Schwartz had had enough and returned Bryant’s volley beneath his breath. He forgot what he said, but whatever it was, it did not sit well with Bryant. Bryant chased him around the school and into the locker room. Schwartz ran until he was certain Bryant had stopped his pursuit. “That’s part of the insane mentality that he had,” Schwartz said. “He had to win everything. Practice, drill, game, it doesn’t matter. It all falls under the same realm. I think it was just his makeup. He kind of figured out where he was going to go and what he had to do and it was all he thought about.”
Jeremy Treatman was a Lower Merion assistant coach. Treatman also worked as a sportswriter and filtered Bryant’s media requests. He had known Bryant for a while and had never seen Bryant act that way. What an asshole, he thought as he drove home from practice. It’s the meanest thing ever. Rob Schwartz, he’s harmless. Treatman stopped at a traffic light and the realization hit him. That’s what makes him great, he thought. “He was so mad that he lost the drill and I learned later that that was the first drill he had ever lost in four years at Lower Merion,” Treatman said.
Bryant averaged 31.1 points, 10.4 rebounds, and 5.2 assists per game his junior year, earning Pennsylvania’s Player of the Year award. Bryant fell short of his elusive state championship in 1995. That summer, John Lucas invited Bryant to play against some of his 76ers during open scrimmages at St. Joseph’s University. Lucas wanted to see if Bryant could hold up against the older, better competition. During the NBA season, Lucas had arranged for Bryant to greet Michael Jordan when the Bulls came to town. Bryant referred to him as Mr. Jordan. “You can’t be calling him Mr. Jordan if you’re going to be playing against him in the NBA,” Lucas told Bryant. That deference was nowhere to be found in the summer’s pickup games. John Nash, then still with the Bullets, checked in with Lucas and asked how the players looked. Nash was still fond of Jerry Stackhouse, the former North Carolina guard coming off his rookie year in Philadelphia.
“How’s Stack doing in your workouts?” Nash asked.
“Fine, but he’s the second best two-guard in the gym,” Lucas said.
Nash searched his brain. He knew all the players working out. None carried Stackhouse’s pedigree. He finally gave in and asked, “John, who’s the best two-guard?”
“Kobe,” Lucas said in the same flat, certain tone his wife had once used to announce Bryant’s talents to him. “He dominates every day.”
News spread that Bryant, the high schooler, had demolished Stackhouse in the pickup games. Tony DiLeo, a 76ers scout, said Lucas had to end the sessions to preserve Stackhouse’s confidence. “Lies, straight lies,” said Stackhouse, who enjoyed a long, distinguished NBA career. As a pro, Stackhouse insisted that he had no reason to measure himself against Bryant. Most of the time, Stackhouse said, they did not even play against each other. Instead, they lifted weights or ran on the track. “That’s the allure of a great player and I understand that, but I got to make sure that it’s not done at my expense,” Stackhouse said. Stackhouse did recall a one-on-one matchup with Bryant that resonated two decades later. Bryant, Stackhouse, and one of Stackhouse’s friends were the only people inside the gym. “I know I won, but it wasn’t easy, there wasn’t nothing easy about it,” Stackhouse recalled. “He came in and made a move and tried to just dunk on me. It wasn’t like he tried to go lay it up. He tried to dunk on me and I actually blocked it. He wasn’t coming and thinking about I’m trying to lay this up. He was coming with the intent to do damage.”
Phil Martelli, St. Joseph’s coach, offered Bryant the key to the gym. He did not extend that privilege to most of his own team. Bryant showed maturity and acted appreciative, projecting tact that most college players had yet to master. The pickup games took place outside Martelli’s office. Although he was not curious enough to peek his head out, he heard about Bryant’s performances soon after. “Some of it became an urban myth,” Martelli said. “Now there were a thousand people at a pickup game on a Saturday at St. Joseph’s. None of that’s true. If ten people other than the ten players were there, you’d have an enormous crowd.” It did not matter if people actually witnessed Bryant pick apart Stackhouse. “What mattered was he was so damn good that you could believe it,” said Young, Bryant’s Lower Merion teammate.
