Word count: 2188 He woke before the alarm.
He waited without moving, listening for any sign that the world had noticed what day it was.
The house answered with nothing: not a single floorboard, not even the refrigerator’s usual mechanical cough.
Even his parents, famous for early mornings, must have let the moment go unremarked.
He got up and made the bed with quiet, exacting care.
By the time he came downstairs, Joe was already dressed in a navy sweatsuit, a thick folder tucked beneath one arm.
Parking passes, directions, newspaper clippings, and workout information protruded from every pocket.
Kobe’s gym bag rested beside the front door.
Joe looked up from the sports section of The Philadelphia Inquirer.
“Anything good?” Kobe asked.
Joe grunted without lifting his eyes from the page.
“Says you got the quicks but need ten pounds of muscle.” Kobe nodded.
“Standard.” Joe flipped the page and made a small sound of acknowledgment before folding the paper beneath his arm.
“Ready?” “I am always ready.” They left the house well before Kobe needed to report in for the trial.
Joe had always believed that arriving early was another way of respecting the game.
The drive from Wynnewood toward South Philadelphia unfolded the way most of their drives had over the years: quiet, the radio drifting between NPR and the oldies station before Joe finally switched it off altogether.
Neither of them seemed interested in filling the silence simply because it existed.
Outside, Philadelphia woke slowly.
The neighborhoods around Lower Merion gave way to the wider roads leading toward University City.
Morning sunlight filtered through rows of old trees before disappearing behind concrete overpasses and brick warehouses.
Traffic thickened near the Schuylkill before loosening again as the skyline emerged ahead, familiar and strangely unfamiliar all at once.
Kobe watched the city slide past the passenger window.
Every landmark carried two lives.
He saw them through the eyes of a seventeen-year-old on his way to the biggest workout of his life, but layered over those same streets were memories stretching decades into the future.
He remembered driving these roads after playoff victories and heartbreaking losses, after surgeries, championships, and retirement.
He remembered leaving Philadelphia as an opponent, hearing boos from fans who had once cheered for his father.
He remembered nights when sleep refused to come and basketball replayed itself against the windshield all the way home.
Joe finally spoke.
“Don’t worry about the drills.” Kobe glanced over.
“That’s the easy part.” “What isn’t?” Joe smiled into the windshield.
“Everything else.” He let the silence settle before continuing.
“You shake every hand.
Doesn’t matter if it’s the head coach, the trainer, or the equipment guy.
You look people in the eye.
You remember names.” Kobe nodded.
Joe wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know.
He was reminding him.
“People remember that longer than they remember who won a workout,” Joe said.
“It’s a small league.
Smaller than you think.” “I got it.” They passed the old Spectrum before the sports complex came into view.
Joe lifted one hand from the steering wheel and pointed almost absentmindedly toward a service entrance tucked beneath the arena.
“Locker rooms used to be over there.” Kobe followed the gesture.
Time had changed the buildings.
Not the memories.
A few minutes later they turned into Lot C.
The CoreStates Center sat quietly beneath the morning haze, its concrete walls still carrying the dark streaks of rain from the night before.
Nothing about the building announced greatness.
From the outside, it looked almost ordinary.
The parking lot told a different story.
Luxury sedans stood beside faded pickup trucks.
Staff members hurried toward employee entrances, balancing coffee cups, clipboards, and equipment bags.
Trainers rolled carts stacked with basketballs across the pavement.
Nobody lingered.
The NBA was already at work.
Joe reached into the back seat before Kobe could grab his bag.
“Almost forgot.” He tossed him a fresh package of Adidas socks.
“Your mother made me bring these.” Kobe laughed.
“Three-pack?” Joe nodded.
“She still thinks buying singles is wasting money.” Some things never changed.
They walked toward the entrance together.
The automatic doors slid open with a quiet hiss.
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Inside, trainers navigated the corridors in navy warm-ups, pushing wire carts stacked with basketballs, air-pressure gauges, towels, and tape.
