Los Angeles

The suspension of the NBA season has given the Rivers family a chance to reflect and unpack the last few years of their lives. For Los Angeles Clippers head coach Doc Rivers, that meant dishing on his initial dislike of Lou Williams and the lack of action he took to reconcile with Ray Allen and the 2008 Celtics. 

For current Houston Rockets guard Austin Rivers, it's allowed him to open up about the tumultuous task of playing for his father, Doc, as a member of the Clippers. Speaking on an Instagram Live stream earlier this week, Rivers let loose on what it was like to play for his dad.    

"That s--t was so hard," Rivers said (via Sports Illustrated's Farbod Esnaashari). "At that level, the scrutiny that I had to go through playing for this man, and the magnifying glass I was under. It just took joy away from the game bro. And I love my pops, but that s--t was crazy."

The younger Rivers spent four seasons with the Clippers from 2015 to 2018 with mixed results. As much as he enjoyed becoming the only NBA player to ever be coached by his father, he became an easy target for fans and players alike. It wasn't long before his game started suffering. 

He averaged 10.5 points and 2.5 assists while playing 25.7 minutes per game with LA, struggling from three-point range (35.7 percent) at a time when the league was becoming more and more reliant on outside shooting.

Eventually, the Clippers parted ways with the guard, sending him to the Washington Wizards for big man Marcin Gortat during the 2018 offseason. 

The Clippers never reached their potential with Chris Paul, Blake Griffin, DeAndre Jordan and Jamal Crawford. Once it became clear their window to contend had closed, Rivers was one of the first players to get moved out.

Now on the Rockets, Rivers has settled into a steady backup role, providing 8.5 points off the bench as he plays 23.4 minutes per night for a Western Conference contender. As much as playing in Los Angeles meant to him, he knew it was time to change things up. 

"That situation was amazing," Austin Rivers said. "But it reached its ceiling, and you just move on bro."

Los Angeles Clippers forward Kawhi Leonard is donating 20,000 backpacks to fans attending Friday's game between the Clips and visiting Denver Nuggets at Staples Center, per Dan Woike of the Los Angeles Times.

The initiative is part of the #Kawhiit campaign, whose purpose is stated in a note from Leonard contained in each backpack: "Show the world how you #Kawhiit by using this backpack to have someone's back. Let your actions do the talking. Fill it with food to give to someone who's hungry, a blanket for someone who's cold, books for a child who has none. Or do your own thing. I get that.

"Be great."

Leonard told Woike: "It's not just backpacks. The backpack is just a start."

The 28-year-old's community service has stretched beyond the campaign, with Woike writing that he has partnered with local schools and donated items such as basic school supplies and "much-needed" technological updates.

The L.A. native was also scheduled to meet with teachers from his middle school, Moreno Valley Palm, in order to provide another donation.

The two-time NBA Finals MVP also worked with the Clips and the non-profit Baby2Baby to donate 1 million backpacks to local Southern California students prior to the beginning of the 2019-20 school year.

Leonard said:

"My goal this year is to make a meaningful contribution both on and off the court. This felt like the right way to get started. It was important to me to make this announcement in my hometown of Moreno Valley at my former Elementary School, but the benefits this program will have across all of Los Angeles makes today even more special."

On the court, a win Friday would pull Leonard's Clippers into a second-place tie with Denver in the Western Conference.

Something magical happens when a girl touches a basketball for the first time. Power is in her palms. She can do anything, be anything.

When she is on the court, she doesn't have to shrink. She can call a play as loud as she wants. And she can count on the court. The court never changes. It is the same when she arrives on a Monday, a Friday.

To love basketball, as a young girl, is to love something in a way that only other young-girl hoopers can understand. It's different from family love. Different from friend love. Different from relationship love. It's a deep-down love that resists explanation.

Gianna "Gigi" Bryant had that deep-down love.

And that's what you hear when you ask those who knew Gigi about her. Those who coached her and coached against her in AAU. Those who trained her. Those who watched her play, who knew her as a friend, as an opponent.

The memories they hold close are of a girl who was hardly seen without a ball hugging her hip. A girl who would bust out crossovers, any time, any place. A girl who didn't back down. To anyone.

