Chapter 96: The King Awaits

December 10, 1996: Los Angeles, California

Mitch Richmond had been making the same shot for nearly ten minutes.

The Sacramento guard caught the ball at the right elbow, took one dribble, and turned over his shoulder. His movements were economical, almost casual, but the result rarely changed.

Another jumper dropped through the net.

Kobe watched from the sideline, studying the veteran’s footwork. Richmond was in his ninth NBA season, still one of the league’s most reliable scorers. At thirty-one, he’d learned something Kobe was only beginning to appreciate: creating space wasn’t always about being faster. Sometimes it was about making the defender move first.

Richmond noticed him watching.

“You taking notes over there?”

“Trying to figure out that turnaround.”

Richmond laughed. “You planning on using it tonight?”

“Depends. You gonna show me how?”

“Not until after the game.”

“Guess I’ll have to figure it out myself.”

“Wouldn’t be the first rookie to try.”

They exchanged smiles before returning to their respective teams.

Inside the Lakers’ locker room, Del Harris outlined the defensive assignments. Bruce Bowen would handle Richmond, with Kobe and Eddie Jones helping whenever the veteran attacked the paint.

“Richmond’s going to make shots,” Harris said. “Don’t let him create everything else for them, too.”

Shaq studied the scouting sheet.

“Polynice starting?”

“Yes.”

“Nice.”

Harris glanced over. “Something you’d like to share?”

“Just happy to see an old friend. He makes nights like this easy.”

Eddie leaned toward Kobe.

“Somebody should warn him.”

“Polynice or Shaq?”

“Both.”

The opening quarter favored Los Angeles. Shaq controlled the paint, Eddie found opportunities along the perimeter, and Kobe repeatedly forced Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf to defend in space.

Richmond answered with difficult jumpers, occasionally finding enough room against Bowen to remind everyone why Sacramento depended on him.

The Lakers led 26–18 after the first quarter and stretched their advantage to 52–37 by halftime.

Sacramento attempted to increase the tempo in the third, but the adjustment created more opportunities for Kobe to attack before its defense could recover.

Midway through the period, Richmond caught the ball against Kobe following a switch.

The veteran backed him toward the right block, turned his shoulders, and brought the ball across his body.

Kobe anticipated the movement.

His hand flashed across Richmond’s dribble, knocking the ball loose. He gathered it and accelerated into the open court.

Two long strides.

A powerful two-handed dunk.

The Forum erupted.

Richmond arrived beneath the basket, hands resting on his hips.

“You’re supposed to respect your elders.”

Kobe grinned. “I waited for you to catch up.”

“Real considerate.”

By the end of the third, Los Angeles led 76–55. Harris rested Kobe and Shaq throughout the fourth while Richmond continued battling against the reserves.

The Lakers won 101–80, improving to 18–3.

Kobe finished with 21 points, 5 rebounds, and 8 assists. Shaq added 28 points and 12 rebounds, while Richmond recorded 24.

After the game, an usher approached Kobe outside the locker room.

“Mr. Nicholson asked if you had a minute.”

Jack Nicholson was waiting beside his courtside seat, his sunglasses still on despite the nearly empty arena.

“Kid, you made me feel young tonight.”

Kobe smiled. “That dunk?”

“No. Watching Richmond try to catch you afterward.”

They shook hands.

Nicholson looked toward the championship banners hanging above the court.

“I’ve been coming here a long time. Seen some pretty special players.”

“That’s a tough list to get on.”

“Sure is.” Nicholson glanced at him. “But you’re not making a bad first impression.”

Kobe followed his gaze toward the retired numbers.

“Got a long way to go.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Give me something to look forward to, kid.”

A familiar shout echoed from the tunnel.

“KOBE! YOU COMING?”

Nicholson smiled. “Your ride?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Tell the big fella I said hello.”

Kobe headed toward the tunnel, where Shaq stood waiting with his car keys.

“What took you so long?”

“Jack wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

“Basketball.”

Shaq raised an eyebrow.

“Didn’t ask about me?”

Kobe laughed.

“You want me to go back and check?”

Shaq shook his head as they disappeared down the hallway.

“Forget it.”

