Chapter 102: The City of Angels

The first thing Kobe heard when he climbed into the car outside Los Angeles International Airport was a radio announcer talking about the Lakers.

“Twenty-four wins, three losses. Folks, I don’t know how many times I have to say it before it starts sounding real. Twenty-four and three. Best record in basketball, and we’re not even through December.”

Kobe leaned back against the leather seat and smiled as the announcer continued.

“When Jerry West brought Shaquille O’Neal to Los Angeles, everybody knew the Lakers were going to be better. You don’t add the most dominant young center in the league and expect to get worse. But this? Nobody saw this coming.”

“Speak for yourself,” Kobe muttered.

The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “You say something?”

“Nothing. Just agreeing with the radio.”

The announcer moved on to the Lakers’ recent victories, including their dramatic win over Chicago and their latest performance against Milwaukee. Shaq received his usual praise, but Kobe’s name was never far behind. The conversation eventually turned to whether the Lakers had enough experience to survive a seven-game playoff series against teams like Chicago, Utah, or Seattle.

Kobe listened with interest. He had heard the same argument since the season began. The Lakers were talented but young. They were exciting but inexperienced. They could beat anyone on a given night, but winning four games against a veteran contender was supposedly another matter.

Twenty-seven games into the season, the questions hadn’t disappeared. The record had simply made them harder to ask.

By the time he reached home, the television in the kitchen was carrying another discussion about the Lakers. His mother stood at the counter preparing lunch, apparently paying more attention to the oranges she was peeling than the commentators debating her son’s future.

On the screen, a replay showed Kobe curling around Robert Horry’s screen in Chicago, catching Eddie Jones’s inbound pass, and rising for the jumper that had beaten Michael Jordan and the Bulls.

“Again?” Kobe asked from the doorway.

Pamela looked over her shoulder. “What?”

“That shot. They’re still showing it?”

“They’ve been showing it this entire week.” She gestured toward the counter. “Wash your hands. You can help me with these.”

Kobe glanced at the television, where the commentators were now arguing about whether the Lakers could win sixty games.

“Mom, I just got back.”

“And you’ve still got two hands.”

He laughed, dropped his bag beside the kitchen table, and went to the sink.

A few minutes later, Joe Bryant wandered into the kitchen, looked at the television, and shook his head.

“If y’all keep playing that good, you can finally get your old man some decent playoff tickets.”

“Dad, you already get tickets.”

“Those are regular-season tickets. I’m talking about the good stuff.”

Pamela handed Joe a bowl of orange slices.

“You two can discuss championships after lunch.”

Joe took one and grinned at Kobe.

Kobe couldn’t argue with that.

The following afternoon, the Great Western Forum was packed to the brim.

Cars filled much of the parking lot, and a line of fans stretched from the merchandise store toward the building’s main entrance. Purple-and-gold jackets were everywhere, along with Lakers caps, oversized jerseys, and children carrying basketballs nearly as large as their torsos.

Kobe had expected a crowd. The team had arranged a holiday autograph session featuring him, Derek Fisher, and Ben Wallace, and someone from the public relations department had warned them that interest was unusually high.

Still, he hadn’t expected this.

“What’s up man!” Fisher said beside him, peering through a window, “Did somebody tell these people Shaq was coming?”

“Maybe they’re here for you,” Kobe suggested with a smirk.

Fisher gave him a doubtful look. “All of them?”

“Your mother’s probably brought some friends.”

Ben Wallace stepped up behind them, carrying a bottle of water. He looked out at the line, then at the security guards trying to organize it.

“That’s a lot of people.”

“Thank you, Ben,” Fisher said.

Before Kobe could answer, Susan, the Lakers staff member coordinating the appearance, came through the door carrying a clipboard.

“Gentlemen, we’re starting in five minutes. We’ll have security along the tables, and I need you to keep the line moving. Sign the merchandise, smile for the cameras, and please don’t promise anybody tickets.”

Susan continued. “We have an hour scheduled. Maybe a little longer if things go smoothly.”

Fisher glanced outside again. “An hour?”

“You’ll survive.”

“That’s what they said about training camp.”

The three players followed her into the merchandise store.

The moment Kobe stepped through the doorway, the noise rose.

“KOBE!”

“NUMBER EIGHT!”

“HEY, KOBE! OVER HERE!”

Children pressed toward the barriers while their parents held up cameras. A group of teenagers began chanting his name, and someone near the back shouted for Fisher, who immediately turned toward Kobe with a triumphant expression.

“You hear that?”

“One guy,” Kobe said.

“Still counts.”

Wallace laughed as they took their seats behind a long table covered with basketballs, photographs, and stacks of promotional posters.

Behind the crowd, Kobe could see the store’s merchandise displays. Shaq’s No. 34 jerseys occupied an entire section, but another wall had been devoted to No. 8. Purple and gold jerseys hung above stacks of shirts bearing his name, and several customers were already asking employees whether more sizes were available.

