Chapter 89: The First Loss

San Antonio opened the third quarter with the same patience that had frustrated the Lakers throughout the first half. Avery Johnson controlled the tempo, Dominique Wilkins continued operating from the elbows, and Vernon Maxwell kept Bowen occupied along the perimeter.

Kobe tried forcing the issue himself. He scored nine points in the quarter, shooting four-for-seven from the field, including a three-pointer. He crossed Johnson over for a pull-up jumper, attacked Anderson’s help defense, and pushed whenever an opportunity appeared.

But every time Los Angeles threatened to build momentum, San Antonio answered.

Wilkins buried another difficult jumper over Campbell. Elliott converted a transition opportunity following a turnover, and Maxwell continued stretching the defense. Meanwhile, Shaq struggled to establish his usual rhythm. Anderson couldn’t stop him alone, but the Spurs rarely allowed him to operate against a single defender.

By the end of the quarter, the Lakers had managed just fourteen points.

Spurs 73–63 Lakers.

Kobe stared at the scoreboard as he walked toward the bench.

Fourteen points in twelve minutes.

That wasn’t going to win many basketball games.

The fourth quarter began with Kobe and Shaq resting while Harris tried to squeeze a few minutes from his reserves. Derek Fisher handled the ball, with Bowen and Ceballos on the wings, Ben Wallace at power forward, and Campbell at center.

Fisher opened the quarter by finding Ceballos near the left elbow, but his jumper caught the back rim. Anderson secured the rebound and passed to Johnson, who patiently directed Maxwell toward the right wing.

Anderson set a screen. Bowen fought around it, but Maxwell already had the ball.

He rose.

Splash.

Spurs 76–63 Lakers.

Maxwell turned toward the Lakers’ bench. “Y’all gonna guard me tonight or what?”

Shaq leaned forward. “Somebody shut his ass up.”

“He’s feeling it,” Kobe said.

“Yeah, well, I’m getting tired of hearing about it.”

The Spurs weren’t finished. On the next possession, Wilkins intercepted Fisher’s pass and raced downcourt. Wallace gave chase, but the veteran gathered and threw down a powerful one-handed dunk.

Spurs 78–63 Lakers.

Shaq pulled the towel from his shoulders. “Coach.”

Harris was already standing. “I know. Kobe! Shaq! Get ready!”

“About damn time,” Shaq muttered.

“You were sitting for ninety seconds,” Kobe reminded him.

“Felt like twenty minutes.”

At the next stoppage, Harris sent Kobe, Shaq, and Eddie back onto the floor.

“Don’t try to get fifteen back at once. Get us possessions.”

Kobe nodded and brought the ball across half court. Johnson stayed low while Anderson stepped forward to contain the drive. Kobe took two hard dribbles left, stopped suddenly, and rose from the elbow.

Swish.

On the other end, Bowen forced Maxwell into a difficult jumper, and Campbell secured the rebound.

“PUSH!” Kobe shouted.

He caught the outlet pass and pushed up the middle. Eddie sprinted along the right side while Shaq thundered toward the basket. Johnson retreated, Anderson stepped into the lane, and Kobe waited until both committed before slipping the ball between them.

Shaq caught it in stride.

Two-handed dunk.

“THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!” Shaq roared.

For the first time in several minutes, Los Angeles looked like itself. Campbell forced Wilkins into a difficult fadeaway, Shaq collected the rebound, and Kobe pushed again. Johnson and Anderson collapsed toward him, leaving Eddie open on the wing.

Kobe delivered the pass.

Splash.

San Antonio called timeout.

Spurs 78–70 Lakers.

Harris stepped between them. “That was a nice run. Now don’t give it right back. They’re going to slow things down, so stay patient.”

San Antonio did exactly that.

Johnson found Wilkins near the elbow, where the veteran used a series of jabs and shoulder fakes to create space. Kobe answered with a floater over Anderson, but the Spurs continued finding ways to score.

The Lakers were getting decent looks, yet too many shots bounced away. Campbell missed a contested attempt near the basket, and Johnson slipped behind Kobe for an easy layup.

“That’s on me!” Kobe shouted.

Shaq looked toward him. “Then get it back!”

