Chapter 247: CH : 237 Bullfight With Kobe Bryant
Chapter 247: CH : 237 Bullfight With Kobe Bryant
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*****
"Shaq, you idiot, stop holding the ball and tell us!" shouted a heckler wearing a Timberwolves jersey.
"Shut up! Don’t you disrespect the big man!" a Lakers faithful fired back.
"Mind your own business!"
The brief, good-natured hostility rippled through the stands, creating a chaotic hum. But before any arguments broke out over the spilled popcorn, O’Neal brought the microphone back to his lips, his timing impeccable.
"Our little Oscar winner, right over there," Shaq announced, pointing a long arm toward Marvin, who remained seated with perfect composure. "He just composed a brand new song, right on the spot. And he says it was inspired by my little brother Kobe’s dunk!"
The revelation sent a shockwave through the Staples Center. The audience, both the twenty thousand fans in the seats and the millions watching the broadcast at home, erupted into a frenzy of cheers and excited chatter.
Inspiration striking in the middle of a fast break? A hit song written on the back of a bank check while the shot clock ran? It sounded like an urban myth, a piece of Hollywood folklore unfolding live on television.
Up in the TNT booth, the executive producer’s voice crackled frantically in the headsets of the commentators. *"Chuck, Kenny, listen to me. The real-time ratings detector is going crazy. We are spiking. Intermissions always drop, but we are climbing straight up. Ask the kid if he can sing it. Get him on a mic. Now!"*
Barkley pressed his earpiece, his eyes wide.
He knew television. If Marvin Meyers created a classic song right here—or even just a passable melody—this regular-season broadcast would instantly become a piece of pop culture history.
---
Far away from the noise of the arena, inside a sprawling, opulent mansion in Beverly Hills, Lakers owner Jerry Buss leaped up from his leather recliner. His heart raced, his sharp business instincts flaring to life. He saw beyond the novelty; he saw the ultimate branding opportunity.
He snatched the telephone from its cradle and dialed a direct line to the arena.
"Jerry," Buss said the moment the call connected to Jerry West, the Lakers’ legendary general manager sitting in an executive suite above the court. "You are looking at the same thing I am. Find that boy’s representation immediately. Tell his agent the Lakers organization wants the exclusive rights to that song. I don’t care what the price tag is. Secure it."
"Understood," Jerry West replied, his eyes locked on the commotion below. "I’ll make the call right now."
West operated as a brilliant strategist. He understood the amount of free publicity, cultural cachet, and mainstream traffic this event would bring to the franchise. If the song became a hit, forever tying the Lakers and a young Kobe Bryant to Marvin’s rising star, the merchandising and marketing value would skyrocket.
But Buss and West were not the only executives whose eyes had turned into dollar signs.
---
In his New York office, NBA Commissioner David Stern watched the West Coast feed.
The shrewd, visionary leader of the league recognized a golden ticket.
The NBA always looked for ways to bridge the gap between sports and global pop culture.
Stern pressed the intercom button on his desk.
"Get my chief marketing officer on the line. Then track down Marvin Meyers’ agency. I want that song for our upcoming playoff promos. The one he just wrote on the floor. I want it as the official anthem of the NBA season."
---
Across the country, inside the sleek, glass-walled CAA headquarters in Los Angeles, an exhausted Jeff Raymond worked late. He nursed a lukewarm coffee.
His desk phone rang. He picked it up and rubbed his tired eyes.
"Jeff Raymond speaking."
"Jeff, this is Jerry West with the Los Angeles Lakers."
Jeff blinked and sat up straighter. "Mr. West. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"We want to discuss purchasing the rights to the song Marvin composed on our court."
Jeff’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion. ’Wait. Marvin went to a basketball game tonight? He composed a song? Live?’
"I... see," Jeff stalled. His mind raced to catch up. "Let me review the situation and get right back to you, Jerry."
