set his feet, and fired.

The ball struck the back rim.

0-for-3.

“You’re getting good looks,” Kobe told him.

“Doesn’t mean a damn thing if I don’t make ’em.”

“Just don’t hesitate.”

San Antonio continued punishing the Lakers’ defensive mistakes. Johnson found Elliott for a jumper, Maxwell connected on another three, and Wilkins repeatedly forced Campbell into difficult positions.

During a timeout, Shaq dropped into his chair.

“Man, these dudes are annoying.”

“They’re making us chase them,” Kobe replied.

“They’re just waiting for somebody to fuck up.”

“Because we’re giving them time to set everything up.”

Shaq shook his head in frustration.

“All right, fellas. Listen up.” Harris interrupted.

He stepped into the huddle, clipboard in hand.

“We’re changing things up. Shaq, set the high screen. Kobe, attack off it.”

Kobe nodded. “What about Wilkins?”

“If he helps, find Elden cutting behind him. Make them choose.”

Campbell grinned. “Finally, somebody remembers I’m out there.”

Shaq laughed.

“Enough,” Harris interrupted, though he was smiling. “Bruce, keep moving when they collapse. Give Kobe another passing option.”

The adjustments helped.

Shaq scored through the middle, Eddie knocked down a jumper, and Kobe continued attacking Johnson whenever he found space.

But San Antonio answered nearly everything.

With less than a minute remaining, Kobe came off a screen and found himself facing Anderson near the free-throw line. He hesitated, waited for the center to shift his weight, then stepped into a jumper.

Nothing but net.

The basket brought Los Angeles within one.

Johnson responded by driving into the paint and finding Elliott, who knocked down a contested jumper.

The Lakers had one final opportunity, but Wilkins deflected Kobe’s entry pass toward Shaq. Los Angeles recovered, though the disruption left Kobe taking a difficult jumper as the clock expired.

It bounced away.

The halftime buzzer sounded.

Spurs 52–49 Lakers

Kobe glanced at the scoreboard.

Three points.

Nothing they couldn’t overcome.

But the score didn’t tell the whole story.

San Antonio was crowding Shaq, daring Bowen to shoot, and forcing Los Angeles to defend through long possessions. The Lakers had spent most of the half reacting instead of dictating the action.

The players disappeared into the tunnel, still arguing about screens, defensive assignments, and who should have received the ball.

Kobe followed them toward the locker room, already considering how to attack San Antonio’s help defense.

They were down three at halftime.

And there was still plenty of time to change that.