Chapter 97: The King and the Challenger

The tape had been paused so long that the image had begun to shiver, two ghost outlines of the same man bleeding into each other on the screen.

Kobe sat on the floor of his living room, his back against the couch, the Saturday afternoon light coming through the blinds in narrow gray slats. On the television, Michael Jordan hung in the air with his back to the basket, right shoulder turned toward the baseline, the ball raised above his head while a Knicks defender reached helplessly beneath him.

Kobe pressed play.

The ball went in.

He rewound and watched the feet.

That was the part the highlight shows never bothered with. Everyone saw the release, the impossible-looking balance, the way Jordan seemed to hang in the air longer than anyone else. Few noticed the adjustment before the catch, the angle of his pivot foot, or the slight dip of his shoulder that shifted a defender’s weight just enough to create separation.

An inch was all it required.

Kobe watched the possession eleven times before allowing the tape to continue.

The Bulls’ offense unfolded with a patience that drove their opponents mad. Pass, cut, fill in the zone.

Jordan could stand in the corner doing seemingly nothing, waiting until his defender relaxed, before sprinting along the baseline to catch the ball at the opposite block.

The triangle didn’t beat you with surprise. It beat you by waiting for the mistake it knew you would eventually make.

Kobe understood that offense better than anyone in the Lakers’ locker room could imagine. He had spent years playing within it, winning championships with it, and arguing over its details in another lifetime.

But knowing the system was different from stopping the man who had helped make it famous.

He remembered facing Jordan when he was young, remembered the physicality, the trash talk, and the quiet confidence of a man who seemed to recognize a defender’s intentions before the defender himself understood them. He remembered their later meetings, the conversations, the advice, and the competitive respect that had developed between them.

Those memories belonged to another life.

Here, Jordan knew him as an eighteen-year-old rookie enjoying an extraordinary beginning to his career.

He didn’t know the history Kobe carried.

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By Sunday afternoon, the Lakers gathered in the film room at their practice facility, folding chairs arranged in two uneven rows beneath the hum of a projector.

Del Harris stood beside the screen with the expression of a man preparing to deliver a tax audit.

“Harper,” he said, freezing an image of Chicago’s point guard defending near half court. “Six-six, long arms, and he doesn’t need twenty points to hurt you. Don’t let his size force you into bad shots.”

The image changed.

“Pippen covers two mistakes at once. Get careless with your spacing, and he’ll take away your best option before starting their break.”

Another possession appeared, Rodman fighting through two larger players to tip an offensive rebound toward a teammate.

“Find Dennis before you find the ball. If you’re watching the shot, he’s already moving.”

Finally, Jordan appeared on the left wing, rising into a jumper over an outstretched hand.

Harris let the frame remain.

“He’s going to get to his spots. We aren’t stopping him from taking shots. What we can do is make him work for every one.”

Kobe leaned forward.

“Watch the weak side.”

Harris glanced toward him and then back at the film.

“The defender’s already moving toward Michael before the ball gets there. Pippen’s open in the corner.”

Harris rewound the possession and nodded.

“Exactly. You get so worried about Jordan that you forget the other four. That’s how they beat you without him scoring forty.”

From the back row, Shaq raised his hand.

“Coach. You skipped Luc Longley.”

Shaq said the name as though reading it off a restaurant menu.

“He cannot guard me. But it’s important to know they have a fifth player.”

The room erupted.

Eddie Jones lowered his head, Horry nearly dropped his water bottle, and even Bowen allowed himself a small smile.

“He can’t guard you alone,” Harris agreed. “Which means when they send help, somebody needs to be available. Shaq’s advantage means nothing if the rest of you stand around watching.”

Shaq nodded, then shifted the ice bag on his knee.

“Okay. So who’s guarding Mike?”

The room quieted.

“I’ve got him,” Kobe said.

He didn’t stand or raise his voice.

Harris studied him before turning toward the others.

“Eddie, you take Harper. Bruce, you’ve got Pippen.”

Then he looked back at Kobe.

“You have Jordan. Understand what that means. Every time your feet are wrong, he scores. Every time you reach, he scores or goes to the line.”

“I got it.”

Kobe met his eyes.

