Word count: 2841 John Lucas gathered the last of the questionnaires and stood.
“Let’s move.” The three prospects rose immediately.
Kobe caught his father’s eye through the conference room window.
Joe gave him a small nod.
Beside him, Rob Pelinka offered the same encouragement with a slight lift of his chin.
Lucas led them out of the conference room and farther down the hallway.
The prospect in the Villanova hoodie exhaled slowly as they walked, subtly squaring his shoulders.
Beside him, the other guard closed his eyes for a moment, quietly centering himself.
Lucas pushed through a set of doors.
A plain service hallway stretched ahead.
Bare cinderblock walls, bright fluorescent lights, and the faint smell of machine oil replaced the polished offices upstairs.
At the far end, another set of doors led toward the practice courts.
Lucas stopped before them and turned to face the three prospects.
“Here’s the deal,” he said.
“Everything you’ve done up to this point got you in the building.
That’s it.” “Nobody cares what you averaged.
Nobody cares where you were ranked.
Once you step on that court, everybody starts at zero.” He let the words settle.
“Show us you can compete with grown men.
That’s all we’re looking for.” A faint grin tugged at the corner of Kobe’s mouth.
Every level had its version of the same speech.
Strip away the wording, and the message never changed.
Prove it again.
Lucas pushed open the doors.
The tunnel beyond was lined with photographs celebrating the franchise’s history.
Dr.
J soared toward the rim.
Moses Malone battled for position.
Charles Barkley attacked the glass.
Kobe glanced at them as he walked.
His own face was nowhere to be found.
It felt right.
In 1996, he was just another prospect.
As they neared the practice courts, the sounds of bouncing basketballs and squeaking sneakers echoed through the corridor.
Lucas turned into a room marked Evaluation Suite 1A.
Three trainers waited inside.
A laptop sat open beside a digital scale and a stadiometer, while measuring equipment was neatly arranged across a folding table.
Everything was organized and ready for another day of evaluations.
“Bags against the wall,” Lucas said.
The three prospects set their gear aside and instinctively formed a line.
Kobe scanned the room.
A privacy curtain concealed part of the evaluation area, but he caught glimpses of a blood pressure station, a wingspan chart mounted on the wall, and measuring tools laid out with practiced precision.
Nothing about the room was designed to impress.
It existed for one purpose: evaluation.
One of the trainers looked up from his laptop.
“Last names.” The prospect in the Villanova hoodie answered first.
Kobe followed, then the remaining guard.
The trainer entered each name without looking away from the screen before motioning them toward the first station.
“Shirts off,” the lead trainer said.
Kobe pulled off his sweatshirt and stepped toward the first station.
The room was cool, but he barely noticed.
The routine felt familiar.
Measurements.
Testing.
Evaluation.
Every level of basketball had its own version of the process.
The details changed.
The purpose never did.
As the other prospects moved through height and weight, Kobe watched the trainers instead.
They worked with quiet efficiency, recording numbers without reaction or conversation.
Reputation meant nothing here.
Everyone started with a blank page.
When his name was called, Kobe stepped onto the measuring mat.
The trainer checked his height, entered the number, and moved to his wingspan.
A second trainer confirmed the measurement before recording it.
When they reached his hand size, the caliper paused for a moment.
The lead trainer glanced at the reading, then looked at Kobe before checking it again.
Neither of them said a word.
“You’re good to go,” the trainer said.
Kobe stepped away from the station without a word.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the Villanova prospect giving him another quick look before turning back toward the trainers.
Everyone in the room was being evaluated, but every prospect was evaluating everyone else, too.
Lucas glanced over the clipboard, nodded once, and handed it back.
“You’ve got five minutes,” he said.
“Use the restroom, grab some water, stretch out.
Then we’ll head to the court.” The three prospects drifted apart, each settling into a familiar pre-workout routine.
Kobe found an open section of the floor and eased into his stretches.
He worked methodically, loosening his hamstrings before moving to his hips, calves, shoulders, and back.
Every movement flowed into the next without conscious thought, the routine ingrained through years of repetition.
The sounds around him gradually faded into the background.
Trainers spoke quietly as they prepared the next station, clipboards changed hands, and somewhere beyond the hallway a basketball struck hardwood in a steady rhythm.
In a few minutes, the measurements would be forgotten.
Height, wingspan, and hand size might fill scouting reports, but none of them could decide who belonged on an NBA floor.
That part began when the ball went up.
Behind the partition, the trainers quietly compared a few measurements before recording the final numbers.
No one reacted, and no one offered commentary.
They simply finished the paperwork and prepared for the next phase.
A few minutes later, Lucas clapped his hands twice.
The three prospects gathered in front of him.
“Here’s how we’re going to do this,” he said.
“We’ll start with the athletic testing.
After that, we’ll move to shooting drills, then live work.
Compete at every station, but don’t try to impress anybody by doing something reckless.
We want to see what you can do, not send you home early.
Understood?” The prospects nodded.
Lucas pulled open the doors to the practice court.
