by Kobe Bryant
Twig stood up beside him. “Reggie?”
“Let’s go,” Reggie whispered. “Like Rolabi said . . . it’s time.”
He strode onto the court as the clock moved to zero.
“Forget the cheering,” Reggie called over his shoulder. “We’ve got a game to win.”
“What did you say to him?” he overheard Rain ask.
“I don’t know,” Twig said. “But I’m glad I’m on his team right now.”
Reggie crouched low, waiting for the tip. His breath rose and fell. The whole gym pumped with his lungs. He felt the floor tilting toward the far net. He saw the hoop widen. He heard no cheers. Saw no crowds. There was only the ball and two hoops.
The ball went up, Twig won the tip, and it came to Reggie. He caught it, feeling another surge of energy. The Marauders were scrambling into position. They seemed slow, disorganized. Maybe he was moving too fast. Whatever it was, he attacked.
Reggie raced down the floor, weaved through the defenders, and laid it into a Hula-Hoop rim with ease. There were no pumped fists. No smiles. He ran back and stripped the ball the second it touched his defender. Then he scored again. And again. The floor tilted so far, he felt like he was flying down the court. The hoop was so big, he could drain shots from anywhere.
No one could touch him.
It was complete domination in the end. Fourteen straight points in overtime, and zero allowed. Reggie had scored every point. Threes, layups, free throws. When the buzzer went, he just stood there while his teammates went mad. They had beaten the best team in the conference in an away game. It was history.
Reggie relished the feel of it. The feel of having worked, and won, and earned it.
Rain and Twig enveloped him, chanting “Badgers,” and then the rest followed, and he let himself be swept into the celebrations. But just for a little while. They had a lot more work to do.
Reggie could hardly wait.
19
INTO THE STORM
The mountain will never bend to the storm.
WIZENARD PROVERB
SIX WEEKS LATER, Reggie slid into the front seat of Gran’s car in Fairwood’s parking lot, wiping the last vestiges of sweat from his face. Gran and P had insisted on waiting for Reggie at the end of the game, even though the team’s celebrations had taken nearly an hour. Rolabi had allowed the Badgers to cut down one of the nets and take a piece each to remember their historic regular season, since they wouldn’t play a game in Fairwood again until next year.
Rolabi did pointedly remind them there was much left to be done, but even he cracked a smile when they all hoisted Peño up. Reggie clutched his piece in his hand now, still amazed that they had actually done it: the West Bottom Badgers were heading to the nationals.
They had needed seven straight wins, and tonight, in their final game of the season, they had beaten the Bears by twenty points. In two weeks, they would be leaving for Argen.
“Well, that was something,” P said from the back seat.
Reggie watched the city roll by, still wearing a big smile. “Yeah.”
“I think there is a sale at Bennett’s,” Gran said suddenly.
Reggie glanced at her. “What?”
“Forty percent, I think. Closing sale, apparently, but they always claim they’re closing.”
P leaned forward, frowning. “Gran, what does a clothing store have to do with anything?”
“Well, Reginald is going to need a new outfit if he’s going to Argen. Something clean.”
Reggie laughed, and P joined in. Even Gran cracked a smile, and then told them to stop distracting her or they all could get out and walk . . . even the “big-shot basketball player.”
Reggie rolled the white netting around in his fingers, savoring the feeling. It was more than a piece of string to him—it represented the entire year, and the struggle through self-doubt to become the player he was meant to be. And it was a reminder that there was more to come.
P smiled. “What do you think Mom and Dad would say if they could see us right now?”
Gran glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “I think they would say: Patricia, please listen to your gran.”
“Or maybe: Reggie, take a shower,” P added, sniffing the air.
“All right, we’re done here,” Reggie said.
P tapped her chin. “Or maybe: Reggie, you should give P your bedroom—”
* * *
“That’s enough for today,” Rolabi said.
The team broke apart from their drill, some hunching over from exhaustion, others sharing props and slapped shoulders for getting through another tough practice. They had all been hard, of course, but now, in the weeks leading up to the nationals, they were grueling.
Reggie and Twig sat down together on the bench, both sopping wet.
“Man, I hope I live to see Argen,” Twig groaned, stretching out his legs.
“We don’t just want to see it. We want to get there and win.”
Twig snorted. “Between you and Rolabi, I think we’ll be ready.”
Rolabi had packed up for the day, but he was standing at center court, waiting.
“Do you think we’ll get a better bus for the drive there?” Twig asked. “It’s like a thirty-hour drive, and we don’t have a bathroom, TVs . . . reliable tires . . .”
“I doubt it. Bring a book.”
“And a bucket,” Twig muttered. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I can’t wait.”
Reggie grinned. “Me either.”
Twig stood up, gave Reggie props, and started out. “You know,” he called over his shoulder, “if we win, it’s going to be kind of hard to call this place the Bottom, right?”
Reggie laughed. He lingered on the bench, taking his time to change his shoes, until all the others had gone. Rolabi was still standing there. Reggie slid his bag over his shoulder and approached his coach.
“It was quite the season for you,” Rolabi said.
Reggie swallowed. Coming from Rolabi, this was high praise.
“Not over yet,” Reggie managed.
“No. The big teams are waiting.”
