At 9 AM, the Lakers' training facility was already bustling with organized practice.
Ian Ravena, dressed in a ball boy's T-shirt, stood on the sideline pushing a cart of basketballs. He stood ramrod straight, his eyes glued to the center of the court like magnets.
Kobe was practicing a series of difficult catch-and-shoot turnaround jumpers. Trainers fed him balls from various angles, and Kobe would catch, spin, fade, and fire over a defender.
Swish!
Nothing but net.
Picture perfect!
His immense core strength made his shooting motion incredibly stable. His rhythm was terrifyingly consistent.
Ian watched unblinkingly, his Adam's apple bobbing involuntarily. His fingers tightened slightly around the basketball he was holding.
"Hey, boy!" Equipment manager Old John's shout made him jump. "Don't just stand there watching! Get the gear ready!"
"Yes, sir!" Ian hurriedly lowered his head and jogged toward the sideline.
The players began to trickle in.
Odom was chatting nonsense with Bynum while putting on his knee pads. Vujacic was warming up his shot.
When Link walked in, Ian's eyes lit up, and he greeted him proactively.
"Good morning, Mr. Link!"
"Good morning." Link nodded to him.
A few days ago, Ian had successfully called Andrew's number. Link had kept his promise. The team said they could arrange for him to work part-time on weekends, and the hourly pay was pretty good. Ian was incredibly grateful.
Once the players had all arrived, warm-ups began. Brian Shaw blew his whistle, leading the dynamic stretching.
Ian's job was to shag the stray balls.
After an errant long pass, the ball spun wildly toward the sideline. Ian was facing away, arranging water bottles. Hearing the sound behind him, he instinctively reached back and scooped it up.
He caught the basketball firmly with one hand, his movement clean and sharp.
Not far away, Brian Shaw, who was overseeing the stretching, raised an eyebrow and gave the tall, thin ball boy a second look.
Nice hands.
During the intra-squad scrimmage, the intensity ramped up.
On one defensive possession, Kobe loudly directed a switch. Bynum reacted half a beat too slow, allowing Brian Cook to slip inside for an easy layup.
"Focus! Focus!" Kobe's voice exploded in the gym. "Defense isn't about just watching with your eyes!"
Bynum, on the receiving end of the shout, shrank his neck.
Kobe's strictness and demanding nature were intimidating. Only those who worked hard earned his respect.
The Lakers' scrimmages were often more intense than actual games. Every possession was contested physically.
Link curled around a triple screen, fighting to catch the pass. With Kobe's long arm flying at him, he rose up to shoot.
His release point was very high. Even with Kobe's quick reaction, he couldn't block it.
Three-pointer made!
Running back on defense, Link gave a "provocative" shrug toward Kobe.
Without a word, Kobe immediately demanded the ball to isolate Link.
Teammates knowingly cleared out one side of the floor.
Link was now the team's second-best perimeter defender, behind only Kobe. With his excellent height and wingspan, plus the boosts from [Athleticism] and [Defensive Specialist Lv2], Link held his own against the vast majority of perimeter ball handlers.
But Kobe was obviously not in that "vast majority." Kobe was the league's premier one-on-one player.
Kobe lowered his stance, reading Link's footwork.
He pushed off his left foot to drive right. Link slid quickly to cut him off.
Kobe didn't force the drive. He slammed on the brakes, half-spun, and switched the ball to his left hand. Simultaneously, he adjusted his feet backward, creating separation.
Using that tiny bit of space, Kobe hit a hesitation move, then suddenly dropped his hips to explode left.
Link bit on the fake for a split second, allowing Kobe to get half a step on him.
Kobe drove to the baseline, used his right elbow to create space, and pulled up for a jumper!
Good!
That possession was a perfect fusion of rhythm, speed, and strength!
Ian watched from the sideline, mesmerized.
Practice lasted until noon.
After the players left, the gym emptied out.
Ian and the other ball boys finished cleaning the court, and the others gradually left.
He glanced at the clock on the wall, hesitated for a moment, then wheeled a cart of basketballs out of the equipment room.
No one was around.
He dribbled twice, skipped the warm-up, and went straight to the left wing at the 45-degree mark.
Jump, shoot.
Swish. A crisp sound as the ball passed through the net.
Ian grabbed a second ball.
Moved to the right corner. Catch, bend knees, jump, shoot.
Another swish.
Third ball, top of the key.
This time he added a lightning-fast pump fake into a direct-drive. One dribble pull-up jumper.
Good again.
---
After shooting for a while, Ian set up cones for obstacle dribbling drills.
His handle was excellent, his dribble rate very fast. The ball seemed glued to his hand, an extension of his arm.
When he held a basketball, there was a light in Ian's eyes.
"Nice handle. You've got talent."
A voice suddenly came from behind. Ian froze, the ball slipping from his hand.
He spun around to see Link leaning against the stanchion on the opposite end of the court. He didn't know how long Link had been there.
"Mr... Mr. Link... I..." Hearing Link's praise, Ian lowered his head shyly.
"I remember you said you played varsity before?" Link picked up the ball that had rolled over.
"Yeah... starting guard," Ian whispered.
"Why didn't you keep playing?"
Ian lowered his head, pressing his lips together tightly.
A long silence.
It seemed there was a painful story behind it.
The gym fell quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner.
Seeing this, Link didn't press further.
He looked at the boy in front of him. His tall, thin frame looked frail from malnutrition, but his frame was wide, his Achilles tendons long. His large hands could easily palm a basketball.
More importantly, that look in his eyes.
Desire, passion, unwillingness to give up...
It was all too familiar to Link.
"Do you still want to play basketball?" Link asked suddenly.
Ian looked up sharply, his eyes flickering with a light of disbelief.
He opened his mouth but no sound came out. Finally, he just nodded gently.
"Good." Link tossed the ball back to him.
"If you want to play, you have to go to school first," Link said seriously. "With your skill level, after some systematic training, playing in the NCAA won't be a problem!"
Link watched Ian's reaction as he spoke.
Hearing the mention of school, Ian's head noticeably dipped again.
Link paused, then continued, "The Lakers have community outreach programs every year. I'll report your situation to the team."
"If there are no issues, the team will sponsor you to finish your education!"
"Also, you can continue working as a part-time ball boy here on weekends."
Ian's eyes widened, looking stunned.
"Mr... Mr. Link... I..." He stammered, tears welling up in his eyes.
Link looked at him, and for a moment, it was like seeing himself from another timeline.
"Someone once told me," Link said slowly, his voice clear in the empty gym.
"Sometimes, what keeps you from playing basketball isn't a lack of talent, but just a lack of opportunity."
He patted Ian's thin shoulder. "Work hard. Don't let me down!"