The ball went up.
Kobe didn't jump early. He waited. Watched the other center's eyes, the shoulder twitch. Then he went—not high, just right. A quick tap backward, angled instead of straight up.
Clean.
Lower Merion had the ball.
Kobe caught the outlet and brought it up, head already turning side to side. He wasn't dribbling just to dribble. He was organizing.
"Wide."
"Left corner, stay."
"Screen coming."
His voice was calm but clear. No yelling. No panic.
Ridley wasn't set yet.
"Early," Kobe said.
They flowed straight into it.
He drove hard off the right wing, forcing two defenders to step up like he knew they would. The help came a beat too far. Kobe didn't force anything—just snapped the ball to the corner.
Shot went up.
Swish.
Lower Merion was on the board.
A couple of Ridley players looked at each other like, what just happened?
On defense, Kobe pointed immediately.
"Force him left."
"Stay home."
"Help is there."
He shaded the ball-handler exactly where he wanted him to go—right into help. When Ridley tried to isolate, Kobe slid early, cutting off angles before they even opened.
Stackhouse's athleticism took care of one lane. Coleman's size shut down another. Ridley's main scorer got two touches and nothing clean.
Downer nodded to himself.
This wasn't random effort. This was a system.
As the quarter rolled on, Kobe started scoring—but never rushed.
A pull-up when the defender went under.
A backdoor cut when they overplayed.
A layup when the lane opened.
A kick-out when it didn't.
No wasted dribbles. No hero shots.
By the second quarter, the numbers were already adding up. Points. Assists. Everything efficient. Everything within the flow.
Twenty points. Five assists. First half.
No heat checks. No chest pounding.
In the stands, a man leaned toward the parent next to him. He'd been skeptical before—too quiet, too skinny, too different.
He shook his head slowly.
"That kid," he said, eyes still on the floor, "he's different. Plays like a grown man."
On the court, Kobe jogged back on defense, already thinking about the next adjustment.
The plan was working.
And the game was already bending his way.
//
By the fourth quarter, the gym felt different.
The noise had flattened out. Ridley's bench sat quiet, arms crossed, heads down. The crowd wasn't buzzing anymore—it was murmuring, trying to process what they were watching.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
In the version of this season that should've existed, Lower Merion struggled. Close losses. Missed shots. Learning pains. A rebuilding year.
Not tonight.
The scoreboard didn't lie.
Lower Merion kept scoring. Clean looks. Layups off cuts. Open threes off kick-outs. Ridley couldn't keep up, no matter who they put on Kobe or how they adjusted.
Kobe stayed locked in until the final minutes.
When he finally checked out, the stat line was already ridiculous.
35 points.
10 assists.
6 steals.
Efficient. Quiet. No wasted possessions.
A freshman doing that on the road didn't make sense—but here it was, written in the book, impossible to ignore.
The buzzer sounded.
Blowout.
Handshakes followed, quick and routine. When Kobe reached Ridley's coach, the man paused for half a second longer than the rest. He gave Kobe a small nod—no smile, just respect.
Kobe nodded back.
On the sideline, Coach Downer waited. When Kobe reached him, Downer stuck out his hand. Firm grip. Eyes steady.
No words.
They didn't need any.
Downer finally understood what he'd stepped into. This wasn't a gamble anymore. It was a shift.
As the gym emptied and the noise faded, Kobe grabbed his bag and headed toward the locker room. His heart rate was already coming down. His mind was already moving on.
Haverford. December 18th.
Different personnel. Different tendencies.
Same process.
The season had changed course.
And Kobe was already a game ahead.