Harris held the look another moment.

“Just remember nobody guards him alone for forty-eight minutes.”

When the meeting ended, Shaq caught Kobe in the hallway.

“Listen, Kob. The reporters are going to make this Mike against the kid. Don’t let them turn it into something personal.”

“I’m not asking for him because of the cameras.”

“Then why?”

“Because somebody has to guard him.” Kobe smiled slightly. “And I think I am our best bet.”

Shaq considered that.

“All right. Just remember you’ve got me out there.”

“I know.”

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By Monday afternoon, Derek Fisher had purchased nearly every sports newspaper he could find at the airport, and somewhere over Nevada he began reading them aloud.

“Sun-Times says Bulls by eleven. They’ve got a guy here who says, ‘The Lakers are a wonderful story, but stories don’t guard Michael Jordan.'”

Fisher looked up, delighted.

“That’s a good line. I hate it, but it’s good.”

“Anybody picking us?” Eddie asked from across the aisle.

“USA Today has us losing by six. Some guy in Milwaukee says fifteen, which feels personal.”

Shaq, reclined two rows behind them, opened one eye.

“Fish.”

“What?”

“Get the autograph before the game.”

Fisher frowned. “What?”

“Walk over during layup lines. Bring a Sharpie. Get it out of your system so you can concentrate once the ball goes up.”

Shaq closed his eyes again.

“I’m trying to help you. Fanboy somewhere else.”

Horry laughed. Fisher threw a crumpled newspaper toward Shaq and missed.

“Terrible shot,” Shaq observed. “Better not bring that tomorrow.”

Kobe laughed along with the others, then returned to the legal pad resting on his knee.

He had filled several pages with hand-drawn diagrams of Jordan’s preferred spots, Chicago’s weak-side actions, and Harper’s defensive tendencies. Most of the information was familiar.

Writing it down helped organize it.

As the conversation shifted toward card games and music, Kobe looked through the window at the clouds below.

He remembered being a boy in Italy, studying Jordan’s movements on videotapes sent from America. In the courtyard behind their apartment, he had tried to reproduce the hang time, the footwork, and the impossible-looking finishes.

Jordan had been more than a player he admired. He had become the standard against which Kobe measured himself.

Now he would have to do it again.

Only this time, he had the mind of an experienced player and the body of a teenager still developing his strength.

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Chicago greeted them with a hard December cold.

Bulls colors filled the airport, and Jordan’s face seemed to appear everywhere during the bus ride toward the hotel. A Gatorade billboard towered above the expressway. A Nike advertisement displayed nothing but his silhouette and the familiar swoosh.

“They don’t even put his name on it,” Fisher said. “That’s when you know you’ve made it.”

Shaq leaned into the aisle.

“I got billboards.”

“Not like that.”

“I got commercials.”

“Not like that either.”

At a traffic light, Kobe noticed a boy crossing the street in a thick parka, a red number twenty-three jersey visible beneath his open coat.

He watched the child disappear into the crowd.

He remembered wearing oversized jerseys himself, imagining the day he might step onto the same court as the players he admired.

He had lived long enough to understand what Jordan’s influence would become. The championships, the shoes, the generations of children who would pick up a basketball because of him.

Kobe wondered what it would take to inspire that same feeling again.

The thought stayed with him until the bus reached the hotel.

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On December 17, the Lakers’ bus pulled away from the hotel shortly after four.

Television trucks lined the streets surrounding the United Center. Fans crowded behind barriers despite the cold, holding signs and wearing Bulls jerseys beneath heavy coats.

The closer they came, the quieter the bus became.

Kobe watched the building approach through the window.

He had played here many times in his previous life, long after Chicago’s dynasty had ended. But this was different.

Jordan was still here.

So were Pippen, Rodman, and Phil Jackson.

The dynasty was alive, and Kobe was about to walk into its home.

Inside, the corridors were brightly lit and painted red. Championship photographs decorated the walls, celebrating Chicago’s four titles.

Horry noticed Kobe looking.

“Don’t stare too long. They charge admission.”

Kobe smiled.

“Just looking.”

“Let’s make sure they don’t have another one to hang up this summer.”

“That’s the plan.”