He hung up the receiver. His hand hovered over the keypad, ready to dial Marvin’s mobile number. Instead, he grabbed the remote control and flicked on the television mounted on his office wall. He flipped rapidly to the TNT sports channel.
The screen flickered to life. It displayed the sweaty, grinning face of a large basketball center holding a microphone.
"Guys, do you want to hear the great Shaq sing this brand-new track for you right now?" O’Neal bellowed to the crowd.
*"Boooooooo!"*
The arena filled with an overwhelming, unified chorus of groans and jeers.
The reaction proved universal. Shaquille O’Neal stood as an unstoppable force in the paint, a dominant athlete with few equals. But his singing voice? Anyone enduring his attempts at a music career knew he sounded like an amateur among amateurs. When he attempted a high note, it sounded uncannily like a strangled duck. Even his most die-hard, purple-and-gold loyalists could not stomach the threat of a live vocal performance.
O’Neal feigned deep offense. He scowled at the stands. "Oh, so that’s how it is? You guys successfully angered the Diesel. I want to make you pay for this disrespect..."
As O’Neal continued his comedic stalling on the broadcast, Jeff’s office phone rang a second time.
"Hello, this is the office of the NBA Commissioner, David Stern. Am I speaking with Mr. Jeff Raymond?"
Jeff leaned back in his ergonomic chair. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.
"Yes, you are. How can I help the Commissioner’s office this evening?" Jeff asked. His tone dripped with newfound leverage.
"The NBA League Office hopes to acquire the exclusive licensing rights to the song Mr. Meyers composed today during the broadcast, to use as a central promotional anthem for our..."
Jeff listened to the pitch. His eyes remained fixed on the television screen.
He completely understood the landscape now.
His young client attended a basketball game for a night off, scribbled some notes on a piece of paper, and accidentally triggered a multi-million-dollar bidding war between a sports franchise and a global athletic league.
He accomplished this without making a single phone call.
"I appreciate the interest," Jeff replied smoothly. "However, the rights to Mr. Meyers’ original compositions remain highly competitive. Let me speak with my client, and we will open a dialogue tomorrow morning."
He hung up the phone. He felt no rush to call Marvin now. With two large corporate entities preparing to fight over the licensing, he knew he could negotiate a great price for a song not even properly recorded yet. He crossed his legs, rested his coffee on the desk, and leisurely watched the rest of the broadcast unfold.
---
Back in the Staples Center, the dynamic on the floor shifted.
A unified, rhythmic chant began echoing down from the rafters. It started in the cheap seats, rolled down to the VIP sections, and shook the glass of the luxury suites.
*"Ko-be! Ko-be!"*
*"Mar-vin! Mar-vin!"*
Shaq realized the crowd had spoken. He walked back to the courtside seats and handed the checkbook back to the boy.
Kobe stepped forward, wiping his hands on his shorts. He looked down at Marvin. The competitive drive in his eyes softened into a gesture of mutual respect. To thank the young prodigy for the unexpected honor of inspiring a piece of art, Kobe decided to offer the highest form of respect he knew.
"Marvin," Kobe said. His voice carried over the chanting crowd. "You wrote a song for me. Let me return the favor. Come on the court. Five-point game. One on one."
A hush fell over the immediate vicinity. The reporters in the front row scrambled for their recorders.
Marvin looked up. His features registered a flicker of genuine surprise. This method of expressing gratitude felt entirely foreign to him.
He had prepared to step over to the PA system, charm the audience with his voice, and perhaps sing a few bars a cappella to cement the song’s value.
But engaging in a physical contest?
Marvin remained seated for a moment. His eyes locked onto Kobe’s intense gaze. A mysterious, knowing smile slowly curved his lips.
’It is not impossible,’ the voice whispered in his head.
During the first half of the game, Marvin hadn’t merely watched the sport. His advanced, analytical mind dissected it. He mapped Kobe’s kinetic chain. He memorized the precise footwork, the shifting center of gravity during a crossover, the exact release point of the jumper, and the defensive posture required to guard the perimeter.