John Nash had to see for himself. He lived in Philadelphia and often shuttled between watching two of the area’s brighter prospects the same day: Bryant at Lower Merion and Kerry Kittles, a guard at nearby Villanova University. Nash made sure to get to Lower Merion early—you had to or else you could not get in at all. He purchased his own seat instead of asking the school’s athletic department for a comp ticket. Kevin Garnett was still easing his way into superstardom. Many still denounced the NBA’s presence in high school gyms. Nash did not want to deal with any backlash. He also did not want any teams catching wind of his scouting expeditions. “I thought the Kobe Bryant hype was probably just that,” Nash said. “Then, you see him and he was so much more than what I expected.”
In Bryant’s senior year of high school, Downer hired assistant coaches with college playing experience specifically to guard Bryant during practices. He sometimes mandated that Bryant scrimmage against a team with more defenders—usually adding Schwartz and Leo Stacy, another irritant, to the other team. Bryant and Stacy once dove for a ball simultaneously. Blood leaked onto the floor. The collision left Bryant with a broken nose. He walked off, stopping beyond the court’s border, and requested a ball. After receiving one, Bryant calmly swished a shot with his left hand, his off hand, before seeking medical attention. How is that possible? Schwartz thought. This guy—he’s not human. The training staff outfitted Bryant with a protective mask for Lower Merion’s state semifinal game against Chester. The mask bothered Bryant during warm-ups and fogged his peripheral vision. Bryant ripped the mask off as Lower Merion gathered for a final pregame meeting. “It’s time to go to war,” he declared. He played the next two games with a broken nose. Downer would remember the incident in later years as others became accustomed to Bryant’s high pain threshold. A well-placed elbow would have knocked Bryant out and derailed Lower Merion’s state championship hopes. Instead, they celebrated a championship win over Cathedral Prep, 48–43. The Aces ended the season on a 27-game win streak.
Schwartz had grown accustomed to the oddness of the Bryant hoopla throughout the season. On any random day, a television crew might trail Bryant from class to class. Every college wanted him. Duke and La Salle, where Joe Bryant coached, surged as frontrunners. Some also believed that he would skip college altogether. Despite Nash’s preference, other NBA scouts also frequented Lower Merion. Bryant’s choice would be unique from those that came before him and many who came after. He had no compelling reason to enter the league other than his own internal drive. His family possessed money. He scored a 1080 on his SAT and would have easily met the academic requirements of any school he chose.
About 400 students, coaches, teammates, media, and family gathered inside Lower Merion’s gym on April 29, 1996. A steam coursed through the gym that spring, replacing the winter’s draft.
“I, Kobe Bryant, have decided to take my talents to…,” Bryant started.
He stopped. He merely feigned nervousness, unlike Garnett, who sincerely expressed it in his declaration. Bryant rubbed his chin and surveyed the gym as laughter filled the arena. “I have decided to skip college and take my talents to the NBA,” he finished.
The criticism followed immediately. Many media members accused Joe and Pamela Bryant of trying to capitalize financially off of their son. Others in Philadelphia viewed Bryant as egotistical, donning sunglasses during the announcement and escorting singer-actress Brandy Norwood to his prom.
“He’s kidding himself,” declared Marty Blake, the NBA’s longtime director of scouting.
Blake’s job was to know and predict the talent level of each NBA prospect. “Sure, he’d like to come out. I’d like to be a movie star. He’s not ready.” The backlash surprised Treatman. “T
hey were calling his parents irresponsible and that he was nowhere near ready,” Treatman said. “I knew he was going to take a lot of criticism. He took more than I thought he was going to. It drove his family to tears. It just made Kobe want it more. Kobe’s obsessed about proving people wrong. He’s different. The more criticism he took, the more he just wanted to go out there and be a superstar in the NBA as fast as he could.”
Bryant had made his decision even before Garnett had skipped college. Garnett’s decision had upset Kobe. He had wanted to be the one to reopen the doors for high schoolers to the NBA. “Kobe is a groundbreaker and I’m not sure there’s ever been a player, maybe with the exception of Jordan, that has the internal confidence that Kobe has,” Downer said. “I don’t think Kobe really listened to Kevin Garnett. He has such an unwavering confidence that he would’ve done it regardless of what Garnett did.”
5.
