“We Got This”: Kobe Bryant and the Redeem Team
Sometimes we write things down so someone else can read them — a note slipped into your wife’s hand, a card that says what you could never quite say out loud. Sometimes we write because permanence matters — ink on adoption papers, a signature on a contract, something the world can’t erase. And sometimes we write just for ourselves. A diary, a confession. A truth we need to see in our own handwriting to believe it.
This is one of those.
Hey, I'm being rude. Sit down, grab a drink. There's something I've been trying to understand. Something I need to work out, for myself.
Let's start with a question:
How does one lead a team of leaders?
It’s not a casual question. Because leadership, once you’ve tasted it, becomes part of who you are. People defer to you, hang on your words, wait for your cue — and you grow accustomed to the gravity. You build your life around being the one others follow. And the longer you live in that orbit, the harder it is to surrender.
That was the riddle of the Redeem Team. A roster full of men who had always been the alpha, now asked to bend their egos into something collective. No speeches or slogans could have cracked it. There were too many cooks in the kitchen.
But sometimes the answer is not to speak through a problem. Sometimes, the answer is just to cook.
August 26, 2007: U.S.A. vs. Brazil, FIBA AmeriCup Olympic Qualifiers. Thomas & Mack Center, Las Vegas, Nevada
Las Vegas’s Thomas & Mack Center. The same arena where Kareem once hooked his way into history. Tonight it’s an Olympic qualifier, the kind of game most Americans would flip past, but one this team can not afford to lose.
Three minutes after the opening whistle, Leandro Barbosa — “The Brazilian Blur” — is manning the point for Team Brazil. Kobe crowds him chest-to-chest, no space to breathe. Barbosa rocks back a few feet behind the line, looking to reset. Kobe slides with him, forcing him off balance. The dribble skids off his own foot toward midcourt.
Barbosa has the head start — faster, closer — but Kobe dives anyway, arms shooting between sneakers. Fingers miss by inches. Barbosa gets there first, but in touching it he seals the whistle: backcourt violation.
Carmelo jogs over, taps Kobe on the head. Kobe pushes up slow, no smile, no talk. Next play.
As the buzzer sounds, the scoreboard leaves no doubt: United States 113, Brazil 76. Barbosa — who came in leading the tournament in scoring — is smothered into 4 points on 1-of-7 shooting.
SportsCenter will probably show LeBron’s half-court runner rather than Kobe's dive. But Kobe isn’t thinking about highlights.
His eyes slide to the bench. Jason Kidd sits upright, calm as a metronome. Further down, Dwight Howard is nudging Chris Bosh, egging him into some half-dance that sends Bosh rolling his eyes while Melo and Wade crack up. They’re loose, young, talented. A blessing if tempered, a curse if left unchecked.
Kobe asks himself the only question that matters: "Is this enough?"
Shutting down one scorer doesn’t erase Athens. The body sting will fade by morning, but the standard can’t; the job had only just begun.
And how it began is its own tale. Before the dive across the floor in Vegas, there was a quiet night in Orange County — Kobe at his own kitchen table, Natalia on his lap, Jerry Colangelo across from him, making the pitch for everything to come.
June 2007: Recruitment Meeting at Kobe’s Home. Newport Coast, California
The living room smells faintly of pasta — Vanessa has plates on the counter, Natalia’s toys scattered across the rug. Kobe scoops one into a basket with his foot as he leads Jerry Colangelo to the dining table.
Jerry Colangelo, managing director of U.S.A. Basketball, raises a glass to Bryant, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile. “Eighty-one,” he says. “Highest since the cameras started rolling. Wilt's hundred? We only have a Polaroid. Yours? That’s forever.”
Kobe shrugs. “It’s a start.”
He knows he's just the latest stop on Jerry's tour — Wade, Redd, Melo, LeBron already signed on. He's not here for congratulations, this is a recruitment.
Colangelo’s smile thins. He leans in, voice lowering. “Talent, we’ve had. What we haven’t had is cohesion. In Athens, Iverson and a room full of scorers — and you know what it got us? Bronze.”
“I’m not sitting here to talk about bronze medals, Jerry.”
Colangelo rolls his cufflinks between his fingers. “I’ve already spoken to Shaq. He’s leaning no. Says his body’s done.”
“Then that chapter’s closed,” Kobe replies flatly.
A nod from Colangelo. “Exactly. This can be your team, put your stamp on it. You’ve carried the Lakers — but carrying the flag? That’s heavier.”
“Weight doesn’t bother me,” Kobe says. “I train for it.”
Colangelo taps the table. “First in the gym, last out. That’s the DNA this team needs.”
“Then put me in the room.”
Colangelo leans back, and decides to poke. “So what if I said… we just want you to pass the ball?”
Kobe holds his stare, voice level. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
Kobe glances over at the rug where Natalia is stacking blocks. He crouches down beside her. “Daddy might have to go away for a little while to handle this,” he says quietly. “You gonna let me?”
She knocks the tower over and giggles. Kobe grins, just for a beat, then straightens and looks back at Jerry.
He runs the roster in his mind. Melo, LeBron — two who'd worn the bronze already. Kobe thinks back to Athens, LeBron still a teenager, quick to score, slower to steer. Now the NBA was showing something different: a forward who passed like a guard, who made others better. That evolution is what Kobe would need.
And Wade — bronze in ’04, then a title with Shaq in ’06, celebrated as the league’s future. For Kobe, it was contrast made cruel: he had the points, Wade had the prize.
Chris Paul and Deron Williams — rivals for the league’s next great point guard, now forced to share the same camp.
“And Kidd?” Kobe asks. “I hear his agent’s been calling.”