Kobe found Shaq on the left block on the following possession. Anderson fought for position, but Shaq caught the entry pass deep enough to turn toward the middle.

Wilkins came across to help.

Shaq tried powering through.

The ball slipped loose.

Maxwell scooped it up and raced downcourt, finding Elliott for a three-pointer.

Splash.

Harris called timeout.

“He fucking fouled me!” Shaq complained.

Harris waited until everyone settled. “Listen up, y’all. We need stops. But do not go gambling, no reaching. Make them take a tough shot and get the rebound.” He looked toward Shaq. “And protect the ball.”

Los Angeles made one final push. Eddie scored on a cut, Kobe converted a pair of free throws, and the defense forced several difficult shots. The Lakers briefly reduced the deficit to eight again.

“One stop!” Kobe shouted.

Johnson signaled for Maxwell to come toward the right wing. Anderson set a screen, and Bowen fought to recover.

“BRUCE! SCREEN RIGHT!”

Maxwell caught the pass beyond the arc. Bowen raised his hand, but the shot was already airborne.

Swish.

The Alamodome exploded.

Maxwell turned toward the Lakers’ bench, holding three fingers in the air.

“THAT’S FOUR!”

His fourth three-pointer.

The Lakers tried answering, but Kobe’s jumper bounced off the rim. San Antonio secured the rebound, drained the clock, and made enough free throws to put the game away.

The final buzzer sounded.

Spurs 95–83 Lakers.

Wilkins finished with twenty-eight points, eleven rebounds, four assists, two steals, and two blocks. Maxwell added twenty-two points and four three-pointers. Without David Robinson, San Antonio had relied on disciplined basketball and two veterans who refused to act their age.

For Los Angeles, Shaq finished with eighteen points, ten rebounds, and six turnovers. Kobe recorded twenty-one points and five assists.

The Lakers were 6–1 now.

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Kobe arrived at the Lakers’ practice facility a little after four the following morning.

He’d barely slept since the flight home. Every time he closed his eyes, another possession returned: Johnson slipping behind him for a layup, Shaq losing the ball against a double-team, and the Spurs controlling the third quarter.

Fourteen points in twelve minutes.

He switched on the court lights, dropped his bag beside the bench, and grabbed a basketball.

No reporters. No coaches. No teammates asking what had gone wrong.

Just him and a basket.

Kobe walked toward the right elbow, took one dribble left, planted his feet, and rose.

The ball struck the back rim.

“Too far forward.”

He tried again, concentrating on bringing his feet underneath him. The next two jumpers dropped before the fourth caught the front rim.

“Shit.”

Against San Antonio, his footwork had grown sloppy as his legs tired. His right foot kept drifting forward, pulling his shoulders out of alignment.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed.

Kobe had.

For the next forty minutes, he worked from both elbows, alternating between pull-ups, changes of direction, and controlled fadeaways. Wilkins had reminded him how much a player could accomplish through positioning and balance rather than explosiveness.

Eventually, Kobe sat on the bench and drank some water. His legs were sore, and his shoulders ached from the previous games.

In his former life, he’d treated exhaustion like an opponent he could defeat through stubbornness. Sometimes it worked. Other times, he’d paid for it.

He wasn’t interested in repeating every mistake.

Kobe leaned back and closed his eyes.

A memory surfaced.

Sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows. Vanessa stood near the counter with a cup of coffee, watching him enter in his workout clothes.

“Don’t even think about sitting on that couch.”

Kobe looked down at his shirt. “What?”

“You’re sweating through everything.”

“I showered at the gym.”

“Then you need to go back and shower again.”

He laughed. “That’s cold.”

Before he could reach the stairs, little footsteps came racing down the hallway.

“Daddy!”

Gigi appeared in her pajamas and threw herself against his legs. Kobe scooped her up before Vanessa could object.

“Kobe! She just had a bath!”

“She’s fine.”

“You’re getting sweat all over her.”

Gigi wrapped her arms around his neck and laughed.

Kobe looked toward Vanessa. “See? She doesn’t mind.”

Vanessa shook her head.

“Both of you. Upstairs.”

He could still remember laughing.