The day that would change the Nets’ franchise finally arrived. John Nash pulled his car into Continental Airlines Arena at around noon on June 26, 1996. He hurried to a lunch with John Calipari and Joe Taub before the day turned hectic. A group of businessmen, dubbed the Secaucus Seven, owned the Nets. They rotated on who acted as basketball liaison—the one who dealt directly with Nash and Calipari, voicing their directives and concerns. Taub represented the seven when Nash and Calipari disclosed to him their intent to select Kobe Bryant. The disappointment seeped through in Taub’s response. “We could take this high school kid, groom him, and then find out that after he completed his first contract he was going to jump ship and go somewhere else as a free agent,” Taub said. Bryant, Nash told Taub, was talented enough to contribute right away. Taub asked them to reconsider drafting John Wallace, a senior forward who had recently led Syracuse University to the NCAA championship game.
Nash promised Taub that they would take Wallace’s proven track record into account. They still planned to acquire Bryant as Nash returned to his office at around 2 p.m. Nash settled at his desk and fielded a phone call from Arn Tellem. Bryant had chosen Tellem, a powerful agent, to represent him. “I’m sorry,” Tellem said. “This isn’t going to work out.”
Nash could not picture a scenario in which Bryant would not want to play for the Nets. He had just had dinner with Bryant’s parents and they seemed enthralled at the prospect of him playing in New Jersey. “Arn, what changed in twenty-four hours?” an incredulous Nash asked.
Tellem explained that Bryant had had a falling-out with his family. He preferred not playing in New Jersey to avoid the pressure of performing so close to home. “He started giving me some cockamamie story about Kobe and his parents getting into a dispute,” Nash recalled. “I never bought that.”
He ended the call with Tellem and walked to Calipari’s office. Nash did not consider Tellem’s stance a deal breaker. He wanted to calmly tell Calipari about the call, while reassuring him that Bryant should remain their pick.
Calipari had his own news to share. Kobe Bryant had phoned Calipari and reiterated that he did not want to play for the Nets and, if drafted by the organization, he would instead play professionally in Italy. Calipari’s concern grew. He would already be taking a risk in drafting Bryant and going against the ownership group. But taking a high school player who did not even want to play for him? He could wind up a laughingstock before ever coaching an NBA game. On top of that, he had already been mocked in the press. Some sports reporters jokingly wondered if Calipari knew he now coached in the NBA and no longer needed to recruit high school players, as he had as a college coach.
“Look, just give me a couple of hours and I’ll figure out what’s going on,” Nash said.
Agents, Nash thought, they live on gossip. An executive can’t do his job with or without them. Nash pledged to work the phones until he unearthed the source of Bryant’s backpedaling. In the meantime, Calipari received another call. David Falk, the influential agent who helped shape Michael Jordan into a marketing heavyweight, was on the line. Falk, Nash said, had caught wind of Bryant’s lack of interest in the Nets. Falk pressured Calipari to strongly consider drafting Kerry Kittles, Falk’s client. He bullied and blustered.
Calipari relayed the conversation with Falk to Nash. To Nash, it was typical agent talk. Nash sensed Calipari’s commitment to draft Bryant beginning to wane.
Nash returned to his office at around 4 p.m. He received a call from one of Tellem’s confidants. Nash learned that the Lakers and Jerry West had arranged a deal with Charlotte for the 13th pick and wanted Bryant. Nash called Bob Bass, Charlotte’s general manager, and asked if he had agreed to a trade with the Lakers. “I’m not going to talk about it,” Bass said. To Nash, that reluctance to talk may as well have been a heartfelt confession.
•••
The “Showtime” Lakers that captured five championships had long lost their luster by the summer of 1996. The Houston Rockets had jettisoned the Lakers from the playoffs’ first round. The dry spell between titles grated on Jerry West. As a player, West’s nickname was “Mr. Clutch,” for his penchant for playing well in crunch time. His silhouette would eventually be used as the league’s logo. West earned 14 All-Star selections in his playing career with the Lakers. Annually, his Lakers clashed with Bill Russell’s Boston Celtics in the NBA Finals and West lost six times. West’s Lakers also lost in the 1970 finals to the Knicks. His long-awaited NBA title did not arrive until the Lakers finally triumphed over the Knicks in 1972. Winning did not necessarily alleviate West’s pain and the frustration that accompanied losing. But it at least stiff-armed those emotions until the next game, when winning and losing again decided his self-worth. He had a textbook jumper and played defense tenaciously, working himself into a pregame hysteria that left him physically ill. The transition to coaching when he could no longer control the games through his own play went about as smoothly as one could expect. West coached the Lakers for three short years and later turned to scouting. He became general manager prior to the 1982–1983 season, a position where he could still outmaneuver his opposition but that left him a step removed from the taxing emotions that came with being on the court.