Colangelo is measured, rolling the cufflinks in his fingers. “His agent reached out, yeah. But I’ve still got Duncan and Garnett to hear from. You don’t lock the door until you know who’s knocking.”
“He’s thirty-five,” Kobe says. “Doesn’t call if he’s not serious.”
Colangelo pauses, then softens. “Jason’s story is complicated. Got us a gold in Sydney in 2000. I shipped Kidd out of Phoenix for Marbury, who brings home bronze from Athens. Kidd wants to set the record straight, show he can still do it. He knows he's a long shot at his age, but he’s still asking.”
“That says something,” Kobe suggests, leaning back. “What about Chris Bosh? They're starting to call him soft around the League, Jerry. No doubt he’s skilled, but is he tough enough to hold the paint in Beijing?”
Colangelo doesn’t blink. “Chris is better than people give him credit for. You want dunks and SportsCenter? That’s Dwight. You want skill and resilience? That’s Bosh. Reminds me of the kid we had in Phoenix before I left — Amar’e. Same length, same quick feet. But Chris doesn’t need the spotlight here. He’ll take the hits and do the dirty work."
Jerry leaned forward one more time. “You’ve been the one in L.A. — the voice, the captain, the example. But here, everyone has been that for their teams. What kind of leader can cut through that?”
“The one who plugs the holes. You don’t pick the role ahead of time — the game tells you. And when it does, I’ll be there.”
July 21, 2008, Predawn: Wynn Hotel Lobby. Las Vegas, Nevada
The Wynn lobby is humming in its own twilight — slot machines still spilling noise, perfume and vodka sweat drifting from the club crowd. Melo and Wade push through the glass doors, voices bouncing off marble as they head for the elevators.
Melo’s mid-story, “Man, I’m at Dwight’s pad last month, right? Dude just opens the cage on this fourteen-foot anaconda like it’s a puppy. I’m like, nah, I’m gone.”
Wade bends over laughing. “Man, that fool’s different.”
They’re still laughing as the elevator chimes. Then they stop.
Kobe’s there already, standing by the elevator bank. Hoodie half-zipped, headphones looped around his neck, sneakers laced tight. The doors open with a chime. Melo and Wade angle toward the next set, ready to ride up to their room. Kobe steps into his, headed down.
Melo squints, shakes his head. “Where the hell are you going?”
Kobe doesn’t break stride. “I’m going to work out.”
The doors close on him. Wade lets out a low whistle. Melo chuckles, half to himself, still staring at the numbers over the door. “Man, that mutherfucker’s different.”
Behind them, another elevator dings open, ready to take them up.
July 21, 2008, Predawn: UNLV Practice Facility. Las Vegas, Nevada
Basement hallway of UNLV’s practice facility, fluorescent lights buzzing. The Thomas & Mack Center looms above, empty seats in the dark, but here on the side court only a janitor wheels a mop toward the exit.
Kobe pushes through the door, drops a bag by the wall, and starts his routine.
Ball hits hardwood — sharp, rhythmic, no music but the squeak of sneakers and the pop of the rim. He moves like a machine: footwork drills, pivots, one-dribble pull-ups. Sweat gathers quick, rolling off his chin.
The door squeaks. Wade steps in, hoodie up, headphones on, shoulder taped. He doesn’t say anything, just drags a plyo box into place. Jumps. Lands. Jumps again. Scar tissue tugging, body still testing itself.
The gym stays quiet except for the thud of each landing. Wade’s gait looks stiff in these pre-dawn hours, not the easy glide Kobe remembers. And Kobe thinks about what the man has carried into this gym: shoulder torn out of socket, two knees scoped the next summer. Writers had wondered if his roster spot should have gone to a healthier man.
Those doubters hadn’t seen this. Wade doesn’t flinch. Keeps rising, landing, rising again.
Integrity is what you do when nobody’s watching. And in this basement gym, long before the cameras arrive, Kobe and Wade are showing each other the kind of work that doesn’t make highlight reels, but wins trust.
July 22, 2008, Afternoon: Team Bus. Las Vegas, Nevada
The team bus hums steady, engine low, desert sun streaking through the tinted windows. Players sprawled across seats — Melo cracking sunflower seeds, Wade slouched with headphones half-on, LeBron stretched long across two rows. Jason Kidd sat near the middle, paperback balanced on his knee, eyes flicking line to line as if the noise didn’t touch him.
Melo leans forward, elbows on knees, voice cutting through the half-silence. “The thing I’m tryna figure out is… you skipped Athens, skipped ’06. What changed that you’re joining up for Beijing?”
Kobe doesn’t blink. “I’m tired of watching y’all lose.”
The bus goes quiet. Sneakers scuff the floor, sunflower seeds crack slower.
Kobe wasn’t alone; U.S.A. Basketball had fallen hard. From Barcelona in ’92, never trailing and winning by thirty a night.
In Sydney eight years later, Lithuania twice nearly stole gold.
Athens turned cracks into collapse — losing the opener to Puerto Rico by nineteen, then falling to again to Lithuania, Manu Ginóbili delivering the killing blow.
The bottom falls out in Japan’s 2006 FIBA Championship: Greece shreds them with pick-and-rolls in the semifinal. Same Greek team scores just forty-seven points in the final.
From Dream to Disgrace.
August 15, 2008: Team U.S.A. Locker Room. Wukesong Indoor Stadium, Beijing, China
Beijing carries its own gravity. The air is thick, gray with smog, heavy with drums and banners. This is no summer scrimmage in Las Vegas; this is the Olympic capital, where every step feels monitored by history. The city has already bent toward basketball once before — Yao Ming towering like a monument, his 7'4" frame and feathery touch with the ball building a bridge between Shanghai and the NBA. He opens the gates, turns a Western game into a Chinese obsession.