The visitors’ locker room was cramped and functional. Players dropped their bags, began stretching, and prepared their equipment.

Shaq looked toward an overhead vent.

“They got the heat on seventy-eight in here. Phil wants me to sweat out eight pounds before tip-off.”

As the Lakers emerged from the visitors’ tunnel, boos descended from every level of the United Center. The crowd wasn’t merely loud. It sounded certain, as though twenty thousand people had already decided how the evening would end.

Kobe had experienced hostile arenas throughout his previous career, but there was something distinctive about Chicago.

Four championship banners hung above the court.

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Below them, the Bulls’ red-and-black logo stretched across the hardwood.

Kobe caught a pass from Knight, took two dribbles, and finished a layup.

He took another shot from the elbow. It struck the back rim and bounced away.

“Little long,” Eddie said, retrieving the ball.

Kobe grinned.

Across the court, Harper stretched near the sideline while Longley practiced free throws. Rodman lounged beneath the basket, his hair dyed a bright shade of green. Pippen spoke with an assistant coach.

Jordan wasn’t out yet.

They returned to their warmups.

Kobe made several more jumpers, gradually settling into the familiar rhythm of the court. The cameras, the banners, the noise—everything became background.

Then the arena lights began to dim.

A ripple of anticipation moved through the stands.

The Lakers drifted toward their bench as the public-address announcer prepared to introduce the home team. The crowd rose, thousands of red jerseys shifting beneath the darkened rafters.

And then the first notes of Sirius filled the United Center.

Kobe knew the music immediately.

He had heard it countless times on television, watched the Bulls emerge through the darkness while the announcer stretched their names into something larger than ordinary introductions.

But hearing it here, with the bass rolling through the floor beneath his shoes, was different.

The spotlight found the entrance to Chicago’s tunnel.

The announcer’s voice thundered through the building.

Ron Harper.

Luc Longley.

Dennis Rodman.

Scottie Pippen.

Each name brought another surge from the crowd. The players emerged through the darkness, exchanged greetings, and gathered near center court.

Then the announcer paused.

The music continued.

Kobe watched the tunnel.

He knew what was coming, but the anticipation still caught him.

The voice rose again, drawing out the familiar words.

“From North Carolina… at guard… six-foot-six…”

The building erupted before the name was finished.

“MICHAEL JORDAN!”

Jordan emerged wearing number twenty-three, moving through the spotlight with an easy confidence that made the spectacle around him seem almost routine.

The noise was extraordinary.

Kobe had heard that introduction before, but never quite like this. In his previous life, his first encounters with Jordan had come when he was still learning how to survive in the league. He remembered the excitement, the nerves, the overwhelming desire to prove he belonged.

This time, Kobe knew exactly who stood before him.

He remembered the first time they had faced each other, when he was a teenager desperate to prove he belonged on the same court as Michael Jordan. He remembered the battles that followed, the trash talk, the lessons, and the respect that had taken years to earn. What began as admiration had eventually become a rivalry between two men who understood each other’s hunger to win.

But that was another lifetime.

Kobe had already walked the path of chasing Jordan’s greatness. He had won championships, built his own legacy, and learned what it meant to stand among the greatest to ever play the game.

This time, simply following in Jordan’s footsteps wasn’t enough.

He wanted to surpass him.

To everyone in the United Center, he was still the undisputed king of basketball.

Kobe watched him with a quiet smile.

He respected the crown. He knew what it had taken to earn it.

But this time, he intended to take it.

And every great conquest began with dethroning a king.

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Hey everyone,

I wanted to apologize for the lack of chapters this week. I’ve been pretty sick, and at first, I thought it was just a regular cold. Unfortunately, my symptoms kept getting worse, especially the coughing, until I finally decided to go to the ER.

Turns out, it wasn’t a cold at all. I was diagnosed with pneumonia and prescribed antibiotics to help treat it.

Between feeling exhausted, dealing with the constant coughing, and trying to recover, I haven’t had the energy to write and post as much as I normally do. That’s why the number of chapters has been lower than usual this week.

I’m hoping to get back to my regular posting schedule once I’m feeling better.

Thank you all for your patience, support, and for continuing to read the story. I really appreciate it!