Cool air drifted into the hallway, carrying the familiar scent of hardwood, varnish, and leather.
Basketballs echoed somewhere inside the gym, their rhythm punctuated by the squeak of sneakers across the floor.
Under the bright lights, the polished court stretched across the facility, where a handful of staff members made their final preparations.
The gym was quiet, almost clinical.
There were no banners hanging from the rafters, no music pumping through the speakers, and no audience waiting to be entertained.
Every person on the floor had a job, and every station had a purpose.
Orange cones outlined an agility course along one sideline.
A Vertec stood beneath the near basket, its colored vanes stacked neatly above the rim.
Near the opposite baseline, basketball racks sat beside shooting markers taped across the floor.
Trainers moved from station to station, checking measurements, adjusting equipment, and comparing notes on their clipboards before stepping back.
Nothing had been left to chance.
Lucas stopped near midcourt.
“We’ll begin with the athletic testing,” he said.
“Lane agility, sprint work, and vertical.
After that, we’ll move into shooting drills and live play.” His eyes swept across the three prospects.
“Compete in every drill.
Don’t worry about anybody else’s numbers.
Just give us your best.” No one answered.
Lucas nodded toward the nearest station.
“Let’s get started.” A trainer waved the Villanova prospect forward.
“Lane agility.” The prospect bounced lightly on the balls of his feet before settling into a low stance.
“Ready?” He nodded.
The whistle sounded.
He exploded off the line, attacking each change of direction with obvious intent.
His feet were quick, but his upper body drifted through the turns, forcing him to recover before accelerating again.
“Time.” He slowed to a jog, hands resting briefly on his hips as the trainer recorded the result without comment.
The stockier guard stepped in next.
His first few strides were powerful, but he lost momentum every time he planted to change direction.
His feet landed too wide, costing him precious fractions of a second before he could drive out of each cut.
Kobe watched both runs in silence.
Stay low.
Stay balanced.
Let the hips change direction before the shoulders.
Every unnecessary movement became time lost on the stopwatch.
“Kobe.” He stepped onto the starting line.
The trainer looked up.
“Ready?” Kobe gave a single nod.
The whistle shrilled.
He drove forward, covering the opening strides without rushing them.
Each plant was controlled, his center of gravity staying low as he pushed cleanly through every turn.
His feet never drifted beyond the tape, and his shoulders stayed quiet while his hips did the work.
He crossed the finish line under control, slowing to a walk instead of stumbling through the momentum.
The trainer glanced at the stopwatch.
A second trainer leaned over to confirm the reading before the number was written onto the clipboard.
The lead trainer gave a small nod.
“Best time so far.” There was no applause and no reaction from the staff.
Kobe caught the Villanova prospect looking back at the lane, mentally replaying the run.
The stockier guard studied the tape for a moment before turning toward the next station.
The workout had only just begun, but the first comparison had already been made.
The trainers wasted no time moving to the next station.
“Three-quarter court sprint.” Fresh tape marked the starting line beneath one basket while another trainer waited at the opposite baseline with a stopwatch.
The Villanova prospect ran first, accelerating hard from the whistle before tightening over the final stretch.
The stockier guard followed with powerful strides, but each step seemed to cost him a little more than the last.
“Kobe.” He stepped onto the line.
The whistle sounded.
He accelerated smoothly, building speed without forcing it.
His stride stayed relaxed, every step landing with precision.
He crossed the line under control before easing to a stop.
The trainer checked the stopwatch.
Another leaned over, confirmed the time, and wrote it down.
No one said anything.
The group moved beneath the basket.
The Vertec stood waiting, its colored vanes stacked above the rim.
The Villanova prospect posted a respectable jump.
The stockier guard reached a little higher.
Kobe rolled once onto the balls of his feet.
“When you’re ready.” He dipped, drove through the floor, and exploded upward.
His fingertips snapped through the highest vanes before he landed lightly on both feet.
The trainer reset the Vertec.
“One more.” Kobe repeated the jump.
Another row of vanes flipped backward.
A trainer quietly compared the measurement with his colleague before recording the result.
Lucas had drifted closer.
He glanced at the clipboard, then back at Kobe.
For the first time all morning, he lingered.
Within minutes, the athletic testing was complete.
“Take five,” Lucas said.
The trainers rolled the Vertec toward the wall while another gathered the cones from the floor.
Basketball racks replaced stopwatches, and shooting spots suddenly became the center of the gym.
Kobe accepted a towel and took a drink of water.
His breathing had already settled.
The Villanova prospect rested his hands on his knees for a moment before straightening.
The stockier guard emptied half a bottle without taking a breath.
Lucas waited until everyone returned.
“Shooting first,” he said.
“Ball handling after that.
Then we’ll play.” .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The first basketball came off the rack with a familiar weight.
Kobe caught it cleanly, turning it once in his hands before settling into the first shooting spot.
The leather felt tacky beneath his fingertips, warmed by the lights overhead and broken in by countless repetitions.
For the first time that morning, the clipboards, stopwatches, and measurements faded into the background.