But as the Great Wall slowly crumbles, so does Yao’s body, betraying him with recurring foot injuries. He remains beloved, but he no longer defines the edge of the sport. That belongs to someone else. The assassin in the corner of the room who rarely speaks, who makes his case with focus and execution.
The projector whirs, Spain filling the screen. Coach K stands at the front, pointer in hand. On each chair, a slip of paper — jabs, provocations. Kobe’s says “second-best shooting guard in the NBA.” He doesn’t crumple it. He doesn’t move. Just stares, jaw locked, silence sharp enough that Melo thumbs his phone dark and slides it face-down. Dwight, halfway to showing off his own slip, thinks better of it and slouches back.
Coach K’s voice cuts through. “Don’t kid yourselves. Spain aren’t just scrappy. They’re world champions. They believe they can beat you with their system. The ball moves until you’re chasing shadows. Pau is the hub — he scores, yes, but it’s his passing that buries you.”
He taps the screen — Gasol hands off to Navarro, who steps into a floater. Good.
“Tayshaun — track Navarro on those curls. Michael — they don’t have your size in the backcourt, you’ll be spacing the floor. But on D, you can’t die on screens. Stay attached, watch for kick-outs.”
Prince nods, already calculating chase angles. Redd leans forward, lips pressed thin. Natural role players, both; something the team has short supply of.
“LeBron — close the skip lanes. Kidd — jam their entry passes. Dwight — when Marc goes to the bench, you go right at Pau. Don’t let him steal rest or stay out of foul trouble.
And Kobe—” Coach K pauses. “Every catch on the wing has to feel like a fight. No easy touches.”
The room stills. Kobe visualizes the actions. The plan has teeth. Not Phil Jackson’s drum circles — this is blunt, direct, built for combat.
“Tomorrow it’s not the NBA. It’s the flag. No hugs. No handshakes. They want to run their system — we don’t let them see a clear lane.”
The projector clicks off. Exit sign glows red. Chairs creak. Kobe folds his slip and tucks it into his sleeve.
August 16, 2008: U.S.A. vs. Spain, Olympic Preliminary. Wukesong Indoor Stadium, Beijing, China
Broadcast lights wash the hardwood, cameras angled tight. The commentary crew: “Kobe’s play has been the cornerstone of Team U.S.A., despite questions about his inconsistent three-point shot here in Beijing.”
NBA jerseys scatter through the crowd — Cavaliers crimson, Celtics green — but Lakers’ purple and gold dominate. Many wear Kobe’s 24. Others Pau Gasol’s 16, fresh from his midseason trade to Los Angeles. And Gasol is on Kobe’s mind.
In the pregame huddle, arms draped, heads bowed, Kobe breaks the quiet. “First play,” he says, voice low, “I’m running through Pau’s chest.”
Two minutes after tip-off, with Spain leading 5–4, Rudy Fernández drifts to the arc. Kobe tears across the floor from the weak side, but standing in that runway is Pau.
Kobe never swerves. Full sprint, he plants both hands into Pau’s chest and drives him backward, the seven-footer sliding as Rudy lets his shot fly. No Lakers courtesy, no friendship. Not today.
Five minutes in, Spain has seven turnovers already. Coach K sits Kobe with two fouls, also swapping in Wade.
LeBron finds Marc Gasol on him at the perimeter. One dribble, jab, step back. Net.
Dwight and LeBron also sit with two fouls, but Team U.S.A. shows it doesn’t have a second unit - it has a second gear. Wade brings it up with urgency, Reyes sprinting to hound him. Bosh sets a pick, Reyes smashes into it like concrete. Reyes crumples. Wade cuts, finds Deron, who swings to Melo. Catch, rise, splash. Four men in rhythm. D’Antoni claps Coach K’s back, grinning. Krzyzewski doesn’t move.
Next trip, Ricky Rubio probes, flips it to Jiménez, who tries a lob into Garbajosa. Chris Paul skies to intercept. One dribble, outlet to Bosh streaking the floor, who spins a 360 into the layup. Crowd detonation. Spain burns a timeout. The lead is 13 with 1:42 left in the first.
Second quarter, Jason Kidd brings it up, quickly sees the change. Spain shows zone. You can’t outrun the zone, but the ball can; keep it moving. Kidd swings to LeBron, quick pass to Kobe in the corner. He drives baseline, Pau backpedaling, Marc sliding over. Both Gasols collapse. Kobe kicks it back, LeBron touches, skips it across. Weak side. Tayshaun Prince alone. Shot pure.
Kobe turns, mean-mugs his approval. Prince nods once, already sprinting back on defense.
Spain comes up empty on their next set. LeBron grabs it, slings to Prince at half court. One dribble, then the return pass. LeBron cuts, hammering the rim. The ball touches wood once from basket to basket.
Halftime. The margin is heavy, Spain’s coaches searching clipboards for answers. The Redeem Team walks off without smiles, the plan unfolding exactly as drawn.
One minute into the third, Pau stands high at the key, searching. Rudy loops behind for the handoff, turns downhill.
But Kidd and Dwight close in like a vice. Rudy plants, rises, and before the ball clears his head Kidd rips it from behind. Midair, Rudy smashes into Dwight’s chest and folds.
Kidd lands clean, eyes up. One bounce, and the ball skips half the floor. Kobe is streaking. Catch, rise, slam. Jiménez trails late, swiping. Kobe lands, pats his head, glaring at the ref for missing the whistle. U.S.A. by 18.
Behind the play, Rudy is still on the floor. Teammates haul him upright, face tight. As he steadies, Kobe jogs back and pulls him into a quick one-armed hug. We’re competing, not hunting you.
It’s a nice moment. It’s also the moment the game is over.