The next night wouldn’t offer nearly as much room for joking.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

December 11, 1996: Los Angeles, California

Reggie Miller was already talking when Kobe encountered him during warmups.

“Look who finally showed up.”

Kobe stopped beside him.

“Reggie.”

“Read something this morning. Says you’re changing the game.”

“Did it?”

“Must’ve been a slow news day.”

Kobe smiled. “Didn’t know you kept up with the papers, Reg.”

Miller laughed.

“All right. You got one.”

Indiana had arrived with a roster built to make opponents uncomfortable. Rik Smits provided size inside, Dale Davis supplied muscle, and Miller spent entire possessions running defenders through screens.

Larry Brown demanded discipline, particularly on defense, and the Pacers demonstrated it immediately.

Miller opened with a three, then slipped around Smits for a jumper while Bowen fought through traffic behind him. Shaq had to establish position twice before receiving an entry pass, and Kobe found Indiana’s guards far less willing than Sacramento’s to surrender the middle.

Every basket required patience.

In the second quarter, Eddie attacked the baseline and collided hard with Antonio Davis.

He hit the floor beneath the basket, one hand immediately covering his mouth.

Shaq stepped toward Davis.

“You trying to tackle the guy?”

Davis held up his hands. “I went for the ball.”

“Then at least try hitting it.”

Horry moved between them before the exchange went further.

The officials assessed Davis a flagrant foul. Eddie made both free throws, then went to the bench while Gary Vitti treated his split lip.

Fisher entered at point guard, shifting Kobe to shooting guard.

Miller noticed the substitution.

“Who’s this supposed to be?”

Fisher looked at him. “Derek.”

“I know your name, rookie.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

Kobe nearly laughed through the next possession.

Fisher soon gave him another reason to smile, anticipating Miller’s cut and disrupting a pass intended for the Indiana guard.

Miller retrieved the loose ball after the whistle, shaking his head.

Indiana continued applying pressure.

Its defensive structure reminded Kobe of the Detroit team he’d faced in another lifetime. Brown’s principles were familiar: protect the paint, force difficult decisions, and never allow an opponent to become comfortable.

Kobe adjusted by moving the ball before the help arrived, but Indiana answered every Lakers run.

Shaq collected a technical for arguing a missed call, Eddie returned with his lip swollen, and Miller continued making Bowen chase him through screens.

At halftime, Los Angeles led only 43–42.

Kobe had 11 points. Shaq had 13 points and 7 rebounds.

Harris stood before the whiteboard.

“Every time we stop the ball, they get exactly what they want. Move it before their defense gets set. Make Smits come away from the basket.”

Kobe leaned forward.

“They’re waiting for me to turn the corner. If we bring the screen higher, they won’t have time to load up.”

Harris nodded.

“Exactly. Make the decision early.”

He drew up the opening possession before sending them back onto the floor.

The adjustment worked initially, but Indiana recovered quickly.

Midway through the third, Kobe attacked off Shaq’s screen and slipped past Smits.

Dale Davis stepped across the lane.

The contact caught Kobe high, knocking him sideways before he could release the ball.

He landed hard on his shoulder and hip.

The whistle sounded immediately.

Shaq moved toward Dale.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

Before the argument could continue, Ben Wallace stepped between them.

Dale looked at the rookie.

“Get out of my face.”

Wallace didn’t move.

Dale stepped closer.

Wallace shoved him.

The response came immediately. Within seconds, both men were grabbing at each other’s jerseys while teammates and officials rushed between them.

Shaq wrapped an arm around Wallace.

“Ben! Leave it!”

Kobe sat up, holding his ribs.

Eddie crouched beside him.

“Stay there a second. Let Gary check you.”

Kobe glanced toward the confrontation.

“Ben’s gonna get himself thrown out.”

“Too late for that, probably.”

The officials conferred before ejecting Wallace and Dale Davis. Davis’s hard foul and subsequent involvement in the altercation earned him an early trip to the locker room, while Wallace was ejected for escalating the confrontation.

Harris watched Ben disappear toward the tunnel, visibly frustrated.

Meanwhile, Vitti examined Kobe.

“Take a deep breath.”