Not even the reigning WNBA Rookie of the Year.

---

It's right before Christmas. During a workout, Gigi's father, Kobe Bryant, whispers into Minnesota Lynx forward Napheesa Collier's ear, "Don't take it easy on Gigi."

Collier is 23 years old and 6'2".

Gigi is 13 and 5'6".

Gigi doesn't care. She locks down in a defensive stance and swarms Collier, who of course scores easily over her, again and again, posting her up. Gigi fumes. She believes she can—and should—be stopping Collier.

And then she does. She finally gets a stop. Then Gigi takes the ball, crosses over, pump fakes and scores on a step-through move.

She isn't afraid of anyone.

---

Bleacher Report spoke to more than 30 people who were close to Gigi, and in the stories they tell, you can feel how grief works, how memory works.

You find yourself driving down the freeway, and all of a sudden, you flash back to some moment with Gigi. It seizes you. You see Gigi's bright smile. You remember her infectious giggle. You remember how kind, how sweet, the Mambacita was. How she befriended even her staunchest opponents. How she loved her mother, Vanessa, and her three sisters, Natalia, 17, Bianka, three, and Capri, eight months.

You remember how she loved peanut butter chocolate smoothies so much that she learned to make them for herself at home. You remember how she loved to make TikToks, how her dad/coach often told the players on her team, Team Mamba: "My house is a TikTok house! All these girls do is TikTok!"

You remember the time a teammate threw a pass to Gigi that soared over her head and rolled out of bounds. Gigi was upset. Not at her teammate but at herself. She expected herself to catch that ball, any ball. She was a leader, one who took responsibility even if she wasn't at fault.

You try to keep the hurt at bay, try to go on with the day, but hours later you'll be walking down the street and it's a new memory, flowing in and out of time, taking hold of you.

---

Gigi is five. Dad is working out in the weight room in their house. Whether he's weight training or shooting a thousand jump shots on game day at the Equinox in Irvine, he has one rule: No interruptions. "Everyone knew: He did not need to be bothered," says Ryan Badrtalei, an assistant men's basketball coach at UC Irvine as well as Kobe's friend and longtime trainer.

But on this day, Badrtalei notices the rule is broken.

Gigi and Natalia burst into the weight room, finding their father bench-pressing. They tell him something and give him kisses. The world stops. The hard parts of him melt. A big grin washes over him.

This will become a routine over the coming years: kisses between sets.

---

Gigi is 11. She and her family are at the Final Four, hoping UConn will take it all. But the Huskies lose in the semifinals on a last-second shot in overtime by Notre Dame's Arike Ogunbowale.

Walking out of Nationwide Arena in Columbus, Ohio, Gigi is crying her eyes out. And she's angry. Her face is all twisted up. She gets into a car full of family and crosses her arms tightly across her chest.

Kobe sees her in the rearview. "You OK?" he asks.

"When I get to UConn," she manages, between tears, "this is never happening! I promise you that!"

---

The memories soothe and stab at the same time. The loss of Kobe, 41, and Gigi, 13, along with teammates Alyssa Altobelli, 13, and her parents, John, 56, and Keri Altobelli, 46, teammate Payton Chester, 13, and her mother, Sarah Chester, 45, assistant coach Christina Mauser, 38, and pilot, Ara Zobayan, 50, in a helicopter crash on the way to a Mamba basketball game January 26, is a tragedy of unspeakable magnitude.

Three girls, three 13-year-old girls, did not get to live full lives. Did not get to continue loving their families, their friends. Did not get to pursue their dreams of playing in college and in the WNBA.

Their teammates, their families, are reeling. The Mambas have stayed together, often sleeping at each other's houses. They went to the beach two days after the crash, just to be with each other. A mental health professional was present. They got on the court the day after that and resumed practicing, because they needed to. Because that orange leather ball is what bound them together.

Now, before every practice, each player goes around and says what she is grateful for. Many of them have said they are grateful that at least they have each other. At least they are not enduring this alone.

The last time they were all on the court, the night before the crash, they faced Tree of Hope Lloyd, a team that had beaten them twice before. The Mambas trailed most of that game but made a run, capped by Chester's step-back three, eventually pulling out the 35-29 win.

