“We Got This”: Kobe Bryant and the Redeem Team
Sometimes we write so someone else can read it — 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.
This is one of those.
Hey, I’m being rude. Sit down, grab a drink. There’s something I’ve been trying to figure out:
How does one lead a team of leaders?
It’s not a casual question. Leadership, once you’ve tasted it, becomes part of who you are. People defer to you, hang on your words, wait for your cue — you grow accustomed to the gravity. You build your life around being the one others follow. The longer you live it, 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 speech or slogan could’ve cracked it. Too many cooks in the kitchen.
But the answer isn’t always to talk through a problem. Sometimes, you just cook.
First on the Floor
“The sting will fade by morning. The standard can’t.”
August 26, 2007: USA 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 running three-pointer 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. One dive doesn’t rescue a program. The sting will fade by morning. The standard can’t. the job had only just begun.
And how it began — that’s 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, and USA Basketball's managing director making the pitch for everything to come.
Recruitment
“Put me in the room”
June 2007: Recruitment Meeting at Kobe’s Home. Newport Coast, California
The house smells faintly of pasta — dinner’s over, plates still on the counter, Natalia’s toys scattered across the rug. Kobe scoops one into a basket with his foot as he leads Jerry Colangelo from the living room toward the table, where two glasses of red are already waiting.
Jerry Colangelo, managing director of USA 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.”
The sports section had been tracking Jerry on his tour. This was just the latest stop — much of the Athens squad already signed on. LeBron, Wade, and Melo would be the core. Coach K was back at the helm.
Colangelo rolls his cufflinks between his fingers. “I’ve already spoken to Shaq. He’s leaning no. Says it’s not the right time — wants to get right before camp.”
“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, decides to poke. “What if I said we just want you to pass the ball?”
Kobe holds his stare. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
He glances at the rug where Natalia is stacking blocks. He crouches beside her. “Daddy might have to go away for a little while to handle this,” he says softly. “You gonna let me?”
She knocks the tower over and giggles. Kobe grins — just for a beat — then stands and considers Jerry. He runs the roster in his mind. Melo, LeBron — two who'd worn the bronze already. LeBron was still a teenager in Athens — quick to score, slower to steer. Now he passed like a guard. That evolution, Kobe could use.
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.
“Jason Kidd — he returning?”
“Kidd got us gold in 2000. Then, when I was running the Suns, I traded him for Marbury — Marbury ran point when we settled for bronze in Athens. At thirty-five, Kidd wants to prove he can carry the torch again.”
“That says something, Jerry.” 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?”
“Tougher than they think. Sure, Dwight gives you dunks, but Bosh gives you backbone. 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. How do you cut through that?”
“The one who plugs the holes. You don’t pick the role ahead of time — the game tells you. When it does, I’ll be there.”
Culture Reset
“Integrity is what you do when nobody’s watching.”
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.
Kobe smirks, thinking back to the Wynn lobby an hour earlier — Melo and Dwight drifting in from the night, jackets loose, Vegas in their posture, staring at him laced up and headed the other way. The gym doesn’t care where you’ve been; it only answers the question: what are you building?
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 — Dwight grinning as he thumbs a reply on his phone, Wade slouched with headphones half-on, LeBron stretched long across two rows. Jason Kidd sits near the middle, paperback balanced on his knee, eyes flicking line to line.
At the front, assistant coaches Mike D’Antoni and Nate McMillan fill the quiet with talk of golf. They swap bad lies and worse putts, the conversation drifting like the hum of tires, part of the white noise of the ride.
It’s Melo who breaks the stillness. He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice carrying down the aisle as he engages the team captain. “The thing I’m tryna figure out is… you skipped Athens, skipped ’06. What changed that you’re joining up for Beijing?”
The words hang in the air, heavier than they should be. Kobe catches his gaze.
“I’m tired of watching y’all lose.”
Kobe wasn’t alone. The days of 1992’s Dream Team — MJ and Bird never trailing and winning by thirty a night — are history now. The world had caught up — international programs maturing, carving out their own identity.
Team USA had been made mortal. In 2000, Lithuania twice nearly stole gold in Sydney, its journeymen elevated by intelligent coaching and the trust that comes from playing together.
Athens was the collapse — losing the opener to Puerto Rico, another loss to Lithuania, Manu Ginóbili sealing the deal that sent them home with bronze.
The bottom falls out in Japan’s 2006 FIBA Championship: Greece shreds them with pick-and-rolls in the semifinal. Team USA is left to watch the gold medal game from the sideline as that same Greek squad manages just forty-seven points in a blowout.
From Dream to Disgrace.
The Prelim
“First play—I’m running through Pau’s chest.”