Equipment managers, young guys barely out of college, hauled mesh bags filled with uniforms so crisp they hardly looked worn.
One disappeared into a laundry room as the door swung shut behind him, releasing the sharp scent of detergent that briefly overpowered the familiar smell of hardwood and athletic tape.
Somewhere deeper inside the building, basketballs drummed steadily against hardwood.
Nobody looked up as Kobe and Joe passed.
In high school, recognition always arrived first.
People tried not to stare, but their eyes lingered just a little too long.
Here, anonymity came before everything else.
Kobe liked that.
They followed the painted blue line down the main corridor until it ended at a reception desk.
A woman wearing a Sixers windbreaker glanced down at a clipboard before looking toward them.
“Last name?” “Bryant.” She found it immediately and slid the clipboard across the counter.
“Sign here.
Coach Lucas will meet you downstairs.
Just follow the red line once you leave the elevator.” Kobe signed without hesitation, reducing a name that would eventually fill thousands of autographs to a simple slanted Kobe Bryant.
“Thank you.” She looked up for the first time.
A small smile crossed her face.
“You’ll do great, honey.” “I appreciate it.” Joe caught the exchange and smiled to himself without saying anything.
The elevator opened onto another hallway, quieter than the first.
Along one wall stretched nearly fifty years of Sixers history.
Wilt Chamberlain.
Julius Erving.
Charles Barkley.
Then Joe Bryant.
Frozen forever in midair, finishing a reverse layup.
Kobe slowed almost without realizing it.
He looked at the photograph.
Then at the man walking beside him.
Joe noticed.
Neither of them said anything.
They didn’t need to.
The hallway opened again.
An assistant coach sat outside a film room, rewinding the same VHS tape for what looked like the tenth time.
Yellow highlighter bled through the margins of the scouting report spread across his lap.
Across the hall, another trainer wrapped an ankle with practiced efficiency while carrying on an entirely unrelated conversation.
Through a set of open doors, Kobe caught a glimpse of the weight room.
Veterans moved from station to station without wasting a single motion while trainers called out repetitions over the dull clank of iron plates.
Further down the hall, two prospects walked ahead carrying their shoes instead of wearing them.
One bounced lightly on his toes while the other absentmindedly spun a basketball on his fingertips.
Their conversation drifted back in fragments.
“…thirty-eight-inch vertical…” “…heard there’ll be scouts from three teams…” “…don’t miss your corner shots…” Kobe listened without appearing to.
Everywhere, the message was the same.
Nobody was special here.
Not yet.
They reached a small waiting area outside the practice courts.
Plastic bottles of water sat beside a cooler filled with Gatorade in colors that looked more artificial than natural.
Kobe took a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and drank while scanning the room.
A clock ticked quietly above the doorway.
Joe sat on the bench without saying a word.
A familiar voice drifted in from the hallway.
“Looks like we all beat traffic.” Kobe turned as Rob Pelinka rounded the corner, a leather portfolio tucked beneath one arm and a coffee cup in the other.
He wore the same easy smile Kobe had seen in every meeting since Rob became his agent.
Joe stood first.
“Morning.” “Morning.” The two shook hands before Rob turned to Kobe.
“How’re you feeling?” “Ready,” Kobe responded.
“I figured.” Rob looked him over for a second, stopping at the unopened package of Adidas socks sticking out of Kobe’s gym bag.
“Pam still packing for you?” Joe laughed.
“She doesn’t trust either of us.” “I can’t blame her.” The three shared a quiet laugh before the room settled again.
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A few minutes later, a man in a crisp navy sweatsuit stepped into the waiting area.
He carried himself with a careful balance: posture upright but with a looseness in the shoulders that suggested the formality was a choice, not a necessity.
His expression revealed nothing, a professional mask polished across decades.
John Lucas.
He called three names, two college players and “Bryant,” then motioned for them to follow with a slight tilt of his head.
No handshake.
No booming coach’s voice.
Just the quiet expectation that if you heard your name, you already knew what to do.