Another play stood out. Gigi received a dribble-handoff exchange, passed to a player on the other side of the floor, then came off a backscreen and received the ball for a layup. She made it.

Gigi was so happy that she turned around and looked at Kobe. Her dad was right. She had been struggling with her shot in the game before, against Cyfair Nikecoop 2024, and he had told her: "Trust your game. Just trust it. It'll come."

---

Gigi is two. Kobe has a workout on the track at UC Irvine with Badrtalei and decides to bring her along. She is his Velcro strip, after all—always snuggling up to his side, always reaching for his hand.

Kobe puts down his bag. When he looks up, Gigi is already in the blocks, her little feet positioned just right. She is thrilled, somehow knowing exactly where to go. She is staring straight ahead. She looks ready to compete, ready to fly down the track.

Kobe is beaming. Nobody taught his girl how to do that. She is a natural.

---

Gigi started playing basketball later than most girls who were at her level, but with the Mambas practicing seven days a week, along with yoga and strength training, she improved rapidly (as did the team) over the past two years. She became one of the best long-distance shooters in Southern California, able to knock down shots from the volleyball line.

Games would be standing-room only. They came to see Kobe, but soon, they were coming to see Gigi too. "For these girls, their future icon was Gigi," says Demetrius Porter, the director of the Fresno Lady Heat, a team that was supposed to play the Mambas at 2 p.m. the day of the crash. "They followed her. She was their young superstar."

Gigi loved wrapping the ball and taking it hard to the basket. She lived for practices where Mauser would take out the pad to hit her as she'd dip her shoulder in and absorb contact and finish a layup.

She was the spitting image of her father. She bit her jersey like him. She flashed the same underbite as him. She was out for blood like he was. She had his smooth cruise of a walk. She had his basketball IQ, his understanding of angles and footwork.

Russ Davis, the coach at Vanguard University and Cal Swish, who was close with Kobe and Gigi, remembers Kobe telling him: "Gigi's just like me. She's a killer, man. She's a killer."

She had his signature spin move, fadeaway jumper. "I don't think I shot a fadeaway like that maybe until a couple years ago," says Candace Parker, Los Angeles Sparks forward and two-time WNBA MVP. "I mean, going left, over your left shoulder, when you're right-handed? Her skill set was far beyond her years."

She'd gather her teammates together before a free throw. She was the first off the bench clapping for her teammates. "They listened with their eyes when she spoke," says James Parker, Pacifica Christian head girl's basketball coach and Cal Swish EYBL assistant. "Her presence was amazing at 13 years old."

---

Gigi is 13. The Mambas have just finished practice at Newport Rec. Gigi has extra shots to get up. But first? She begins chasing her little sister, Bianka, around the court. This is one of her favorite things to do.

Around and around they go, faster and faster. Bianka is giggling so hard her tiny body almost topples over. Gigi is all teeth when she finally catches her, wrapping her arms around her little sister. She doesn't want to let go.

---

Gigi is 11. The Mambas just won a game. Kobe is so excited that he sends Davis a video of one play, along with multiple strong-arm emojis, his favorite emoji.

"My man! Look!" Kobe writes. "They went to the pinch post, to the skip, to the center, to the three in the corner. Gigi hit a three in the corner!"

Davis laughs. He remembers when Kobe swore to him he was never going to coach. And then, as Gigi started asking him to get shots up with her, he started enjoying coaching. Then he became competitive about it. At one point, before his team was to play against the top eighth grade team, Cal Sparks, Kobe said, pacing the sidelines: "I want that smoke!"

"I don't think Kobe ever lost the love of the game," Davis says. "But I think Kobe was ready to step away from the game of basketball. And I think Gigi brought him back to it."

---

Gigi started to gain more buzz when a Ballislife mixtape of her highlights dropped in May 2019. The video has over 10 million views on YouTube.

"People were so happy," says Cazzie Luz, who filmed the video. "They were like, 'He has a daughter, and she can play?!"

She was becoming ultra-competitive. Last summer, the Mambas were beating a team 50-0. With less than a minute to go, one of the Mambas fouled a player, sending her to the free-throw line. The girl made her first free throw and a Mamba player clapped. Gigi turned to her, gently hit her hand and said, "Don't clap for them!"