“Start when you’re ready,” one of the trainers said.
The drill began with form shooting around the key.
Ten makes from the right baseline.
Ten from the left.
Then the elbows.
Then the top of the key.
No explanations.
No demonstrations.
The expectation was simple: make shots.
The Villanova prospect attacked the opening stations with urgency, eager to move from spot to spot as quickly as possible.
His mechanics were sound enough, but his guide hand drifted across the side of the ball whenever he rushed his release.
The stockier guard generated effortless power, though his misses carried too much force, ricocheting hard off the rim instead of dying softly around it.
His focus settled on the details that never changed.
Every catch brought the ball to the same shooting pocket.
His feet arrived before his hands.
His knees bent naturally beneath him, his shoulders remained square, and his release stayed loose from start to finish.
Every repetition began the same way and ended the same way.
Years of practice had turned the routine into instinct.
“Ten,” the trainer called.
Kobe moved to the next spot without hesitation.
The coaches watched more than the makes and misses.
They watched balance, footwork, and consistency.
They watched to see whether fatigue changed a player’s mechanics or whether a difficult pass disrupted his rhythm.
They wanted to know if good habits survived imperfect conditions.
A pass drifted behind him.
Kobe adjusted in a single motion, catching the ball, squaring his shoulders, and releasing before his momentum could pull him offline.
Swish.
The next pass came low.
He gathered it without breaking rhythm.
Swish.
The routine continued around the floor.
Spot-up shooting gave way to movement shooting.
Curl cuts became flare cuts.
Pin-downs flowed into catch-and-shoot jumpers from the corners.
Every drill demanded different footwork, but the principle remained the same.
Balance first.
Everything else followed.
Across the court, the Villanova prospect gradually slowed his pace, unconsciously matching Kobe’s rhythm instead of racing through each station.
It worked for a while.
Then fatigue returned, and his old habits crept back into his mechanics.
The stockier guard fought through each repetition with determination, joking quietly after an occasional miss, but the smile disappeared as the workout wore on.
Every shot existed on its own.
The previous one was gone, and the next deserved his full attention.
Lucas stepped onto the court between stations.
“You always shoot like this?” he asked.
Kobe met his eyes.
“It’s how I practice.” Lucas studied him for a moment before giving a small nod.
“Keep going.” The next sequence shifted into pull-up jumpers.
Two dribbles right.
Rise.
Two dribbles left.
Rise.
Kobe exaggerated nothing.
His gather remained compact, his shoulders level, and every landing carried him naturally into the next repetition.
Whether he rose after one dribble or two, the finish never changed.
By now the trainer with the stopwatch had stopped looking at the clock.
He watched the ball instead.
The final station brought them to the free-throw line.
Twenty attempts.
Standard protocol.
The gym settled into an easy rhythm as each prospect worked through his routine.
The Villanova prospect bounced the ball twice before every shot.
The stockier guard spun it once against his hip.
Kobe took a slow breath.
Three dribbles.
A quiet spin.
The lift.
The ball rotated backward through the air before disappearing cleanly through the net.
Again.
Then another.
The first nineteen fell without touching iron.
The twentieth caught the back rim and bounced away.
Kobe retrieved the rebound himself, walked back to the stripe, and settled into the same routine.
Three dribbles.
Spin.
Lift.
Swish.
He stepped away without expression.
Around the gym, conversations had grown quieter.
The assistants who had once stood near the walls now lingered closer to the court.
Trainers compared notes in low voices while occasionally glancing toward Kobe before returning to their clipboards.
Lucas gathered the three prospects near center court.
“You’re ahead of schedule,” he said.
“That doesn’t happen very often.” He glanced toward the opposite end of the gym.
“Take five.
Then we’ll play.” The three prospects followed his gaze.
Beneath the far basket, another group was already warming up.
None of them wore college gear.
Plain reversible practice jerseys replaced school colors.
One guard rose into a smooth pull-up jumper before backpedaling out of the lane.
A broad-shouldered forward finished a power layup through contact from a teammate before jogging to the end of the line.
Another player calmly knocked down corner jumpers, each shot barely disturbing the net.
They weren’t there to be evaluated.
They were there to compete.
The players drifted toward the bench.
The Villanova prospect emptied nearly half a water bottle before lowering it.
The stockier guard rested his forearms on his knees, drawing slow breaths as sweat rolled from his forehead.
Kobe remained on his feet.
He wiped his hands with a towel, rolled his shoulders once, and looked toward the opposite end of the court, where trainers were already clearing away the shooting stations.
Ball racks disappeared.
Cones were carried off the floor.
Pinnies were tossed onto a chair beside the scorer’s table.
As the trainers cleared away the shooting stations, the atmosphere shifted with them.
Kobe bounced the ball once.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Finally, they were going to play some basketball.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Thank you all for the incredible support!
We’re already at 74 Power Stones, just one away from hitting 75!
As a thank you, I’ll be dropping two chapters tomorrow instead of one.
The live scrimmage is up next, and things are about to get even more exciting.
Let’s hit that goal!