The air in the therapy room went stiff the instant the Black Mamba walked in. Leon Powe's face froze solid, especially when he saw Kobe Bryant's storm-dark expression.
"Uh… suddenly remembered I've got something urgent to do. Snoopy, just, uh, pull those electrodes off yourself in ten minutes!"
Leon fled so fast it was almost impressive. No one wanted to be the guy getting glared out of the room by Kobe Bryant.
Everyone knew the kind of power Kobe wielded in Los Angeles. The Lakers were on fire, since the highway robbery trade for Pau Gasol, they'd locked up the West's top seed and were barreling into the playoffs with unstoppable momentum.
Once Leon vanished, Kobe stretched out on the therapy bed next to Snoopy's. The Lakers' personal trainer hurried in and hooked him up to the machine.
Silence.
The only sound came from the TV , Charles Barkley, Ernie Johnson, and Kenny Smith bantering endlessly on TNT.
They'd already moved past regular-season talk and were now predicting playoff matchups.
At one point, Ernie smirked and said,
"If Kobe doesn't win the title this year, how do you think he'll describe his teammates?"
Kenny, ever the troll, fired back,
"He'll probably say, 'We're just one big guy away from a championship!' Then trade Gasol and Bynum for Shaq. He misses that extra meat down low."
Chris Webber chimed in with a grin,
"Who doesn't like a little extra meat?"
Then Barkley, as always, went full artillery mode:
"Kobe's out of excuses. Remember, KG turned him down last summer and went to Boston instead. He's the best shooting guard in the league, it's time he dominates everyone who dares to challenge him. That's what the last top shooting guard did."
That was the TNT crew's classic rhythm, Ernie set the table, Kenny went dark, Webber played cute, and Chuck opened fire.
Snoopy watched their banter with mild amusement, then glanced at the man on the next bed. He wasn't exactly fluent in NBA history, so he asked the Lakers' trainer curiously,
"Who was the last 'top shooting guard' before Kobe?"
The trainer hesitated, unsure if it was wise to answer.
Then Kobe's icy voice cut through the air.
"Michael Jordan."
"Oh!" Snoopy nodded in sudden understanding.
He almost said "makes sense", but wisely held his tongue. Kobe's expression was not the kind that welcomed small talk. The last thing he wanted was to tick off the man whose goodwill determined whether UCLA could keep borrowing Lakers' training gear.
After four or five minutes of silence, Kobe finally spoke again.
"You're that center from UCLA, right?"
Snoopy corrected him. "No. Point guard."
Kobe's jaw visibly tightened, that phrase brought back memories of Shaq clowning on TV, insisting he was the Lakers' true point guard.
"…I heard you grew eighteen centimeters in a month?" Kobe continued, his tone somewhere between disbelief and curiosity.
"Yeah," Snoopy admitted.
"What's that like?"
Kobe's question was genuine, after all, Jordan himself had shot up nearly fifteen centimeters one summer, a growth spurt that helped him make the varsity team and eventually become the god of basketball.
Snoopy frowned, trying to describe it. "Honestly? Not much to say. I ate a ton, then suddenly my body stopped keeping up. My coordination tanked, my movements got stiff…"
Halfway through, he noticed Kobe wasn't even listening, his gaze had locked onto Snoopy's hands.
Snoopy blinked and flexed his fingers, confused.
Kobe's eyes gleamed. "Do people who grow fast like that always end up with hands this big… and fingers this long? Michael's were. So were Scottie's."
Snoopy chuckled and said, completely deadpan,
"Actually, I heard a saying, the bigger and longer your fingers are, the thicker and longer something else is, too."
Kobe froze. Then his hands clenched into two perfect fists.
And that was the end of their conversation.
So much for any "instant bond" between them.
Ten minutes later, Snoopy quietly peeled off the electrodes, tidied up the equipment, and slipped out of the room.
He'd barely stepped into the hall before realizing he'd left his phone behind. When he doubled back, he found Kobe sitting on the bed, staring intently at his left hand.
Feeling a pang of guilt, Snoopy blurted, "Um… that thing I said? Totally unscientific."
And bolted.
Behind him, Kobe sputtered in mortified rage.
"I was checking my ring finger! I dislocated it, that's all!"
The trainer nodded rapidly, doing his best not to laugh.
Just then, Kobe's phone rang. Kupchak, the Lakers' GM.
"Kobe, are you free tomorrow afternoon? There's a Chinese kid from UCLA we're really interested in. Want to come take a look?"
Kobe's molars ground together. "…Sure."
...
The Lakers' front office had been eyeing a point guard for years. They'd drafted a point guard in 2007, but his size couldn't handle NBA contact, so the deal fizzled.
Now, UCLA's defensive anchor, Snoopy, had caught their attention. His game footage had already landed on Dr. Buss's desk, and the boss's note was simple: Keep watching him.
So Kupchak arranged a full-scale scouting session, with ex-Bruin Jordan Farmar, Jeanie Buss, assistant coach Tex Winter (the father of the triangle offense), and now even Kobe himself.
The message was clear: The Lakers were serious.
...
Snoopy, of course, had no clue.
His agent, Edward, was still down in Texas sniffing around the Rockets, Mavericks, and Spurs , all teams he thought were better fits for his boss's current level.
Snoopy agreed. Given his raw skill set, any of those Texas teams would be ideal. The Lakers? Not even on his radar.
That afternoon, during practice, he focused on refining his mid-range jumper from the free-throw line and his… let's call it leisurely-paced dribble drives.
Afterward, on the bus back to campus, Coach Ben Howland sat beside him with a heavy sigh.
"Snoopy, tomorrow you'll be coming off the bench. Luke Mbah a Moute will start in your place."
The words stabbed straight through him.
He'd never felt that kind of pain before , not when his piano was smashed, not when a knee injury forced him to quit martial arts, not even when his violin teacher's school shut down.
But this time…
This time it hurt.
Because somewhere along the way, he'd fallen in love with basketball.