She and Altobelli—her best friend on the team, the one she shared the most inside jokes with—were a terror at the top of the team's 1-2-2 full-court press and 2-3 matchup zone. Kobe didn't even tell them to trap, but Gigi, with her long arms, instinctually figured out that they should, and she began hounding girls.

Last spring, she shut down a girl six inches taller than her. "She fought. She had this fire," says Mike Alexander, CEO and president of Swoosh Basketball, who was at that game. Gigi rarely took breathers. "Even after the whistle blows, she's still going, still keeping the play alive," says Athena Tomlinson, 14, a friend and rival who was mentored by Kobe (he'd call her "Shifty Lefty").

One game, against OC Rhythm, Gigi and an opponent dove for a loose ball. The girl fouled Gigi so hard she tumbled and hit the floor, nearly hitting her head. Kobe walked over, but Gigi bounced back up, heading back to the bench like nothing happened.

Jimmy Valverde, a coach for OC Rhythm and the head girl's basketball coach for Esperanza High, came up to Kobe after and said, "I hope she's OK."

"Man," Kobe said. "She's a tough kid."

---

Gigi is 11. She and Kobe arrive early to practice at Vanguard. The previous night, Kobe's jersey was retired during halftime of the Warriors-Lakers game at Staples Center. "That was really cool," Davis tells Kobe. "I can't believe Allen Iverson came all the way out."

"AI?" Kobe says. "Yeah that was great, but Bill Russell was there! And Magic! And Kareem! People forget, I grew up a big-time Lakers fan, and for me to have all those people there? Man, that was so awesome."

Gigi is glowing. She stares at her father like he's the only person on the planet. "Last night was so cool!" she says. "My dad was so happy! It was so cool to be there for my dad!"

---

Gigi is 13. She is sitting courtside to watch her friend, 14-year-old Brooklyn Shamblin of Cal Storm, a girl she looks up to, face off against Cal Sparks. Shamblin doesn't have the best game and is disappointed with herself.

Gigi finds her afterward. "It's OK," she tells Shamblin. "You got the next one. You guys really played like a team!" Shamblin cracks a smile, the first one all day.

"Gigi had the kindest heart," Shamblin says. "All she wanted was for every basketball player to succeed."

---

Gigi was smart. By sixth grade, she knew the intricacies of the triangle offense, an offense that can confuse even the most astute NBA players. Her relationship with her dad was a dialogue. She wanted to know the whys, the hows. She was not just passively receiving instruction. She had the confidence to explain her opinions, and he welcomed them.

Kobe taught her how to feel the defender with her back, how to jab left, jab right. Practices were monotonous, with the girls working on the same footwork for 30 minutes straight.

He never raised his voice, because he wanted them to learn. To think for themselves. A year ago, in the middle of a game against OC Rhythm, Kobe explained his philosophy to the opposing coach, Vernon Henderson.

Henderson had been yelling at his girls, who are sixth graders, all game. Kobe called a timeout and walked over. "Hey, man, all that hollering and screaming at these kids you doing," Kobe said, "you not gonna do that at my game. I don't play that s--t." Later in the tournament, the two met again. "Hey, we good?" Henderson asked.

"Yeah. It's all good. It's all love," Kobe said back.

"You get your girls seven days a week. I get them once a week. You know?" Henderson said.

"I understand that," Kobe said. "But listen, I just think it's traumatic for a sixth-grade girl to hear an older man yelling at her like that. And, plus, my philosophy is: If they don't get something in their game, it's because I didn't teach them in practice."

---

Gigi is 12. The Mambas are practicing at Santiago High School. Jeff Gomez, Santiago High's varsity boys' assistant coach, walks over.

"You beat your dad in HORSE, huh?" Gomez asks Gigi.

She starts giggling: "All the time!"

Kobe laughs too: "Never."

---

Gigi is 13. She and her dad walk out of a practice, him with a mesh bag filled with a half-dozen basketballs slung over his back, her with her backpack and a ball. She gets into his black Range Rover, riding shotgun, as always. She rolls down the tinted windows when she sees the rest of her teammates. "Bye!" she yells one last time, with a huge smile on her face, as if she wouldn't be seeing them for a while. She'd see them the next day.