Reggie nodded. “We’ll be ready.”
“Good. The whole team must believe we can compete, even dominate, at the national level. They must feel it in their bones, or we have no chance.”
“So . . . you want me to tell the guys we can actually do this?”
“I want you to show them. You have a special role on this team, Reggie.”
“What’s that?”
Rolabi allowed a rare smile. “I just told you. And your mother knew it too.”
“My mother—” he said, heat rushing to his cheeks.
“Why do you leave someone an empty box?” Rolabi asked.
“Well . . . I don’t know. Because you want them to fill it, maybe.”
“Exactly. And I trust you to fill it wisely.”
“Did you know my parents?” Reggie asked, almost desperately.
“No. But I know of them. And I know they would be proud.”
Rolabi patted Reggie’s shoulder and started for the door.
“They raised a good son. He alone must choose if he will become great.”
“Is that why you were so hard on me?” Reggie called after him. “To motivate me?”
“My job is to bring out the best from everyone. For some, facing your fear is the way to improvement. For others, it is winning a battle against the limitations we impose on ourselves.”
He opened the door, then turned back. “Ah . . . and, Reggie?”
“Yes?”
“Luckily, that particular battle doesn’t end. It means we can never stop improving.”
Reggie nodded. “I understand.”
“Good. Now let’s go show the world the Bottom is back.”
* * *
Whe
n Reggie got home, P was lying in her bedroom, rereading one of the books from her small collection.
“Any good?” Reggie asked.
She lowered it. “As good as the last twenty times. Can I come to Argen?”
He laughed. She had been asking that since the day they’d won. But it would be too expensive for Gran and P to travel to the capital on their own, and the bus had no space for players’ families.
“Fine. I don’t need you to take me. Maybe I’ll go somewhere on my own.”
Reggie smiled. “Maybe so. Let’s play our game.”
P sat up, grinning. “You never want to play anymore.”
“Today, I do.”
“You want to go first?” she asked.
“Second.”
She snorted. “The—”
“Girl—”
“Named—”
“P—” he said.
P laughed. “Is—”
“Going—”
“To—” she said.
“Be anything she wants. Even if she can be a real pain in the butt sometimes.”
P frowned. “I don’t think you remember the rules.”
“Maybe not. But I like the ending. And you said that was the important part.”
She giggled. “I guess.”
“Good night, P,” Reggie said, heading to his bedroom.
There was something he wanted to do.
Rolabi had reminded him.
He walked into his room, closed the door, and took the old box off the dresser. Sitting down on his bed, he ran his hands over the cover and the intricate carved symbol.
“I don’t know what the note means. I don’t really understand this symbol, or grana. I don’t know where this sport I love is going to lead me. But if I’m going to fill this box with something, it might as well be a reminder that I will never quit.”
He grabbed the little piece of mesh from his dresser and laid it inside.
For a moment, it seemed as if the symbol on the lid shone with a pure, emerald green.
He sat back and smiled. It was the end of the regular season, but it felt like a beginning.
WIZENARD PROVERBS
When the road grows hard, and your legs tire, know that greatness lies ahead.
The world is not always ready when you are. It rewards only those who stay ready.
If you are fully present in every moment, time will be your ally.
The one who works without boasting has twice the time to improve. Beware the quiet contenders.
Every human is born to change the world. Unfortunately, some are changed by the world first.
All people are magnets. They simply must choose to push or pull.
Train your mind in conjunction with your body, or both will fail.
Compromise is a part of life. But not when it comes to dreams. For those, one must seek the stars or nothing.
Self-doubt is the beginning of defeat.
We are not inspired by success. We are inspired by the triumph over adversity.
The defeated look at the night sky and see their own insignificance. The dreamer sees their potential.
When someone chases their dream, watch closely. Their effort will throw off sparks, and perhaps your kindling is waiting.
When we feel entitled to victory, we no longer deserve it.
Before asking when, tell yourself how.
A champion turns weakness into strength.
Your mind is a filter; when it is clouded, you cannot see the light.
Talent is a seed. To flourish, it must be watered with sweat.
The deeper the hole, the longer the climb, and the stronger you arrive.
Struggle is the training of the soul.
The mountain will never bend to the storm.
KOBE BRYANT was an Academy Award winner, a New York Times best-selling author, and the CEO of Granity Studios, a multimedia content creation company. He was also a five-time NBA champion, two-time NBA Finals MVP, NBA MVP, and two-time Olympic gold medalist. In everything he built, Kobe was driven to teach the next generation how to reach their full potential. He believed in the beauty of the process, in the strength that comes from inner magic, and in achieving the impossible. His legacy continues today.
WESLEY KING is the New York Times best-selling author of eleven novels, including The Wizenard Series: Training Camp, OCDaniel, the Vindico series, and A World Below. His books have been optioned for film and television and translated for release worldwide. Besides writing, he is working on a circumnavigation on a 1967 sailboat. You can follow him on Instagram @wesleykingauthor or on Twitter @WesleyTKing.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2019954885
ISBN (hardcover): 9781949520149
ISBN (eBook): 9781949520156
Cover and interior art by Spandana Myneni
Cover lettering by Melanie Lapovich
Endpaper art by Shahab Alizadeh
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s and creator’s imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.