Coach K sits alone with the box score, the final score etched at the top: U.S.A. 119, Spain 82. Navarro, “La Bomba,” held to 2-for-10. The defensive plan didn’t just hold — it smothered.
One line stands out more than the rest. Dwyane Wade, scarred and written off in Athens, was incandescent. Sixteen points in 19 minutes, every burst a jolt of energy, every steal and fast break a reminder that the Redeem Team had more than one assassin.
Coach K’s eyes narrow. Four fouls on Kobe in just sixteen minutes. Dwight with whistles early, LeBron the same. He circles the numbers. Tonight calls tilted their way. On another night, the balance could tip.
The buy-in is real, the fire undeniable. But fire without control burns you, too. The next step isn’t energy. It’s focus. Discipline.
August 22, 2008: Coaches’ Office. Wukesong Indoor Stadium, Beijing, China
The walls vibrate with drums. For the United States, it isn’t just another semifinal. It’s a reckoning. Four years earlier, Argentina carved the scar in Athens that still burns. Now the same core waits again, itching to press on the bruise. Behind the locker room door, the coaches huddle through their final prep.
D’Antoni caps his marker, restless. “Mike, I can run ’em through the sets one more time. Ten minutes tops.”
Coach K shakes his head. “They’re ready.”
Nate McMillan gathers his folder, gives a knowing glance, and the two assistants slip out. Door shuts. The arena’s low roar seeps in.
The the phone buzzes. Colangelo.
“Jerry.”
“Mike, I know you’re locked in, but hear me. These guys think they can beat us — because they have. That swagger doesn’t vanish. You can smell it the second they step on the floor.”
Coach K keeps his tone even. “It’s the semifinal, Jerry. We’ve been here before. We’re prepared.”
Jerry’s voice climbs. "God damn it, Mike, this IS the final. Get through Argentina and you’re home. This is the mountain. And it’s not just Manu — they’ve got Scola, Nocioni, Delfino, Oberto, Herrmann. Half a dozen NBA vets, two Spurs champs."
Coach K cuts in, firmer now. “We’ve got a different leader this time.”
Jerry presses, words tumbling. “That’s just it — Ginobili and Oberto sent his Lakers home in May. They’ve beaten us before, Mike. They know how.”
That’s when Coach K snaps, the West Point bark breaking through. “Enough. Different system. Different team. As for Kobe, he’s not carrying that loss — he’s carrying this team.” The line goes quiet.
Coach K breathes once, lowers his tone. “Trust the work.”
Colangelo exhales, a nervous chuckle. “Alright. Had to hear it.”
Coach K ends the call, straightens his jacket. The crowd outside swells. For a moment, he's convinced Jerry it can be different this time. Time to test whether the team believes too.
August 22, 2008: U.S.A. vs. Argentina, Olympic Semifinal. Wukesong Indoor Stadium, Beijing, China
The tip goes Team U.S.A.'s way. Jason Kidd running the offense to start, drops it to LeBron on the arc. LeBron swings left to Carmelo, who jabs, then shoves it inside to Dwight Howard. Dwight spins, tries a little floater, and it dies short off the rim.
But Kobe is already streaking. He crashes from the wing, snatches the rebound in traffic, and flips it back in before Argentina can react. Two points. Pure hustle.
Then a lull that lasts uncomfortably long, over which the two teams have combine to go two-for-nine. Every shot is contested, and the ones that aren’t are the ones the defense is happy to concede.
Five minutes to go in the first, Scola takes it high with Kobe crowding him. Fabricio Oberto, the 6’10” Spurs big man fresh off a title run, rumbles up to screen. As Kobe works around, Oberto shuffles to hold the angle — whistle. Illegal screen. Turnover. U.S. ball.
Chris Paul brings it over and swings to LeBron on the wing. Scola is glued to him. Bron surveys and spots Kobe drifting six feet behind the line, unbothered. The ball skips over. As it does, Chris Bosh slides across the arc and bodies Carlos Delfino — a 6'6" wing, recently with the Toronto Raptors — cutting off his angle to contest. The screen forces Oberto to come out to the perimeter, dragged into space where he doesn’t want to be.
As a shark smells blood, Kobe sees the center is too big to be this far from the basket, and sprints into a drive shoulder down. Oberto digs in and moves with him. On the right side of the rim Kobe rises. Oberto’s long legs keep him in the play, close enough to alter the shot. But Kobe hangs in the air in that way only a few legends ever could, waiting the extra beat until Oberto is falling back to earth as mere mortals do. Then he drops the teardrop clean through.
Out of a timeout, Kobe is in motion from the jump, sprinting a tight curl around a teammate’s screen, shaking his man just enough to pop free at the baseline. The pass arrives on time, in stride. Twenty feet out, right corner of the floor, Kobe rises smooth. The release is pure, net music.
The lull is gone. Team U.S.A. has a run on its hands, and Argentina knows it.
With 3:49 left, Manu Ginóbili slashes into the paint, ball tucked, eyes flicking over his right shoulder as he looks to dish. He jumps, twists, fires a pass — and lands hard into LeBron’s torso. But it’s not the contact that matters. It’s the landing. Feet splayed wrong, legs giving the wrong answer when they hit the floor.
Manu stumbles through a follow-through step or two, then drifts toward the sideline. The play moves on, whistle at the other end, but every American head turns to see Argentina’s trainers crouched beside their captain. He leans against the scorer’s table, answering questions he doesn’t want to hear, before they take his arms and walk him off.
Kobe has dragged the U.S. to this point. He knows better than to let his guard down now. The work isn't nearly done.