"The love [the girls] had for each other, it was amazing," says Azzi Fudd, the top prospect in the 2021 class, who has worked out with the Mambas. "They were so excited to see each other. It was nonstop smiles."

---

Destiny "Ky'She" Lunan didn't pick up a ball for six days after she heard Gigi was gone. She wouldn't leave her room. Her body was there, her mind elsewhere. They were close friends off the court, fierce rivals on the court. "We'd go at it," says Lunan, 13, her voice cracking.

She keeps replaying memories from the last time the two played, back in December. She was so excited to face Gigi that she and her father, Mike, blasted Jay-Z's "Takeover" in his gray BMW on the ride there. One sequence, Gigi made a jumper, and then Destiny made a three. Then Destiny got a steal, causing the ball to go out of bounds. She screamed in Gigi's face: "Let's goooooo!!!" Gigi didn't even flinch; she just responded by calmly wetting a three.

After the crash, Mike told Destiny it would make her feel better to shoot. "That's what Kobe would have wanted,"he said. Kobe was a mentor to Destiny. "Kobe told me, 'I hope you and Gigi play in the WNBA one day,'" she says.

Gigi had so many opponents who were also friends. "She was such a sweet girl. Respectful and down to earth. She didn't think she was better than anybody else," says James Singleton, coach and co-founder of Lady Nation, the team Destiny plays for. "She made friends easily without using her status as Kobe's daughter."

One of them was Serenity "Reni" Johnson, 14, Shamblin's teammate on Cal Storm. Gigi looked up to Johnson. Called her a big sister. Kobe was a kind of father figure for Johnson too. He had planned to become the coach at Sage Hill School in Newport Beach and potentially coach Johnson and Shamblin there, along with Gigi and some other girls from Mamba.

Johnson and Shamblin both recently got "Mamba Mentality" tattoos. Johnson's is right below her heart, on her rib cage. Shamblin, who Kobe called "Lucky Lefty," got hers on her left foot. "I just lost it when I found out," Johnson says. "It's still really hard. Sometimes it feels real. Sometimes it feels fake. Sometimes it feels like a dream."

Johnson and her mother, Veronica, remember Gigi's composure. Her ability to handle the enormous pressure that followed her. "There were people that wanted to see her do badly," Veronica says. "Her frustration, you couldn't see it on her face, whether she was or she wasn't." People would whisper that she was overrated, that she was only receiving attention because of her father.

Gigi was above it all. One time, at Santiago High, a high school boy came in, took out his phone and started recording her. She walked right up to him and told him to leave. "She was comfortable in her own skin," says Julie Rubio-Shamblin, Brooklyn's mother.

So much so that Gigi even mentored girls younger than herself, like Kaleena Smith, 11, of Team Obsessed in Moreno Valley. "Gigi always told me to keep my head up and make sure I stayed on the right track," Smith says. "I'm devastated. She inspired me."

Smith manages a laugh, remembering a TikTok Gigi recorded but never posted. Gigi was dancing and did a move that had both of them near tears, wildly swaying her arms in the air, shaking her legs, moving side to side.

She wasn't worried about what people thought of her. She knew who she was, who she wanted to be.

---

One day, little Capri will learn about her father, her sister. She will come to know them through Vanessa's, Natalia's and Bianka's stories. Stories from other family members, friends, coaches, players. Stories like the time Gigi made three shots in a row in a Phoenix tournament and then took an ill-advised fourth, missing badly.

"That's a bad shot, Gigi," Kobe called out. She gave him the Jordan shrug as she ran back down the court. They both smiled at each other. All washed away, onto the next play.

Maybe Capri will pick up a basketball. Or maybe the ball will pick her. Some force from above drawing her closer to the leather, to the very blood that runs through her. To the player that her big sister was and could have been.

Capri will come to know that Gigi was more than talented, more than intelligent. More than kind, more than competitive. More than hardworking, more than compassionate.

She was loved.

