The Breath of the Era

"Thump, thump, thump." The rhythmic sound of the basketball striking the floor was so pleasing. Kobe dribbled the ball, watching it bounce across the hardwood of Lower Merion High School's court. He loved the sound of a basketball hitting the ground. Whether he was happy or defeated, the best way to calm his mind was to return to the court, listen to the ball, and let his heart gradually settle.

The Lower Merion School District lay in the suburbs of Philadelphia, serving 62,000 residents of Lower Merion Township and Narberth Borough. Established in 1834, it was one of Pennsylvania's first public school districts. With a rich tradition of achievement, innovation, community partnerships, and a longstanding reputation, it was one of the finest school districts in the United States.

This high school was where Kobe's basketball journey had begun. The red-and-yellow court, the black jerseys, the blue-purple bleachers... In a daze, Kobe saw that boy chasing the wind once more, racing across the court, driving to the basket and shooting again and again.

He had thought this was a story from more than twenty years ago. But now, he finally realized that the story was only just beginning.

"Boss! I knew you'd be in the gym." A group of people pushed open the training hall doors. "Come on, it's graduation prom. Boss, could you stop soaking in the gym for once?"

Kobe looked at his high school teammates. Their faces were still youthful and innocent as they crowded around him with infectious enthusiasm. Right—they had just won the state championship together. This was Kobe's first honor.

"Alright! Let's go welcome the new era!" Kobe flashed his signature smile again, his white teeth standing out against his dark complexion.

His teammates had long grown accustomed to Kobe's strange remarks. Even if he said he was going to challenge Jordan one-on-one, they would not have been surprised. They surrounded him and left the gym.

The prom was nothing more than a clichéd gathering, even though high school prom was an extremely important occasion in American society. Kobe had long been used to handling such events. He calmly thanked the teachers and accepted the admiration of his classmates.

After leaving the prom, Kobe tossed away the little notes in his pockets. Driving his Beetle—his first car—he headed into downtown Philadelphia. He looked at the Mission: Impossible poster outside the movie theater, at the dazzling neon lights, and greedily breathed in the atmosphere of this era.

"Damn, Game 7 between the SuperSonics and Jazz is about to start." Kobe did not linger in his nostalgia. He hurried back to his Philadelphia home, where Old Joe had already turned on the television.

"Hey, brat, you're finally back. Come watch the game. Malone's going to make Kemp shoot himself into the ground!" Old Joe laughed and cursed. Studying game footage with his son was one of his favorite ways to relax.

"Old Joe, that's hard to say." Kobe happily began discussing the game with his father.

The Seattle SuperSonics were led by the Glove, Gary Payton, and the Reign Man, Shawn Kemp. Kobe remembered that Gary Payton was one of the best perimeter defenders of this era, while also possessing excellent post-up skills. This season, he had averaged 19.3 points, 4.2 rebounds, 7.5 assists, and an astonishing 2.9 steals per game. He was the league's steals leader and had also won the first Defensive Player of the Year award of his career.

Meanwhile, the Reign Man, Shawn Kemp, was a power forward with explosive athleticism, a classic American beast of a big man. This season, he had averaged 19.6 points, 11.4 rebounds, and 2.2 assists, along with 1.2 steals and 1.6 blocks per game. His explosive style had made him popular throughout the United States. Though his technique was somewhat rough, it did nothing to diminish his dominance on both ends of the floor.

The inside-out defensive tandem led by Payton and Kemp made every opponent who faced them miserable. In an era with a slower offensive pace, having players like those two was practically having the key to victory.

The Utah Jazz likewise had the all-time assist leader, John Stockton. From 1987 to 1996, he had led the league in assists nine consecutive times. After Magic retired, he was the greatest floor general in the NBA. At the same time, he played tough, constantly using little tricks much like Paul. His relatively slight frame did not stop him from defending, either. He had made the All-Defensive Second Team five times in his career. His averages of 14.7 points, 2.8 rebounds, 11.2 assists, and 1.7 steals this season were equally dazzling.

Before Duncan emerged, Karl Malone had always been the standard-bearer at power forward. Kobe remembered that Malone would win two MVP awards the following year, in 1997 and 1999. The MVP was not an easy award to win. In this era overflowing with stars, every MVP was the brightest player of them all. His averages this season of 25.7 points, 9.8 rebounds, 4.2 assists, 1.7 steals, and 0.7 blocks were terrifying.

The Jazz primarily ran pick-and-rolls initiated by Stockton and Malone, an immortal NBA classic. The pick-and-roll was a tactic that would never go out of style. Stockton's ball-handling and passing, Malone's solid screens—they could pop out for jumpers, roll to the rim, or even operate from the high post to distribute the ball. That versatility made their pick-and-roll extremely difficult to defend.