On the next trip, Scola is setting up the offense, Kobe applying the full court press; captain on captain, both wearing the number 10 of a leader. Scola lasers the ball to Delfino as he runs around a screen, who pulls up for a shot that clangs out, but Delfino sprints back on defense and draws a charge on Chris Paul.
Delfino takes the reins, bringing it up against Kobe’s pressure. Bryant crowds him the length of the floor. Kobe would play all but eight minutes of this game — and most of it chasing Carlos Delfino. Playmaker. Streak shooter. But more than anything, fast. Kobe wasn’t just logging minutes; he was running suicides in real time.
Chris Paul brings it up and swings it to Kobe who finds Deron Williams on the arc. Guarding him is Delfino, who reaches in to try and strip the ball and nearly gets it. Williams, rattled, dribbles to create space, then leaves his feet without a clear passing target, before flinging it toward Chris Paul on the wing. The pass sails high. Paul has to leap backward just to corral it, nearly stumbling out of bounds as Scola lays on pressure.
Chris realizes the shot clock is ticking close to zero and tries to throw the ball out of bounds off the shin of Scola. Scola somehow gets his leg out of the way, the ball bouncing into the backcourt where Delfino races it down. Kobe chases, but Delfino lays it in clean. Argentina’s run is alive. U.S.A.'s lead down to eight.
The whistle has been heavy. Coach K sits Bosh and Howard in early foul trouble. For the moment, Carmelo Anthony and Tayshaun Prince are the Team U.S.A. frontcourt.
Delfino gets the ball across halfcourt and drops it cleanly into Fabricio Oberto on the block, where Tayshaun Prince waits. Oberto leans in, backs him down, then spins into a jumper. It clangs off the far side of the rim, but Oberto’s footwork saves it. He hustles around, snags the rebound before stepping out, one quick dribble to square himself in front of the basket. A pump fake lifts Prince just enough, and Oberto goes up strong for the finish.
Back the other way, Chris Paul pushes into the halfcourt. Carmelo is blanketed inside, so Paul swings to Tayshaun Prince, then gets it back, unguarded at the arc. It’s the shot Argentina begs him to take. Paul rises, fires—clang. Closure will have to wait.
Delfino pushes hard again, running Kobe ragged, losing him as he curls around an Oberto screen at the top of the arc. Kobe is visibly gassed, but he looks at the clock, "46 seconds to halftime, just need to get the guys to the locker room. Twelve against nine. Numbers win wars. Sometimes you survive by winning ugly." Delfino's drive into the paint collapses the defense, and he finds Scola open in the post for the layup —lead down to six.
Chris Paul brings it up and finds Kobe with space on the right wing. Kobe doesn’t drive — not this time. He squares, rises, and lets the three fly. The look is good, but the shot rims out. He shakes it off. Right now, he needs the in the tank for defense.
Delfino slows it down, letting the clock drip under 24. Argentina holds the size edge, so he figures he can start the play when there are 10 seconds left in the half; if his shot doesn't go in, the offensive rebound is a worthy gamble, thanks to the unorthodox Melo/Prince frontcourt. Chris Paul mans up with Delfino for the play, hands holding onto his shorts while the clock ticks down. Delfino makes his move, and rises up for a pull up three. Long.
The bounce is lucky, sails out to where Deron Williams can secure it, quickly finding his outlet target; Kobe, already in full flight, streaking down the court with energy he summoned from God knows where. The crowd rises for the finish they came to see. Last dribble, plant, the ball rising into Kobe's gather — and then it’s gone. Roman González, a name Kobe only learned this week, reaches in and rips it clean before the shot even exists. 3 seconds left in the half.
Coach K draws up the last play. Chris inbounds the ball looking for Kobe or Melo to be open. Neither break free by much, but the margin goes to Melo, who's at the top of the arc, with Oberto reluctant to come all the way out while Prince is a threat. Chris gets the pass to Melo cleanly, who rises into the three pointer -- only to have the shot swatted from the flank by Argentina's backup center, Juan Gutierrez. Whistle. Three shots.
Melo sinks all three. Halftime: U.S.A. 49, Argentina 40. It’s a nine-point lead on the board, but it feels smaller. Momentum is a fickle mistress, and the game was ugly. "Could be worse," Kobe thinks as he walks to the locker room. "The refs blew that call on Melo. The block was clean."
The war of attrition continues in the second half. Team U.S.A. looks rejuvenated with Bosh and Howard back to patrolling the paint. A little at a time, Team U.S.A. rebuilds their prior lead.
Seven minutes left in the 3rd, Melo’s three rims out. Dwight skies, rips the board between Nocioni and Scola, takes arms to the face. Whistle. Melo charges in, but Kidd slides between, steering him clear of an ejection. A veteran move, not allowing the unforced error.
Entering the fourth quarter, Oberto has fouled out. The attrition comes faster for Argentina now. 9:22 remains, Team U.S.A. up fifteen now. Kidd in transition finds James at the top of the arc. Pull up three... is good! Finally, an open dagger finds net, as if the basketball gods are smiling down on a team that hasn't yet given up on team basketball.
A play later, Kidd pushes, decides to test LeBron's hand - was he hot? Or was it a mirage? Snap pass finds James at the arc again. No hesitation; high-arcing shot splashes. U.S.A. by eighteen, wind at their backs.
Final score: U.S.A. 101, Argentina 81. Kobe lingers near the tunnel, watching Carmelo give his postgame interview. The press wants a hero, and Melo is the closest fit: perfect on thirteen free throws, just three-for-fourteen from the field. "We've got to play better than we did tonight," Anthony says. "I'm not saying we played bad, but we need to play better."
Kobe knows he’ll feel this one in his bones tomorrow. He’s not thinking about that. He’s thinking about cracks in their defense, about Coach K snapping at McMillan to get the communication right; a rare glimpse of strain from the general. The whistles tilted their way in the end, but he knows better than count on luck in next game’s final.