Kobe inhaled.

“Again.”

He complied, wincing.

“Any sharp pain when you breathe?”

“No. Just sore.”

Vitti continued checking his ribs and shoulder.

Harris approached.

“You’re finished.”

“Coach—”

“Not interested.”

Kobe glanced toward the scoreboard.

56–56.

“I can still move.”

“Good. Then you can prove it to Gary tomorrow. Tonight, you’re sitting.”

That ended the discussion.

Fisher took over the offense while Shaq became its focal point. He punished Smits inside, passed out of double-teams, and gave the Lakers a dependable answer whenever Indiana threatened to pull ahead.

Miller kept the Pacers competitive until late in the third.

Coming off a screen, he rose for a three over Bowen’s contest. His foot came down awkwardly near Bowen’s, and his ankle rolled beneath him.

He collapsed.

Antonio Davis rushed toward Bowen.

“THAT WAS FUCKING DIRTY!”

Bowen raised his hands.

“I was contesting the shot!”

Antonio shoved him hard in the chest.

Officials immediately separated them. After discussing the confrontation, they assessed Antonio a flagrant foul for the shove and ejected him.

Miller was helped toward Indiana’s bench, unable to continue.

Kobe watched quietly. Bowen hadn’t appeared to move deliberately into Miller’s landing space, but that didn’t make the injury any less unfortunate.

Indiana fought on without its leading perimeter threat, but Shaq gradually imposed his will.

With three minutes remaining, the Pacers cut the margin to six and pressed Fisher near half court.

Fisher nearly became trapped against the sideline before spotting Eddie cutting through the middle.

The pass reached him.

Eddie took two dribbles and found Shaq charging toward the rim.

A thunderous dunk.

The Forum roared.

Los Angeles held on for an 85–76 victory, improving to 19–3.

Shaq finished with 28 points, 15 rebounds, and 4 assists. Kobe remained at 11 points, 1 rebound, and 2 assists.

The following morning, the league suspended Wallace for a game and issued a fine.

Kobe found him in the weight room that afternoon.

“An acutal suspension,” Kobe said.

Wallace lowered the barbell.

“Already heard.”

“I’ll handle the fine.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Ben—”

“I made the decision.”

Kobe studied him for a moment.

“You know we need you against Chicago.”

Wallace nodded.

“Yeah.”

“And now you’re watching from the bench.”

“Don’t need reminding.”

Kobe sighed.

“All right. Just don’t make a habit of it.”

Wallace managed a small smile.

“No promises.”

Kobe shook his head, but there was little left to argue about.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

December 13, 1996: Los Angeles, California

Jermaine O’Neal was shooting alone when Kobe arrived for Friday’s game against Portland.

The eighteen-year-old rookie was fighting for minutes behind the Trail Blazers’ experienced frontcourt. Kobe understood the frustration of wanting to prove yourself while waiting for an opportunity.

He caught a rebound and returned it.

“How’s Portland treating you?”

Jermaine shrugged. “Still figuring things out.”

“Getting any minutes?”

“Not enough.”

Kobe smiled.

“Keep working. Your chance’ll come.”

Jermaine caught another pass and released.

The jumper fell.

“Easy for you to say,” Jermaine replied. “You’re starting.”

“Doesn’t mean everything’s easy.”

Jermaine considered that before returning to his shooting.

Portland started Kenny Anderson, Isaiah Rider, Clifford Robinson, Rasheed Wallace, and Arvydas Sabonis.

Sabonis immediately demonstrated his passing ability, finding Robinson cutting behind the Lakers’ defense.

But Kobe was finding his own openings.

He attacked Anderson off Shaq’s screen, knocked down a pull-up jumper, and buried a three when Portland’s defense retreated too far.

Rider eventually switched onto him.

“You’re not getting those looks anymore,” Rider said.

Kobe glanced toward the basket.

“Then you’d better do something about it.”

He jabbed right, crossed left, and rose before Rider recovered.

Swish.

Portland answered through Robinson and Rasheed, but Kobe kept the Lakers ahead, finishing the opening quarter with 16 points.

Los Angeles led 28–21.

The second quarter began poorly for the reserves.