Kobe opened his eyes.

He glanced toward the clock.

5:17 am.

Vanessa was somewhere out there, still a girl he hadn’t met in this life. Their daughters existed only in his memories of a future that hadn’t happened yet.

He wanted to believe he’d see them again.

But wanting something had never guaranteed it.

Kobe sat quietly for another minute before returning to the court. His legs were growing heavier, and after catching himself drifting backward on a jumper, he stopped.

There was no point practicing bad habits.

Instead, he attempted twenty free throws.

Seventeen makes.

“That’s ugly.”

He considered another set, then checked the clock. A little after six.

It was enough for now.

Kobe showered and headed toward the parking lot as the sky began to lighten. One defeat didn’t erase six victories, but he could still picture the jumper he’d missed from the right elbow.

He stared through the windshield before laughing.

“Jesus Christ.”

He started the engine.

The shot could wait until tomorrow.

By the time Kobe returned that afternoon, he’d managed another few hours of sleep. Harris had scheduled a light recovery session consisting of film, treatment, a walkthrough, and shooting.

Kobe was approaching the locker room when Shaq stepped into his path, wearing a suspicious grin.

“What’d you break?”

Shaq frowned. “Why I gotta break something?”

“Because you’re standing there looking guilty.”

Shaq laughed and produced a small box from behind his back.

“Here.”

Kobe examined it. “What’s this?”

“A present.”

“From who?”

“From me, fool. Who the hell you think?”

Kobe raised an eyebrow. “If it’s another one of your CDs, I’m leaving it there.”

“First of all, my album’s fire.”

“Then why you giving them away as free copies?”

Shaq pointed at him. “See? This is why I shouldn’t buy you shit.”

Kobe laughed and opened the box.

Inside sat a Motorola StarTAC.

He lifted the compact black phone from its packaging, examining the clamshell design.

“You bought me a phone?”

Shaq flipped the phone open and snapped it shut.

“Look how small this thing is.”

“Everything’s small when you’re holding it.”

Kobe smiled, “Seriously though. Thanks.”

Shaq shook his head. “You’re welcome, little man.”

A whistle sounded down the hallway, and Kurt Rambis appeared with a clipboard.

“Film room. Five minutes.”

Shaq sighed. “Coach, we just got here.”

Rambis glanced at his watch. “Then you’ve got four minutes and fifty seconds.”

The next half hour was spent reviewing their mistakes against San Antonio and preparing for the Clippers.

Harris focused on the defensive miscommunications that had allowed the Spurs to exploit their rotations, particularly when Shaq stepped out to help on screens.

Offensively, he emphasized better spacing, quicker decisions, and the importance of giving Shaq passing options whenever opponents collapsed on him in the post. The six turnovers hadn’t gone unnoticed, much to Kobe’s amusement.

But Harris made it clear that the loss wasn’t on any one player.

They had been careless with the ball, slow to adjust, and too willing to force difficult shots. Before dismissing them, he reminded everyone that the Clippers wouldn’t hand them a victory simply because they were the Clippers.

After what happened in San Antonio, nobody was in a position to underestimate another opponent.

The afternoon continued with a light walkthrough. Kobe worked with Eddie and Fisher on their cuts around Shaq, while Rambis corrected passing angles and defensive positioning.

They finished with free throws.

Kobe made ten straight before stepping aside. At the next basket, Shaq missed his third consecutive attempt.

“What the hell?”

Kobe reached into his pocket, pulled out the StarTAC, and held it to his ear.

Shaq noticed immediately.

“Who the hell you calling?”

“Your shooting coach.”

Fisher burst out laughing.

Shaq pointed at Kobe. “Keep talking. I’m taking that phone back.”

“Too late. No refunds.”

Shaq shot again.

Clang.

Kobe reopened the phone.

“Yeah, it’s me again.”

The entire group lost it.

Even Rambis was laughing. “All right, that’s enough. Shaq, finish your free throws. Kobe, put the phone away.”

Shaq bounced the ball twice and released.

Swish.

He turned immediately. “HOW ‘BOUT THAT?”

Kobe applauded. “One for five. We’re making progress.”

“FUUUUUUUKKKKKKK!”