Spain will have studied every possession. They'll have seen the zones, the cracks, the lead shrink in minutes. They won’t carry Athens. They’ll come with hunger, and nothing to lose.
August 24, 2008: Team U.S.A. Locker Room. Wukesong Indoor Stadium, Beijing, China
Wade leans back against the wall, resistance band tight around his ankle, sweat running down his face. Melo shakes his head.
“Grover says you’ve got to be smart, man. Wrap it up early — Coach wants everybody in the film room.”
“I’ll be done when the work is. Don’t worry. I’ll make it.” He glances up. “Wait, what film session?”
Kobe sits at his locker, pulling tape tight around his fingers. “This can’t be Argentina again. Can’t torch myself doing it all in the first half. Not in a game like this, no. I’m going to need to have it when it matters, when the shooting gets tight late.”
He runs the roster through his head. LeBron carving space like a man too big for the court they built. Carmelo, calm for once, face unreadable as he locks in. Wade twitching with energy, a fuse sparking every time he touches the ball. Bosh taking the body shots, refusing to back away.
If he feeds them early, puts them in positions to do what they do, keeps them involved and confident… when the fourth quarter hits, he’ll be standing with the fire to finish.
On the way to the film room, Coach K catches up with Jason. They both slow their steps, voices low. Kobe, a stride behind, hears the exchange.
"They’re missing Calderón, so Rubio’s going to have to carry almost the whole game,” Krzyzewski murmurs. “I’ll start you, Jason, steady the group early. But when his minutes pile up, I’ll need Chris to raise the tempo. It’s one thing to run the offense; it’s another to keep pace with young legs for forty minutes. That’s how we wear him down. You good with that?”
Kidd gives the barest nod. “Whatever wins.”
No fight, no ego. Just a Hall of Famer agreeing to be the steady piece that turns Spain’s scouting into blank paper. If that means being the sacrifice in the chess match, he takes it.
They file into the film room. Coach K stands at the front, the projector dark behind him.
“You know the plays. You trust each other. You’ve got the tools. But a closeout game is about mindset.”
“Some of you were there in Vegas when Doug Collins spoke. He was nineteen in Munich, 1972, when the U.S. faces the Soviets in the gold medal game. Cold War on the floor. First loss our men ever take in Olympic basketball, thanks to officiating so questionable that the players still haven’t accepted their silver medals to this day. I want you to remember Doug’s closing message.”
He clicks the remote. Despite decades as a TV personality, it is clear that the Doug Collins on this screen is sharing a story that is not easy to tell, his brow furrowed between the silver on his temples.
“So then we get to my last possession of the tournament. We’re down one, three seconds left. I steal it, get hammered into the basket support. Think my chest is caved in. Trainers have to help me up. I drag myself to the line, hit both. U.S.A. up one. Storybook ending.”
“But they run the inbound, blow the whistle. Say the clock isn’t set. Try it again, horn sounds, we celebrate — they take it away. Say do it over due to a clock problem. Third time, they throw it the length of the floor. Their guy catches, lays it in. Fifty-one to fifty. Gold gone.”
“Nothing is a sure thing. You think you’ve won, you haven’t — not until the horn says so. You bury them, don’t give the refs a chance to decide the game. Don’t leave here wishing you had one more chance. You won’t get it. Believe me…”
He pauses, voice tightening. “And one last thing. Be ready to play ugly. Fifty-one to fifty wins gold, too. Be ready not for the beautiful game, but for a rock fight. Whatever it takes.”
The tape clicks off, but the weight doesn’t leave the room. Collins has carried Munich like a scar for thirty-six years. Now it sits on their shoulders. Coach K breaks the silence.
“No one fights alone tonight. Cover for each other. Talk to each other. That’s how we win.”
The shuffle begins toward the tunnel, sneakers squeaking on tile, voices rising into a swell as they enter the light.
August 24, 2008: U.S.A. vs. Spain, Olympic Gold Medal Game. Wukesong Indoor Stadium, Beijing, China
The ref bounce-passes the ball back to Chris Bosh at the line. Kobe drops onto the bench beside LeBron, eyes flicking up at the scoreboard: U.S.A. 21, Spain 22, 3:44 left in the first.
LeBron grins, shaking his head.
“So what happened to our rock fight, man?”
He’s not wrong. Through seven minutes it’s been nothing but haymakers, both sides throwing fireballs. Spain hitting at seventy percent, the U.S. matching them shot for shot. Nothing clanks, nothing dies on the rim. Spain comes at them like men who’ve already felt the worst and no longer care about the fall.
Bosh sets his feet, three dribbles, collect, eyes up, release. Net. Tie game.
Spain inbounds to Berni Rodríguez. Looking ahead, he eyes Pau streaking, and tries to thread him a lead pass. Too long. From the frontcourt, Dwight explodes into the lane, stretches to poke it loose, then runs it down himself. One gather, two strides, and he detonates the slam.
Rubio walks it up, calm at the top. Garbajosa curls around a screen, hands ready. Rubio threads it to him in stride. The three splashes clean, and Spain cuts the U.S. lead to one.
A play later Spain inbounds to Mumbrú on the wing. McMillan’s voice cuts through: “Chris, get your hands up!”
Bosh closes, arms high. Mumbrú rises, sees nothing, and kicks it out. Ball swings to Garbajosa. He drives, pulls up, but Prince’s reach crowds the look. Front rim. Bosh flies in, taps it loose, the ball spills into the lane — Deron snatches and runs, finding Wade who draws a foul. Makes both.
Mumbrú takes it strong this time, knifes into the paint. He threads a wraparound pass that splits the defense clean, right into the hands of Marc Gasol thundering down the lane.