The 1996 draft represented a second priority to West. The free agency period would have a larger leaguewide impact. Heavyweights like Alonzo Mourning, Juwan Howard, Reggie Miller, and Allan Houston were all available. West cast his line at the one whose signing would cause a seismic shift around the NBA. The league had never seen a player like Shaquille O’Neal, with his combination of size, speed, agility, and more size. O’Neal had guided the Orlando Magic to an NBA Finals appearance, but was disenchanted with the organization and, more importantly, with living in Orlando. West knew of O’Neal’s interest in acting and music careers. Los Angeles resonated as the perfect locale for such pursuits. O’Neal confirmed his interest, but waited to see how large a salary West and the Lakers would offer. The Lakers needed to find a way to dump money owed on current contracts. The more contracts discarded, the more money they could offer O’Neal.
Vlade Divac had two years and $8.3 million left on his contract. He remained the biggest obstacle to extending O’Neal a gargantuan offer. West called several teams and offered Divac in trades. The cold market for a quality center—like the reaction he had received from John Nash—surprised him. “It was amazing to me that people did not have an interest in doing something like that,” West recalled. “People thought something must be wrong with him. There wasn’t. He’s a terrific player and a better person. Having said that, our eyes were on Shaquille.”
As West finagled to find a trade partner, Arn Tellem called him in the weeks leading up to the draft. Bryant had already inked a deal with Adidas and the William Morris Agency, an entertainment talent company. Bryant had yet to play a single NBA game. Still, he had a boyish exuberance and charm that corporations felt certain would appeal beyond the NBA. Bryant was in town for a commercial shoot and wanted to work out for the Lakers. The Lakers had one planned the next day with Dontae’ Jones, a bruising forward who had recentl
y lifted Mississippi State to the Final Four. West knew of Bryant, but had not paid much attention to him. The Lakers possessed the draft’s 24th pick. West expected Bryant to be gone by then. He allowed Bryant to join the workout almost as an afterthought.
Jones arrived at the Inglewood YMCA shortly after sunrise with his college roommate. The court bore the scuffs from the frequent cuts and stops of previous players. One rim slanted toward the earth, the result of it bearing the weight of a dunk or several too many. Jones had studied all the draft’s potential first rounders, wanting to know their tendencies should he face them in a workout. The word on Bryant? Talented, but still a high school player. Jones had bullied around college’s best. “My thing was I had to go represent for college basketball, just to let him know that there are some things you must do as a young man to be prepared for the next level,” Jones said. His confidence had crested to an all-time high. Jones had had one of the better college tournaments and spent the summer working out with NBA star Penny Hardaway in Memphis.
Larry Drew, a Lakers assistant coach, monitored the workout. Jones, 21, figured the Lakers brass wanted to see how Bryant physically matched up against a more developed player. “I think they got exactly what they were looking for, because he was a load,” Jones said. Drew instructed the pair to first play a fullcourt game of one-on-one to four.
Bryant won.
“You could just tell,” Jones remembered. “You could see what his future was going to look like. I was amazed by just playing against him. I did what I was supposed to do, but that’s a seventeen-year-old kid. That dude was determined to do some of the things he couldn’t do and I guess I was an obstacle right there for him to try to figure out a way to chop down.”
They played one-on-one to four from halfcourt. They played one-on-one, in which the offensive player had to go right and use only three dribbles before hoisting a shot. They transferred the same rules to a game on the left side of the floor. Jones got in a point and a game here and there. Some of the drills catered to him and his size advantage over Bryant. But it was the established college player trying to hold his own against a high schooler. Bryant’s footwork and finesse were already beyond those of anyone Jones had ever played in college. Bryant generally found the shot he wanted within those three dribbles. “You don’t realize a seventeen-year-old could do all the things he was even attempting to do,” said Jones, who became a first-round selection of the Knicks. The workout only lasted about 45 minutes. A dismayed Jones stretched out on the floor afterward. Meanwhile, West watched it all. “You saw the incredible skills that he had for a young kid,” West said. “The one thing that we all saw was that he had an immense desire to compete. He just didn’t want to stop competing, and in an [hour-long] workout it was something to see.”
Boys Among Men: How the Prep-to-Pro Generation Redefined the NBA and Sparked a Basketball Revolution Page 6