August 15, 2008: Team USA 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: USA 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 USA, 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 across hardwood, whistle sounding. No Lakers courtesy, not today. Looking up at Kobe from the floor, Gasol can only laugh at himself for expecting any other outcome.
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 USA 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. Coach K 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.
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, Rudy loops behind Pau at the top of the key for the handoff, turns downhill. 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. USA 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: USA 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.
The Semi
“Survive ugly. Twelve of us, nine of them.”
August 22, 2008: Team USA Locker Room. Wukesong Indoor Stadium, Beijing, China
The door is cracked.
Kobe moves down the corridor toward the locker room, the drums from the arena muffled in concrete. From inside the coaches’ office, Jerry’s voice slices out:
“Semifinal?! God damn it, Mike, this is the final. Half a dozen NBA vets, two Spurs champs, and they’ve beaten us before!”
Coach K’s reply is a bark, sharper than Kobe’s ever heard. “Jerry, enough! I know the scar. Let me coach the damn game.”
Kobe keeps walking, face blank. He won’t betray he’s heard it. But he has. The nerves belong to everyone tonight.
August 22, 2008: USA. vs. Argentina, Olympic Semifinal. Wukesong Indoor Stadium, Beijing, China
From the opening tip, both sides are trying to plant a flag. Dwight spins into a floater that dies off the rim, but Kobe is already streaking, crashing from the wing. He snatches the rebound in traffic, flips it back in before Argentina can react. A clean start, but it doesn’t last.
The game sinks into mud — two-for-nine across the next stretch, bodies leaning on every cut, arms smothering every jumper. Even the clean looks carry nerves. Jason Kidd steps into an open three; the ball is wrong before it leaves his hand.
Kobe watches it clank. If I don’t put points on the board, we don’t win this.
With five minutes left, Chris Bosh screens Delfino, forcing Oberto out of the paint. Kobe lowers his shoulder, drives. Oberto is long, balanced, close enough to bother. But Kobe hangs, suspending himself as Oberto falls back to earth, dropping the teardrop clean. The next trip he rises for a twenty-footer and buries it, legs heavy but stroke pure.
Then Manu drives. He twists mid-air to sling a pass, but when he lands his feet betray him. The trainers rush in. Argentina’s captain is done. The US exhales too fast, mistaking pain for relief.
The whistle tightens in the second quarter. Howard and Bosh strapped with fouls, the frontcourt shrinks to Carmelo and Prince. Argentina’s confidence builds, and when they find a tender spot they press on it. Oberto bullies Prince, misses once, grabs his own board, finishes anyway.
Chris Paul clangs a three, Delfino sprints the other way. Kobe chases, but every curl off an Oberto screen is another suicide run. His chest burns, his legs drag. He glances at the clock: forty-six seconds. Just get us to halftime. Twelve of us, nine of them. Survive ugly. Delfino collapses the defense, slips it to Scola, and the layup cuts it to six.
Halftime: USA 49, Argentina 40. Kobe doesn’t limp, doesn’t sag, but the cost shows in his choices — two-for-nine from deep, settling for jumpers because there isn’t energy left to slash. He’s played almost every minute, spent himself to keep the margin.
The second half continues the war of attrition, but the US has the advantage in soldiers. Howard and Bosh return, applying pressure in the paint and clearing crucial rebounds. The whistles even out.
Things get chippy. Nocioni smashes Dwight, Melo bristles, heading in to escalate — and Kidd slides between them; a veteran’s hand on the shoulder to keep the lid on. In the fourth, Oberto fouls out, and LeBron finally buries back-to-back threes that end the argument.
Final: USA 101, Argentina 81. Melo takes the interview, perfect on thirteen free throws, three-for-fourteen otherwise. The press calls him the hero.
Kobe lingers near the tunnel. He’s not thinking about Melo. He’s replaying the cracks — the offense that almost collapsed against the zone, the lead that shrank in minutes. Spain will have watched every possession. They’ll come with hunger, and nothing to lose.
Gold
“Coach. We got this.”
August 24, 2008: Team USA 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.”
Kobe sits at his locker, pulling tape tight around his fingers. This can’t be Argentina again. I’m going to need to have it in the clutch. He runs the roster through his head — LeBron carving space, Melo calm for once, Wade twitching with energy, Bosh taking the body shots. If he feeds them early, keeps them engaged… when the fourth quarter hits, he’ll be standing with the fire to finish.
Outside, Coach K briefs Jason Kidd. “They’re missing Calderón, so Rubio’s going to have to carry almost the whole game. I’ll start you, steady the group early, then Paul raises the tempo. You good with that?”
Kidd nods. “Whatever wins.” No ego. Just purpose.
In the film room, Coach K addresses his men ahead of the final battle. “You know the plays. You trust each other. 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 US faced 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.
