Thursday, December 21, 2006 Sayson: Making peace with Kobe Bryant By Homer Sayson Secondovertime
CHICAGO—At 10:16 pm last night, moments after the Bulls edged the Lakers, 94-89, I entered the United Center's visitors' locker room. I was with an army of reporters anxious to interview the glitzy boys from Los Angeles.
The scent of alcohol, soap and shampoo wafted inside the crowded Lakers lair. Luke Walton, son of Hall-of-Famer Bill Walton, stood in the center of the room. He was getting dressed while Kwame Brown knotted his shoelaces on a bench not far from the showers.
To Walton's far right, rookie Jordan Farmar was putting on socks. Shammond Williams, a Tar Heel who didn't play, sashayed toward the exit, while a smartly-garbed Smush Parker joined him. Both were headed to the team bus.
With a private jet waiting to fly them to Minnesota, the Lakers made a hasty retreat, which explained the quiet that occupied their locker room. But the silence would soon be broken by lots of leathered feet stomping, the distinct sound of shoes haphazardly marching forward.
A star caused the stir. It was Kobe Bryant emerging from the locker room's inner sanctum. Smiling, he was ready to face the gauntlet of microphones and tape recorders.
Decked in a dark blue suit wth a nifty silk tie, Kobe looked like he just stepped out of a Vogue magazine cover. He dripped with so much charisma the walls around him glowed as though a rainbow had just appeared.
"I shot the ball like crap," he said after his 6-for-19 performance, including 0-for-5 beyond the arc. Bryant had scored 98 points in his last two games, but to the delight of a United Center sellout crowd of 22,761, the Bulls defense held him to just 19 with four turnovers.
Kobe also fouled out in the final 52.4 seconds, with the Bulls up 91-86.
"They made me work. They fronted me in the post and denied me all night," said Kobe, whose visit to Chicago yesterday was merely the beggining of a long, six-game Laker road trip.
After a few more querries, the reporters left one by one. Suddenly, my chance to grill Kobe came. But when I tried to speak, the words refused to come out. I was so nervous I can hear the butterfly wings flapping in my belly.
With Lakers PR chief John Black lurking behind him, Kobe began his exit. Somehow, I recovered from the nervous spell. Swiftly. Mysteriously. Miraculously.
"Kobe," I called. He stopped walking, slanted his sideways and fired back, "whats up?" My jaws were still stiff as a dead man's, but I managed to croak: "One question.You're shooting almost 10 less field goals a game this season. Can you talk a little bit about that?"
"We have more balance now," he explained. "I don't have to do too much and I don't need to shoot a lot. The guys are playing well and we hope to continue playing as a team on both ends of the floor."
As promised, I didn't ask any more questions, but I did walk with Kobe towards the door leading to the hallway outside. Kobe was busy bantering with two other Chicago reporters, but when an opening came, I immediately reintroduced myself as a sportswriter from the Philippines.
"Really?" he said somewhat amazed. "I heard there are a lot of good players, good guards from there," he marveled. "Oh yeah", I proudly replied.
As we ambled along, Kobe nonchalantly rested his right hand on my left shoulder. I was kind of embarassed. There were tons of people around, gawking at the Lakers superstar. they probably wondered: Who the heck is that midget with Kobe?"
But I didn't really give a damn. I was with the best player in the NBA right now. I was having the time of my life.
Kobe gladly obliged for a photo-op. In an instant, my Nikon camera flashed. A picture was taken, a portrait that will forever be seared in the depths of my soul.
Great as our acquaintance had been, Kobe wasn't done with me just yet.
You see, I brought with me last night the purple-colored media pass I got from the Lakers at the Staples Center last Jan. 22. It was the day Kobe lit the Raptors for 81 points. I showed it to him and he looked at it with wonderment.
He then flipped the cardboard piece of Lakers history and scribbled this simple note: "Kobe 24."
I thanked him profusely, shook his hands firmly.
And just like that, all the anger and all the animosity that I have felt for Kobe since his break-up with Shaq are slowly vanishing. Blown away like dry leaves on a beautiful autumn afternoon. (homsay@hotmail.com)