A boy wearing an oversized No. 8 jersey approached the table first. His father stood behind him with a camera.

“What’s your name?” Kobe asked.

“Marcus.”

“How old are you, Marcus?”

“Nine.”

“Nine? You playing basketball?”

The boy nodded enthusiastically. “I’m a shooting guard.”

“The best position.”

“My dad says you’re gonna be better than Magic Johnson.”

Kobe glanced at the father, who looked suddenly embarrassed.

“That’s what he said?” Kobe asked.

Marcus nodded.

“Well, your dad’s putting a lot of pressure on me.”

The boy laughed.

Kobe signed the jersey and slid it back across the table. “Keep working on your game, all right?”

“I will!”

“And listen to your coach.”

Marcus hesitated. “Even when he’s wrong?”

Fisher burst out laughing.

Kobe considered the question. “Only if your father is your coach.”

The boy appeared unconvinced, but his father gave Kobe an appreciative nod before guiding him toward the exit.

The next fan was a girl carrying a binder filled with basketball cards. She carefully removed Kobe’s rookie card from a plastic sleeve and placed it in front of him.

“Can you sign this one?”

“Sure.”

“And can you tell Shaq I said hi?”

Kobe looked up. “You came all this way to see me, and you want me to give Shaq a message?”

She nodded without hesitation.

Fisher leaned back in his chair. “That’s rough.”

Kobe signed the card. “I’ll tell him.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She smiled, retrieved her card, and hurried away.

Kobe turned toward Fisher. “Don’t say it.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re smiling.”

“Am I not allowed to enjoy myself?”

The line continued moving. Fans brought jerseys, posters, basketballs, ticket stubs, and photographs from earlier games. One man produced a newspaper clipping of Kobe’s winning shot against Chicago and asked him to sign directly beneath the headline.

Another wanted Kobe to write a message to his son, who was recovering from a broken leg. Kobe took an extra moment to ask the boy’s name and wrote a few encouraging words before returning the photograph.

Kobe checked his watch.

His smile disappeared.

“Oh, man.”

Fisher noticed immediately. “What?”

“I gotta go.”

“Where?”

“Beverly Hills.”

Wallace raised an eyebrow. “Business meeting?”

“Worse.”

Fisher grinned. “What, another interview?”

“Christmas shopping with my sisters.”

Both rookies laughed.

“You’re scared of your sisters?” Fisher asked.

Kobe gave him a look. “You ever been shopping with two women who know exactly how much money you make?”

“No.”

“Then don’t laugh.”

Fisher laughed so hard he had to lean against the wall.

Kobe pulled on his jacket and headed for the exit.

“See you at practice.”

“Good luck!” Fisher called after him.

“You’re gonna need it!” Wallace added.

Kobe waved without looking back.

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Rodeo Drive was dressed for the holidays.

White lights wound around palm trees, wreaths hung above storefronts, and elaborate window displays competed for the attention of shoppers carrying brightly colored bags. Holiday music drifted from open doorways, mixing with passing traffic and conversations along the sidewalks.

Beverly Hills had gone to considerable trouble to create the appearance of winter, although the afternoon sunshine made the artificial snow in several shop windows look particularly ridiculous.

Kobe arrived at the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Rodeo Drive ten minutes before he was supposed to meet his sisters.

Sharia and Shaya were already waiting.

He should have known.

“You’re late,” Sharia announced as soon as she saw him.

Kobe stopped in front of them and checked his watch.

“I’m ten minutes early.”

“We’ve been waiting twenty.”

“That doesn’t make me late.”

“It does when we’re waiting,” Shaya replied.

Sharia stepped forward and hugged him. “Leave him be; he’s our ATM today.”

He laughed and hugged her back before turning to Shaya, who embraced him just as warmly.

Kobe had imagined a simple afternoon: find a few presents, perhaps stop somewhere for lunch, and head home before the stores became too crowded.

That plan lasted approximately thirty seconds.

Shaya unfolded a sheet of paper.

Kobe glanced at it. “What’s that?”

“Our list.”

“Why does it have three different colors?”

“Organization.”

Sharia leaned over his shoulder. “Blue means gifts. Green means clothes. Red means stores we absolutely have to visit.”

Kobe looked more closely.

There was a remarkable amount of red.

“How many stores are on here?”

“Not that many,” Shaya said.

“There’s more on the back?”

“That’s the second half.”

Kobe stopped walking.

“You made a two-page shopping list?”

Sharia turned around. “You got somewhere else to be?”

“No, but—”

“Perfect. Now come on.”

He followed them, shaking his head.

“What am I even here for?”

“Carrying bags,” Sharia replied.

“Giving opinions,” Shaya added.

“And paying?”

Both sisters looked at him.