“We’re down one, three seconds left. I steal it, get hammered into the basket support. Think my chest is caved in. Trainers help me up. I drag myself to the line — hit both. USA up one. Storybook ending, right?”
“But they run the inbound again. Horn. We celebrate. They take it away. Do it again. Third time, full-court pass, layup. Our gold medals are gone.”
He breathes out, that old wound still hot.
“Nothing’s 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 it. Be ready for a rock fight. Fifty-one to fifty wins gold too; be ready to play ugly.”
Coach K clicks the tape off. “No one fights alone tonight. Cover for each other.”
They file toward the light.
August 24, 2008: USA 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: USA 21, Spain 22, 3:44 left in the first. LeBron grins, shaking his head.
“So what happened to our rock fight, man?”
Through seven minutes it’s been nothing but haymakers, both sides throwing fireballs. Spain hitting at seventy percent, the US matching them shot for shot. 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 goes two for two — tie game. Spain inbounds to Berni Rodríguez. Looking ahead, he eyes Pau streaking, and tries to thread him a lead pass. Too long — 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 finds home and Spain cuts the US 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.
On the US’s next posession, Wade finds himself guarded by Berni again at the arc. This time, he’s giving a bit more space, to avoid picking up another foul. Too much space. Wade rises and fires — the three doesn’t touch iron as it falls through. US by seven.
With eight seconds left in the quarter, Garbajosa collects the inbound and 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.”
USA 38, Spain 31.
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. USA 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.
The lead tightens to eight on two free throws from Rudy after LeBron picks up a whistle meeting him at the rim.
Kidd reaches on Felipe Reyes, another foul. Coach K motions him out, Chris Paul in.
Melo and Carlos Jiménez collide, with Carmelo being called for the contact. Throwing his hands up, he jaws 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. Kobe catches mid-flight for the alley-oop finish.
Things start to get wild — Chris Paul snaps the ball to Wade just before being run over by Mumbrú’s close-out. No whistle despite Chris being laid out. 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, 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 — “don’t give the officials a chance to decide it.”
Halftime in Beijing. USA 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. Despite the lopsided whistle, the game stays electric — both sides trading haymakers, still shooting near sixty percent.
Final seconds of the third, Navarro slips inside, lifts a floater, soft and clean. Horn.
USA 91, Spain 82. Team USA can't seem to pull away; at one point in the quarter Spain had cut the lead down to four.
Forty seconds into the fourth, Navarro comes around Pau’s screen, rises for a three — and Kobe somehow erases the shot from behind. But the ball, and the momentum, are still up for grabs. Reyes fights for the offensive board, floats an alley-oop to Pau. The arena detonates as Pau hammers it down with both hands.
This is the same Spain that got blown out in prelims. Their own fans hadn’t dared believe. But now, watching Pau roar — they’re getting louder, rising to their feet. USA’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. Team USA’s lead is just two — timeout with eight minutes to go.
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 ready for this. He gives a small nod.
Off the pass from Wade, Kobe squares, Rudy in front, Pau sliding over to trap. He splits them and pulls up for a short jumper. Rudy’s arm smacks through the release. No whistle, but the shot counts for two anyways; clean.
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. As the last line of defense, Rudy sags off Kobe to plug the lane. Deron punishes them for getting beaten on the drive, finding Kobe wide-open at the arc. Count it for three.
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. US 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. Kobe steadies, gathers, pulls. As the dagger falls, Rudy is whistled for contact. Four point play.
As Kobe lands, he glares at the crowd, 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, together on the floor for the moment that decided it.
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.
Rudy 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 them — a three straight through the heart. Kobe and Wade, twin daggers to finish it.
Final horn. USA 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 USA 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 with half the fouls.
Kidd was the selfless stabilizer — the team’s best rebounder at guard, setting the table while CP and Deron dazzled.
Deron and CP3 shared the ball instead of fighting over it, with identical scoring averages.
By the tunnel, Doug Collins sheds tears of joy, receiving 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 waits: being the leader those two little girls will look up to.
So how does one lead a team 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. When Argentina threatened and the team’s scoring got tight, he put them on his back for a half. In the gold medal game he poured in thirteen in the fourth. When Spain closed in, Kobe stopped Coach K in his tracks: “We got this.”
His genius was simple — to turn 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.
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. I treated every “Next MJ” as a pretender. When I moved west and Kobe’s name was the one being whispered, I closed ranks. I critiqued, I minimized, 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 proves me wrong. He showed us what leadership looks like when even leaders need to be led.
So let this stand as my belated bouquet. Kobe, I see it now. I’m sorry.
These are your flowers.
Todd / 120 Proof Ball
If you liked this piece, you’re part of the problem.
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.