Marc goes up, all weight and length, meeting Bosh head-on. Plenty of contact, but Marc muscles the ball through for two; no whistle.
Back the other way, Bosh swings it to Wade on the wing. Berni Rodríguez crowds him, chest to chest, arm flashing too high — catches Wade across the face. Another two shots, both good.
Ten seconds left in the first. Bosh looks to Wade again. Berni Rodríguez sags, just an inch of space after their last collision. Wade rises behind the arc — clean release, clean net. Three more. U.S. by seven.
Eight seconds. Garbajosa rushes the inbound, sprints the length of the floor. At half court Wade pounces, picks him clean. He pushes, full stride, racing the clock. The horn beats him to the rim, but he’s sprawled on the hardwood with no regrets. Everything left on the floor.
Wade jogs off, nose sore, chest heaving. Kobe rises from the scorer’s table.
As they cross paths, Kobe slaps his hand and mutters, “Way to give ’em hell, young gun.”
Eight minutes left in the half. Kidd brings it up, Kobe curling behind for the handoff. He takes it and drives hard at Rudy Fernández, beats him clean. Marc Gasol waits in the paint, wide frame planted, and Pau slides down from the corner to trap. Kobe barrels straight at Marc, puts his back into him, seals the contact. As Pau closes, Kobe whips the ball past his arm into the corner. Melo catches alone. Rise. Splash. Three more. U.S.A. by thirteen.
Spain isn’t done yet; Rudy answers with a deep three from the wing, smooth release over the closeout. Net.
Going the other way, Kobe beats his man clean, lane open. As he slashes into the paint, Carlos Jiménez grabs his elbow, ball squirts loose — no whistle.
Spain turns and runs. Rudy pushes hard, LeBron meets him at the rim, contact. Whistle this time. Rudy at the line. Two shots, both good. The lead tightens to eight.
Next trip, Kidd reaches on Felipe Reyes, whistle blows. Coach K motions him out, Chris Paul in.
On the inbound, Melo and Carlos Jiménez collide, whistle again, this one on the U.S.A. Melo throws his hands up, jawing at the ref as he heads to the bench: “Man, he ran into me!” Wade checks in.
Spain's next set finds Pau in the paint, pulling up for a hook shot. Howard meets him chest to chest; miss. Dwight snatches the rebound, flicks a pass to Chris Paul. Chris looks downcourt and sees Kobe already streaking. One perfect pass covers three-quarters of the floor in the air. Kobe’s there, rising, catching mid-flight. Clean alley-oop finish.
Wade sets up at the top of the arc. Jab step — Mumbrú flinches. Wade rises, gets hit by him on the fly-by, but no whistle. He pulls it back, swings to Chris Paul from mid-air. Chris flicks it to back to Wade just before being run over by Alex Mumbrú, sending Chris to the floor. No whistle. Ball skips to Williams in the corner. Mumbrú sprints to close, forgetting that Chris is sprawled underfoot — kicks him square in the legs, spins him around. No whistle. As Chris gets back to his feet, Berni Rodríguez runs past Paul, shoves him in the back with an elbow, nearly sends him down again. At last, a foul gets called on Spain.
Paul gets up slow, heads to the line. Eyes locked on Berni, words exchanged. He makes both, pushes the lead to eight. The horn follows.
Chris is still jawing at the ref, while across the floor Mumbrú is bent in another official’s ear. Kobe watches, jaw tight. Collins’s warning echoes now — “don’t give the officials a chance to decide it.”
Halftime in Beijing. U.S.A. 61, Spain 53.
Third quarter grinds the same tune. Every whistle feels heavy, every no-call heavier.
Kobe takes a hard hit on a drive, bobbles, still rises and hammers it home. Instead of an and-one, they slap him with a travel. He sits against the baseline padding, grinning at the refs: What do I gotta do to get a call?
Wade sparks with a few buckets, but the separation never comes. Despite the lopsided whistle, the game stays electric — both sides trading haymakers, shooting near sixty percent.
Final seconds of the third, Navarro slips inside, lifts a floater, soft and clean. Horn.
U.S.A. 91, Spain 82. At one point in the quarter Spain had cut the lead down to four. Team U.S.A. can't seem to pull away.
Forty seconds into the fourth. Spain inbounds to Pau, Navarro curling behind for the handoff. Kobe chases, tight on his hip. Navarro pulls up for three — looks open until Kobe flashes across and clips it. Ball dies short.
Spain runs. Rudy pushes hard, eyes up, and floats a perfect alley-oop to Pau slicing the lane. Pau hammers it down with both hands, the arena detonates.
This is the same Spain that got blown out in prelims. Their own fans hadn’t dared believe. But now, watching Pau roar, the crowd shifts -- getting louder, rising to their feet. They've begun to hope; the U.S. lead is down to five.
LeBron runs the set, whips a cross-court dart. Melo catches, space on the wing. He rises, smooth release — Pau lunges out, a step late. Clips Melo on the arm, shot rims out, refs let them play through.
Spain doesn’t even bother to set. Rudy takes it himself, pulls up from deep. Net, clean. He turns, waving his arms, pulling the crowd with him — get into it! The arena surges to its feet. Eight minutes left in the game, Team U.S.A.'s lead is just two; timeout.
On the sideline, Coach K confers quick with D’Antoni and McMillan, nods, grabs his clipboard. He turns toward the huddle ready to speak — but inside, Kobe, Wade and the others are already locked in, voices low but firm.
Kobe looks up. “Coach. We got this.”
K freezes, clipboard still in hand. They’re prepared. They’re ready for this moment. He gives a small nod and lets the huddle stay theirs.