Anthony Peeler supplied shooting, Gary Trent attacked the offensive glass, and Portland reduced the lead to two.

Harris called timeout.

“We’re defending the first shot. Now somebody finish the possession with a rebound.”

He turned toward Kobe.

“You’re back in.”

Kobe rose, and Shaq joined him.

The offense immediately settled.

Kobe fed Shaq inside, found Horry for an open three, then punished Portland’s help defense with a jumper of his own.

The Lakers closed the half on a 10–0 run.

Los Angeles 56, Portland 45.

Kobe had 27 points, 3 rebounds, and 4 assists. Shaq had 12 points and 8 rebounds.

During the break, Harris warned that Portland would become more aggressive.

“They’re going to trap you earlier,” he told Kobe. “Make the right read before they get there.”

Kobe nodded.

Shaq leaned back.

“Or just shoot over them.”

Eddie glanced over.

“That your entire scouting report?”

“Worked pretty well so far.”

Harris shook his head.

“Just be ready for the adjustment.”

Portland opened the third quarter by pressuring Kobe farther from the basket.

He answered with a floater over Sabonis.

When Anderson went underneath a screen, Kobe stopped behind the arc.

Three.

Rider shouted toward his teammates.

“Get up on him!”

Kobe jogged backward.

“He’s right, you know.”

Portland switched Robinson onto him, hoping the forward’s length would discourage another jumper.

Robinson crouched near the wing.

Kobe attacked his front foot, stopped sharply, and rose into a fadeaway.

The ball dropped.

Robinson shook his head.

“That’s a bad shot.”

Kobe smiled. “Only if I miss.”

The Blazers began trapping, but Kobe moved the ball early, allowing Eddie and Shaq to exploit the openings.

Then Portland hesitated.

That was all he needed.

A three from the corner.

Another after relocating along the wing.

A third coming off a staggered screen.

The Forum grew louder with every possession.

During a stoppage, Shaq caught Kobe by the shoulders.

“Man, you trying to break some kind of record?”

Kobe laughed.

“Just taking the shots.”

“Well, save a few for Tuesday.”

Shaq gave him a playful shove toward the court.

Late in the quarter, Fisher found Kobe on the right wing.

Anderson retreated, anticipating a drive.

Kobe rose.

His fifth three-pointer of the period.

Forty-four points.

On the Lakers’ final offensive possession, he drew contact against Sabonis and made one of two free throws.

Forty-five.

The third quarter ended with Los Angeles leading 90–65.

Kobe had scored 18 points in the period, including five three-pointers, bringing his totals to 45 points, 6 rebounds, and 7 assists.

Harris kept him on the bench for the fourth.

“You’re done for tonight.”

Kobe laughed and settled into his seat.

The reserves handled the remaining minutes, with Fisher running the offense and Campbell providing additional rebounding in Wallace’s absence.

Jermaine O’Neal eventually entered for Portland. Kobe watched the young center fight for position beneath the basket and secure a difficult rebound.

He still had plenty to learn.

But he belonged.

When the final buzzer sounded, the Lakers had won 109–81, improving to 20–3.

Kobe finished with 45 points, 6 rebounds, and 7 assists, all accumulated through three quarters.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

By Saturday morning, Kobe’s forty-five-point performance had become national news.

Television highlights replayed his third-quarter shooting, while newspapers revisited the comparisons that had followed him since high school.

Jordan.

The name appeared everywhere.

Kobe spent the weekend watching Chicago’s film instead.

The Bulls were the defending champions, coming off a seventy-two-win season, and their defense presented challenges the Lakers hadn’t encountered together.

Ron Harper’s size could bother smaller guards. Scottie Pippen could disrupt an offense from nearly anywhere on the court. Dennis Rodman turned missed shots into additional possessions.

And Jordan remained Jordan.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Outside the window of the plane, the last light faded over the country below.

Sacramento had tested their execution. Indiana had tested their composure. Portland had shown what the Lakers could accomplish when their offense found its rhythm.

Chicago would demand something more.

Kobe looked at the name printed across the top of the page.

MICHAEL JORDAN.

For the first time in this life, they would share an NBA court.

And Kobe intended to make the most of it.