Could his youthful body execute the complex biomechanics required to mimic those moves?
The Incubus possessed a physical vessel forged by magic—stronger, faster, and infinitely more coordinated than any athlete, regardless of age or height.
Marvin stood up.
He unbuttoned his jacket. He folded it neatly and handed it to a stunned Frank. He rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt, revealing lean, surprisingly defined forearms.
The crowd realized the boy actually accepted the challenge from an NBA professional. They erupted into a deafening roar of approval.
Marvin stepped over the sideline boundary. His polished dress shoes squeaked softly against the hardwood. He walked to the top of the three-point key and turned to face Kobe.
"Check the ball," Marvin said. His voice carried a calm, chilling confidence.
---
"Wow, what did I just see?" Charles Barkley demanded. His voice boomed over the TNT broadcast feed. He leaned so close to his monitor his nose almost touched the glass.
"Chuck, it looks like Marvin Meyers wants a bullfight with Kobe Bryant," Kenny Smith replied. He laughed in disbelief.
"Listen, Kenny, I know Kobe. With Kobe’s personality, he will not let go. He doesn’t know how to turn the competitive fire off. Does he seriously plan to block this kid into the stands and let our little Hollywood genius go home crying to his mother?"
Barkley lost his hurry to get Marvin on the microphone to sing. He watched with rising interest as Marvin and Kobe walked onto the polished hardwood.
Smith, his veteran partner, chuckled nervously. "Kobe’s way of treating his fans remains... special. I sincerely hope little Marvin doesn’t end up hating the game of basketball after this."
Down on the court, even Shaquille O’Neal stopped playing the goofy showman. The comedic bit ended.
He walked quickly to Kobe, grabbed his teammate by the shoulder, and whispered intensely, "Are you serious right now, man?"
"Of course I’m serious, Shaq," Kobe replied. He stretched his arms, his eyes locked on the boy taking his jacket off. "This offers a great benefit to my young fans. It provides a special memory for him. What’s the problem?"
O’Neal’s mouth twitched. ’A benefit? A special memory?’ Shaq stared at his shooting guard.
Kobe’s brain wired completely differently from normal human beings. Kobe didn’t see a child needing coddling; he saw an opponent standing on his court.
Shaq knew intimately that Kobe’s stubborn, psycho-competitive character meant he couldn’t persuade him to back down. The center tried to mitigate the incoming disaster.
"Listen to me, Kobe. Put some water in your wine on this one. Let him dribble around a bit. Do not take it too seriously!"
Kobe stopped stretching. He looked genuinely stunned. "Why? Isn’t that deeply disrespectful to the game?"
"No, Kobe! Haven’t you ever stopped to think about how Marvin would feel getting destroyed by an NBA pro on national television? How humiliating would that be for a kid?"
"Isn’t losing to me the natural order of things?" Kobe asked, genuinely puzzled. "Why should he despair over it? He is just a child. He’s supposed to lose to a pro."
"Yes! He is exactly just a child!" Shaq hissed, gesturing wildly. "If you block his shot into the fifth row, or dunk on his head with a bang, wouldn’t he feel totally desperate and embarrassed?"
"No way," Kobe shook his head, rejecting the premise. "When I was a kid, I loved playing against top players in Philly. If I lost badly, I didn’t cry. I would just go back to the gym and keep playing until the exact day I could beat him."
Bang!
O’Neal slapped his own forehead. He despaired over his teammate’s emotional intelligence. The kid lived as a basketball savant, but a social alien.
But then, a twist arrived.
Kobe stood silently and thought about it for a few seconds. He nodded slowly. "I suppose you make a point, Shaq. Marvin differs fundamentally from me. He has likely never practiced basketball seriously. His physical fitness definitely doesn’t match mine as a kid. I really shouldn’t give him my all."
"Exactly! This is right!" Shaq breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
Then, he heard Kobe finish his thought.
"Therefore, I will only show sixty percent of my performance!" Kobe declared confidently, stepping onto the court.
****
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