Off the pass from Wade, Kobe squares, Rudy in front, Pau sliding over to trap. He drives between them, slips past Pau, pulls up from eight. Rudy still draped on him, arm smacks through the release. No whistle. Ball drops clean. Two points anyway.
Spain runs a set for Rudy, who gets a decent look at a three pointer, but it rims out long to LeBron, who pushes in transition, whipping it ahead to Kobe. Spain swarms, three defenders converge. Kobe doesn’t force it — he skips it out to Deron Williams waiting at the arc. Net snaps for three.
Spain again runs their offense through Rudy, who answers with another triple.
Deron runs the set, probes into the paint. He splits Rubio and Reyes, both reaching. Rudy drops off Kobe to plug the lane, last line of defense. That’s the opening. Deron whips it back out — Kobe, wide-open at the arc. Catch, rise, splash. Three more.
Moments later, Bosh is chasing Pau off the ball. Marc Gasol slides over to screen, but instead sends a forearm shiver that sends Bosh sprawling. No whistle. Ball gets whipped over to Pau, who pulls up right over Bosh's body on the floor, smooth jumper drops. U.S. lead is back down to five, the crowd swelling louder.
3:15 to go. Chris brings it up, eyes darting. First look to Wade. Wade takes it, dribbles into traffic. Sees Kobe, kicks it out. Rudy’s there, ready. Kobe swings it right back.
Wade shifts gears, beats Navarro on a drive. Marc and Rudy collapse hard to seal the lane. Wade rises like he’s going to float it — then whips the ball crosscourt.
Kobe waits in space. Rudy has to close out from the wrong side of the paint, late. Kobe steadies, gathers, pulls. As the dagger falls, Rudy is whistled for contact. Four point play.
Kobe lands, finger to lips. Shhh.
And then the swell. Paul, Wade, Bosh, and James are on him instantly, pulling Kobe in, arms slapping his back, shouting over each other. The core, all five together on the floor.
On the sideline, Coach K had been the only one standing before the shot. When it drops, even he breaks — hands clapping hard, grin split wide. Behind him, Melo, Kidd, and Deron rise up, both fists skyward. They know the moment, too.
Fernández stares at the ref, disbelieving — fifth foul. He walks to the bench, jersey tugged up over his mouth.
Spain mounts one last push, carving the lead to four. But Wade buries the answer — a three straight through the heart. Kobe and Wade, twin daggers to finish it.
Final horn. U.S.A. 118, Spain 107.
Kobe looks around at his teammates as they receive their gold medals. The doubts that chased them into Beijing? All answered now.
LeBron, second on the team in assists, proved he could be more than a scorer.
Wade overcame his injuries to lead Team U.S.A. in scoring, anchoring the second unit’s attack.
Melo was the rock — old reliable, knocking down the open ones and cashing in at the stripe.
Bosh matched Dwight on boards and blocks, scored more efficiently, and did it all with half the fouls.
Kidd was the selfless stabilizer — the team’s best rebounder at guard, setting the table while CP and Deron dazzled. Exactly what a vet was supposed to be.
Deron and CP3 made the experiment work, sharing the wheel instead of fighting over it, with identical scoring averages.
By the tunnel, Doug Collins sheds tears of joy, as he receives a redemption of his own. The players drape their medals around his neck, load his arms with flowers. The scar from ’72 eased by a team that wouldn’t let history repeat.
Kobe looks up to see Vanessa being helped down from the stands, Natalia on her hip, Gianna in her arms. His Redeem Team task is complete. Another, greater one is waiting: being the leader those two little girls will look up to.
So how does one lead a room full of leaders? Kobe answered it across this run. In a game few were watching, he dove first on the floor in Vegas, shutting down the tournament's best scorer to 1-of-7. He was the shadow in the pre-dawn gym, daring anyone else to match his effort. He lowered his shoulder into Pau, made clear whose side he was on. He steadied the team when Argentina threatened. In the gold medal game he poured in thirteen in the fourth — and when Spain closed in, he stopped Coach K in his tracks and said “We got this.”
That was his genius: he turned himself into what his team required, no more, no less.
They carried Doug Collins to center court that night, draped him in medals and flowers. The ghosts of Munich finally eased, if never erased. And I’ve thought about that moment as I’ve written this.
Because the truth is, this piece is the closest I’ll come to doing the same for Kobe. During his life, I never gave him his flowers. I grew up in Chicago in the nineties, baptized in Jordan’s gospel, and I treated every “Next MJ” as a pretender. When I came west and Kobe’s name was the one being whispered, I closed ranks. I critiqued, I minimized, I used his lowest moments to confirm what I wanted to believe: that the throne was still occupied, and Kobe was unworthy of it.
But Beijing proved me wrong. He showed us what leadership looks like when even leaders need to be led. He carried the Redeem Team the way Doug once carried ’72’s grief — only Kobe’s answer was fire, not sorrow.
So let this stand as my belated bouquet. Kobe, I see it now. I’m sorry. These are your flowers.
Author’s Note
This piece was built on the shoulders of two excellent sources I’m grateful for and would encourage you to seek out yourself:
The Redeem Team documentary (Netflix, 2022)
Return of the Gold: The Journey of USA Basketball by Mike Krzyzewski, Jim Boeheim, Mike D’Antoni, and Jerry Colangelo
Where transcripts, footage, or reporting exist, I’ve leaned on them closely. Where the record was silent — especially in moments of private conversation — I’ve taken liberties to reconstruct dialogue in a way that fits the tone and truth of the moment. Those flourishes are narrative choices, not verbatim transcripts. And let’s face it — if you’re relying on 120 Proof Ball as a historical source, we’ve both made mistakes.
Todd / 120 Proof Ball
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