In his 17th year in the league, Kobe Bryant has decided to keep a diary to document “the year he caught Jordan”. While Kobe refuses to remove the diary from a pedestal in his trophy room, he has allowed Writing Bareback the exclusive rights to post these excerpts.
November 2nd – vs Clippers
I usually wouldn’t use a picture of myself that is so unflattering, but I wanted my first impression of this date to be realistic. The reality is that there was nothing about November 2nd worth remembering except me. I scored 40. My starting four “teammates” combined for 39. They played in such a non-best fashion tonight that I literally played the whole second quarter with the belief that it was 04-05. Pau told me after the game that it really bothered him when I gave him a “stare like death” and yelled, “Dammit, Luke! Play more like your dad!” Pau’s trying to be helpful, that’s why I didn’t say anything to him about his effort when he said, “I no like seeing you like that. Do not go to there again.” I should have told him there’s a reason I made Mitch and Jerry get rid of Stanislav Medvedenko. It wasn’t for his stupid accent.
You can’t linger on losses. You can only take the massive amount of pain and anguish and use your grueling post-game routine to compress it down to a diamond of hate and motivation. So that’s what I did. And I did it on one leg. Rehab tomorrow.
PS. I hate Blake Griffin.
November 3rd – Rehab Day
You have to respect Steve Nash. It’s the first time in my entire career that someone’s beat me to the training room. I’m normally not thrilled to hang out with “teammates” at 4:09AM, but Steve’s nice company. After giving me a the customary head nod of recognition that the GOAT warrants, he pretty much stays to himself. He picked up a lot of mystical rehabilitation methods from the Pheonix Suns training staff. It was the first thing I asked him about when we signed him, but all he said to me was, “Sorry, Kobe. Magician’s code.” You don’t find that kind of selfishness enough in the NBA. Very refreshing. Still, I try to steal some methods while I’m on the bike. From what I can tell, Steve attacks his rehab from a place of complete mental and sensory stimulation so involved that his body actually repairs itself from the soul outwards. While posturing in a modified form of Ashtanga yoga, he’s reading Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov (a personal favorite), and listening to some Irish band called Solar Taxi on his iPod. But he doesn’t stop there, when he’s finished, he takes roughly a dozen different scrubs and lotions into the shower with him. He might be the most impressive teammate (no quotes needed) I’ve ever had. But then again there might only be an idea of a Steve Nash. Some kind of abstraction. Either way, I respect him.