Kobe sighed. “Right. Just checking.”

Their first stop was a small specialty shop filled with Christmas decorations, toys, and gifts. Sharia immediately began examining a display of stuffed animals while Shaya wandered toward a shelf of board games.

Kobe followed her.

“Monopoly?” he asked, noticing the familiar box.

Shaya picked it up and smiled.

“Remember when you flipped the board because you were losing?”

“I didn’t flip the board.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Someone knocked it over.”

Both sisters burst out laughing.

An older woman browsing nearby looked over with an amused smile. Kobe lowered his voice, suddenly aware of how loudly they had been arguing.

Sharia placed a stuffed teddy bear in her basket.

They moved on to a clothing boutique, where Sharia immediately disappeared among the racks of dresses. Kobe took a seat near the fitting rooms while Shaya examined a display of sweaters.

He had barely settled into the chair when Sharia emerged carrying three dresses.

“Kobe, which one?”

He looked up.

One was blue, one was black, and the third was a shade of green he couldn’t remember ever seeing before.

“The blue one.”

Sharia narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Because I like it.”

Shaya came over and examined his choice. “Yeah, I like the blue one too”

A saleswoman approached while Sharia returned to the fitting room.

“Excuse me,” she said, glancing between Kobe and Shaya. “Are you related?”

Shaya beamed.

“That’s our little brother.”

The woman looked at Kobe again.

“Oh! You’re the basketball player everyone is talking about!”

Kobe nodded politely.

“Nice to meet you.”

“I thought you looked familiar. My husband watched that game against Chicago. He nearly woke up the entire neighborhood.”

Shaya grinned. “You should’ve heard our house.”

Kobe looked at her. “You weren’t even watching.”

“I heard Mom screaming from the other room.”

“That’s true,” he admitted.

The saleswoman laughed and wished them a Merry Christmas before returning to the counter.

After making their purchases, they continued down Rodeo Drive.

Eventually, Sharia stopped in front of a menswear store.

Kobe followed her gaze toward the display of suits.

“I already have all the clothes I need.”

“Basketball shorts don’t count.”

“I own suits.”

Shaya looked him up and down.

“Do any of them fit?”

Kobe hesitated.

Sharia smiled.

“Exactly. Now come on.”

He groaned but followed them inside.

A salesman approached almost immediately.

“Good afternoon. Can I help you find something?”

Sharia gestured toward Kobe.

“We need a suit for our brother.”

“Something for a special occasion?”

“Business meetings,” Shaya said.

“And public appearances,” Sharia added.

Kobe looked at them.

“Am I allowed to answer?”

“No,” they said together.

The salesman smiled politely.

“Of course. Right this way.”

Within minutes, Kobe found himself standing in front of a mirror while his sisters inspected several jackets.

Sharia held up a charcoal-gray suit.

“This one.”

Shaya shook her head.

“Too serious.”

“It’s supposed to be serious.”

“He’s eighteen, not forty.”

Kobe raised a hand.

“Can I at least have a say in what I’m wearing?”

Sharia ignored him and picked up a navy suit.

“What about this?”

Shaya studied it.

“Better.”

Kobe took the jacket.

“Can I try it on?”

“Go ahead,” Sharia said.

He disappeared into the fitting room.

A few minutes later, he stepped out wearing the navy suit. The salesman adjusted the shoulders and straightened the jacket while Kobe examined himself in the mirror.

It was a good fit.

He turned slightly.

“What do you think?”

Sharia circled him once, studying the sleeves.

Shaya tilted her head.

Neither spoke.

Kobe looked between them.

“Come on. You made me try on five different jackets.”

Sharia smiled.

“I like it.”

“Me too,” Shaya agreed.

Kobe spread his arms.

“Finally!”

“But you need different shoes,” Sharia added.

His smile vanished.

Shaya laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth.

“You should see your face.”

Kobe pointed toward the door.

“We’re buying the suit, and then we’re leaving.”

“Fine,” Sharia said.

“And no more stores.”

“Of course.”

“And I’m serious.”

Neither sister sounded remotely convincing.

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By the time they finally left the last store, the sky above Beverly Hills had darkened, and the Christmas lights along Rodeo Drive glowed against the storefront windows.

Kobe carried most of the bags.

This arrangement had apparently been decided without consulting him.

Sharia walked beside him, adjusting her scarf, while Shaya examined the remaining items on her list.

“We did pretty good,” Shaya announced.

Kobe stared at her.

“Pretty good?”

“Yeah.”

“Not on time because we’ve been shopping for hours.”

“And we got almost everything.”

“Almost?”

Sharia glanced over at him.

“Don’t worry. We can come back.”

Kobe stopped walking.

“That’s not happening.”

Shaya looked up. “What?”

“We’re not coming back.”

Sharia laughed and slipped her arm through his.

“Quit complaining, little brother.”