Kobe picked up his bag and fell in behind the others.
Joe and Rob remained behind, close enough to watch but far enough to let the morning belong to Kobe.
Lucas walked quickly, his pace efficient without feeling rushed.
They turned down a side hallway before he stopped and faced the group.
“How was the drive?” he asked, looking directly at Kobe.
“Clear until University City,” Kobe said.
“After that, the usual.” Lucas nodded thoughtfully.
“Wynnewood, right?” “Yes, sir.” “You got here early.” “I like having time to warm up.” A faint smile touched the corner of Lucas’s mouth.
“Some guys just want to stretch and go.” He turned to the other two prospects and asked similar questions.
Where they were from.
Whether they had any trouble finding the facility.
One mentioned playing against Lower Merion in a holiday tournament two years earlier.
Lucas acknowledged it with a nod.
Nothing more.
Kobe noticed his hands remained clasped comfortably behind his back.
Relaxed.
Steady.
Not a trace of nervous energy.
A trainer passed carrying a tray of bottled water.
Lucas stopped him.
“Anyone need one?” He held the tray out, making eye contact with each player in turn.
Kobe took a bottle.
“Thank you.” The other two hesitated before following his lead.
Lucas simply nodded.
They continued down the hallway until they reached a small conference room.
Neutral walls.
Black office chairs.
A long table covered with clipboards, pencils, and neatly stacked evaluation forms.
“Go ahead and have a seat,” Lucas said.
“We’ll do a quick orientation before heading downstairs.” Kobe chose a chair facing the door.
The other two prospects sat beside him while Lucas remained standing at the front of the room.
“First, I’m John Lucas.
Some of you know me.
Some of you don’t.
I oversee our pre-draft workouts and player development.” He rested one hand against the table.
“Today isn’t a tryout.” The room stayed silent.
“It’s information.
For you.
For us.
For the league.
Nobody gets drafted because of one workout, and nobody gets crossed off a board because of one either.
We’re here to see what you can do—and how you go about doing it.” His tone never changed.
Matter-of-fact.
Professional.
He glanced down at the schedule.
“We’ll start with measurements, then movement testing.
After that we’ll get on the floor for shooting, competitive drills, and, depending on numbers, some live play.” Lucas looked around the room, pausing for a moment on each prospect.
“Any questions?” The two college players shook their heads.
Kobe waited a beat.
“No questions.” “Good.” Lucas pointed toward the hallway.
“Bathrooms are across the hall.
If your shoes are still in your bag, put them on now.
We’ll head downstairs in five.” He stepped out, the door settling shut behind him with a soft pneumatic hiss.
Kobe looked down at the evaluation sheet.
Name.
Date of birth.
Height.
Position.
Preferred hand.
Nothing complicated.
Just enough empty boxes to reduce a basketball player to a collection of facts.
He filled in each line with deliberate, even handwriting.
Beside him, one prospect scribbled quickly before bouncing his knee beneath the table.
The other, a point guard from Drexel, kept stealing brief glances in Kobe’s direction whenever he thought no one was looking.
A few minutes later, Lucas returned.
Without a word, he gathered the completed forms into a neat stack, scanning each page with a practiced eye before tucking them beneath one arm.
“Alright,” he said.
He looked toward the hallway.
“Let’s head downstairs.” The three prospects stood together.
Kobe slung his gym bag over one shoulder and followed Lucas into the corridor.
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Hey everyone!
Good news, y’all!
I’m feeling much better today, and as promised, Chapters 17 and 18 are here!
🐍🏀 Thank you all for being patient after yesterday’s unexpected break.
Going forward, I’ll be adjusting the release schedule a bit to make it more sustainable while keeping the quality as high as possible.
New upload schedule: Sunday – Thursday: New chapters Friday & Saturday: Writing, editing, and planning That means 5 chapters a week, with more time to polish each one before it goes live.
I also want to make this journey interactive.
Your engagement really does motivate me, and I’d love to reward the community whenever we reach those milestones.