Kobe felt that Stockton's lack of aggression was the final flaw in that system. If Stockton's individual scoring ability rose another level, their pick-and-roll would be unstoppable. As things stood, once Malone was double-teamed, the perimeter players could not shoot opponents to death. They had no second layer of insurance.

"I haven't forgotten how they swept me and Shaq 4–1 in '97." Thinking of the three airballs he had thrown up in overtime against the Jazz, Kobe's face darkened.

The game began. With the series tied 3–3, both sides knew each other inside and out and launched targeted attacks and defenses. In this era, transitions were slow. Both teams tried their best to create shots for their stars or shots generated by their sets. Fast-break finishes were rarely seen.

Jersey-tugging and elbow shoves were everywhere on defense. That was also the hallmark of basketball in this era. Its passionate, physical style had drawn countless fans to the NBA from around the world.

Sure enough, once Malone caught the ball, the SuperSonics quickly doubled him. Malone repeatedly passed out to perimeter shooters Jeff Hornacek and Bryon Russell. But the Jazz shooters were ice-cold, making only 30 percent of their shots. That percentage was destined not to win a game.

So Stockton and Malone began exerting themselves in the second half. Malone forced up shots after being double-teamed, while Stockton repeatedly attacked from midrange and beyond, keeping the score close with poor efficiency. The gap was not large, but the game had already slipped out of control.

Kemp grabbed multiple offensive rebounds. The Jazz had no answer for his second-chance attacks and could only stop him by fouling. Shawn Kemp played with his usual physical force, drawing eleven free throws and making ten of them.

Payton, meanwhile, used his superior strength against Stockton, relentlessly backing him down in the post. At times, he drove inside and kicked the ball back out, bringing the entire offense to life. With scoring coming from everywhere, the team shot 54 percent from the field for the game.

Malone was a face-up power forward. Once his midrange game was locked down by double teams, he had no way to score with his back to the basket. As a result, he managed just 22 points on 36.4 percent shooting, and his five rebounds showed just how thoroughly Shawn Kemp had suppressed him.

The defeated Malone slapped the floor while Stockton tried to comfort him. Shawn Kemp had completely overwhelmed Malone with 26 points, 14 rebounds, and 66.7 percent shooting. Gary Payton also casually put up a standard 21-5-6 line.

At the final buzzer, the Seattle SuperSonics defeated the Utah Jazz 90–86, won the Western Conference championship, and marched proudly into the Finals. Their next opponent was Jordan, preparing to launch his second dynasty.

Kobe was a footage fanatic. He loved studying film of every star. As a teenager, he studied Jordan. After entering the NBA, he studied film of every opponent. Even after retirement, he still made detailed breakdowns analyzing the strengths and weaknesses of every player's movements.

There was no way he would miss this game. He repeatedly replayed the videotape, studying it over and over. He felt the meat-grinder intensity of this era, the fierce physical contact, the tactical discipline and execution. This was a man's sport, a sport of hot blood—and the basketball he loved.

Kobe's blood was already boiling. He even wanted to grab a ball and challenge them to a one-on-one game. This was an era where stars collided, soldier against soldier, general against general, with the victor becoming king. And Kobe was ready. He was ready to rule this era.

Unable to restrain himself, he grabbed a basketball again and rushed toward the park beside his home.

"Brat, come back early!" Old Joe called calmly, as if he was already used to this.

Kobe arrived at the court. Philadelphia's basketball culture was incredibly strong. Large crowds were sweating it out on the court, while just as many spectators stood around the sidelines cheering.

"Let me join. I'm not that good." Kobe smiled.

"Kobe, it's Kobe." People in the crowd had already recognized him. Kobe was somewhat famous in Philadelphia. People knew that a young star had led Lower Merion High School to a state championship and was about to enter the NBA draft.

"Hey, Kobe, let's go one-on-one!" A six-foot-three Black man stepped forward. Black Americans had always possessed a spirit of challenge. Forget a young player who had only recently gained some fame—even established stars received countless challenges.

Kobe liked this atmosphere. He liked scenes like this, open and passionate. His opponent was weak, but would he go easy on him? No.

What followed was a slaughter. Game after game. One-on-one, three-on-three, five-on-five. Watching Kobe's masterful basketball skills and flashy moves, the cheers from the crowd never stopped.

"You're going to become the best player!" a passerby shouted.

"I know, I know. Of course I will." Kobe did not hold back in the slightest.

It was not until dawn that Kobe finally put the basketball away. A seventeen-year-old body truly had endless energy. It felt as if he had strength he could never exhaust.

"Kobe, the Philadelphia 76ers heard that you're entering the NBA draft and invited you for a workout! They have the first overall pick!" Old Joe had been waiting at home, and the moment Kobe returned, he excitedly told him the news.

"Alright, Old Joe, relax. Now it's time to find me an agent." Kobe replied calmly. This was the first NBA workout he had attended in his previous life.

Kobe recalled that workout. It seemed that the side quest for restarting his life could be resolved now?