Los Angeles, International Airport.
The Lakers' private jet touched down on the runway at dusk.
Beyond the windows, Los Angeles was cloaked in gray twilight, and the Pacific Ocean breeze snapped the flags along the runway.
When the players came out of the terminal, they didn't find an ordinary crowd waiting for them. Thousands of Lakers fans in purple jerseys filled every corner of the arrivals hall.
They held up signs, chanted slogans, and sang the team song. Some had Kobe's face painted on theirs, some held up O'Neal jerseys, and others held signs that read "LAKERS IN 7."
Not dozens. Not hundreds. Thousands.
Kobe came out first.
The moment he appeared, the crowd erupted in deafening cheers. They weren't chanting "Kobe." They were chanting "MVP."
Twenty thousand fans weren't shouting his name. They were shouting "MVP." Once, twice, three times. No one stopped.
Kobe stood on the steps without moving, his head raised as he looked at all those purple-clad faces.
His expression was cold—not the kind of coldness he showed reporters, but coldness toward himself. Yet the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
It was an expression somewhere between a smile and being moved.
He saw a gray-haired old man holding up a sign: "I've been watching the Lakers since 1979. I was 25 that year. I'm 46 now. I've waited 21 years for you to win one more championship."
Kobe paused, then walked over and signed the sign. The old man cried, and Kobe patted him on the shoulder.
Fisher followed behind him, his eyes red. Horry lowered his head, not wanting anyone to see his expression.
Fox waved to the crowd, then hurried toward the bus.
O'Neal walked behind Kobe. When he appeared, the cheers changed from "MVP" to "SHAQ."
Not "Shaq"—"SHAQ." O'Neal smiled, wearing his