After O'Neal left, the locker room grew much quieter.
Kobe sat in a corner, wearing a dark blue tracksuit jacket, headphones hanging around his neck and a cup of water in his hand. His hair was still wet, sweat dripping down from his temples.
Unlike O'Neal's revelry, there was almost no smile on Kobe's face.
The reporters gathered around him and cautiously asked, "Kobe, how does it feel to advance to the Western Conference Finals?"
Kobe took a sip of water and said calmly, "The mission isn't over."
The room fell silent for a moment.
"You've made the Western Conference Finals," one reporter pressed. "Isn't that worth celebrating?"
Kobe looked up, his eyes as calm as a pool of deep water. "Celebrate? Celebrate what? We haven't made it out of the Western Conference yet. We haven't played the Western Conference Finals, we haven't played the Finals, and we haven't won the championship. What's the point of celebrating an 'advance'?"
Another reporter ventured, "But you defeated the San Antonio Spurs, a team considered capable of threatening the Lakers Dynasty—"
"The Spurs are a strong team," Kobe cut him off. "Tim and David are both excellent. But our goal wasn't to beat the Spurs. Our goal is the championship. Beating the Spurs was only one step toward it. That step is done; the next one hasn't begun. Until we win the championship, there's nothing worth celebrating."
His voice was not loud, but every word seemed carved in stone.
A young reporter couldn't help asking, "Kobe, are you always this serious? You're only twenty-one, already an All-Star starter, and now you've reached the Western Conference Finals—you can't enjoy this moment a little?"
Kobe glanced at him. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, but it wasn't a smile.
"Enjoy it? I enjoy myself