Twenty minutes later, the car came to a steady stop in the arena's private parking lot.
The enormous arena was pitch-black outside, with only the main practice facility still lit.
In the silent depths of the night, that patch of light stood out sharply.
O'Neal pushed open the door, got out, and strode toward the interior of the arena.
The instant he pushed open the practice gym doors, the crisp sound of dribbling hit him.
The rhythm was steady, the force powerful, carrying the persistence and obsession of countless repeated days.
Inside the vast Staples Center practice court, the lights shone bright and white.
In the enormous space, there was only one lean yet upright figure.
Kobe Bryant had remained on the court alone, immersed in his training.
He wore a black Lakers practice uniform, his entire body already drenched in sweat.
His wet hair clung to his forehead, and the lines of muscle along his back were clearly visible.
Dozens of basketballs lay scattered across the floor, covering half the practice court.
Every basketball was stained with sweat, bearing witness to the relentless late-night training.
It was already eleven at night, and the entire city was about to fall asleep.
There was no coach watching over him, no teammates by his side, and no media attention.
Alone, Kobe repeated tedious, mechanical, extreme training drills.
Between-the-legs dribbles, crossovers, step-backs, pull-up jumpers.
The entire sequence flowed like water, every shot executed with flawless form.
The basketballs cut through the air again and again, swishing cleanly through the net with unerring accuracy.
After scoring, he never paused to celebrate. He only immediately ran to retrieve the ball.
Then he seamlessly moved into the next round of training, refusing to give himself even a moment of rest.
Mid-range shots, three-pointers, drives to the