                

Mirin Fader is a staff writer for B/R Mag. She's written for the Orange County Register, espnW.com, SI.com and Slam. Her work has been honored by the Associated Press Sports Editors, the U.S. Basketball Writers Association, the Football Writers Association of America, the Los Angeles Press Club and the Best American Sports Writing series. Follow her on Twitter: @MirinFader.

"What's up, young buck?"

That's what Kobe Bryant said when I started coming around the Lakers as a cub reporter for the Los Angeles Times. Back then, in 2007, the Clippers were my main priority, but as they stumbled and the Lakers surged, the newspaper often wanted more people to orbit Hollywood's team.

Others warned that Kobe could be gracious or grumpy depending on the day, moment or news cycle. I only noticed one side in our interactions—accommodating and introspective. His nickname for me stuck when I soon moved coasts and started working for the New York Times. I never asked out of fear that it would cross some imaginary journalistic line, but I think he had some recognition for what I was trying to do—break through as a young black man in an industry dominated by older, white men.

He routinely entertained an extra question or two on the side. He chuckled when I told him that I could always count on him to bring me home to California to cover the Lakers during their long playoff runs. "You picked the wrong game, young buck," he said when I told him that my future wife offered to take me to a game at Staples Center some 14 years ago to celebrate my birthday. The Clippers hosted the Warriors in the afternoon. The Lakers, though, were playing Toronto that evening. As Kobe noted, I definitely picked the wrong game—one which saw him drop 81 points. He told me about spots to visit along the Amalfi Coast when I said we planned to honeymoon in Italy.

One of my favorite moments covering the NBA arrived in the 2009 season when Kobe dropped 61 points at Madison Square Garden. The Knicks still positioned reporters near the baseline, and I soaked in watching a master at work. His best athletic days had already departed, but he scored half of those points just from being the smartest guy on the court. He probed angles. He clung tight to screeners. He used his jab step to make a hapless defender teeter before draining a jumper in his face.

After the Lakers dropped the Orlando Magic in the Finals that season, I spotted Kobe coming down the corridors of the old Amway Arena. He embraced me. "We did it," he said, grinning from ear to ear. It's one of the only times I've truly realized how much pain, passion and work athletes truly endure to reach the top of their professions. He stood at the peak of the sport after losing to the Celtics in the Finals a season earlier. He personified pure, unfiltered elation in that moment. He probably would've offered anyone a hug. I cautiously looked around, hoping that no one else clocked the moment. I didn't want to be thought of as biased.

That insecurity stemmed from the fact that I wasn't. I couldn't be. Not with Kobe. I wanted him to win. I rooted for him to win. I cherished every interaction. Impartiality with your heroes doesn't mix.

A couple of years later, I started reporting a book on the group of remarkable players who jumped straight to the NBA from high school. Kobe's leap had long fascinated me. I never talked to him specifically for the book. I figured that one day, he would pen one of the best autobiographies written. At the time, I mostly wanted to talk to those around him during those formative years. Their observations, presented here, reveal much of what made Kobe who he was, as we all grapple with his death, as well as that of his 13-year-old daughter, Gianna, and seven others in a helicopter crash near Los Angeles on Sunday.

People of my age, especially fans who grew up in Southern California, are a generation of Kobe believers. Magic Johnson exists, for me, in grainy images, a no-look pass here, a behind-the-back pass there. He was royalty, but I never lived through his prime. I knew he had never struggled while transforming the Lakers into Showtime. He won a championship his rookie season. I revered Michael Jordan. His dominance coincided with my becoming a lifelong devotee to this game. But he played half a country away, and I had missed his trial-and-error period, the years he spent getting knocked down by Detroit.

We saw it all with Kobe. He arrived in Los Angeles in 1996 at the age of 17. I was just entering middle school and was awestruck at how someone just a few years older than me could compete in an often brutal game with players routinely a decade older than him.

A dozen teams had to pass on drafting Kobe—and a 13th team, the Charlotte Hornets, had to trade him—in order for him to wind up a Laker. You can't tell me that the way it happened, with all those twists and turns that allowed for his passage to Los Angeles, was anything but fate, even if Kobe and his agent at the time, Arn Tellem, deftly maneuvered for it to happen.

"I was at that draft, and I always thought a great trivia question was going to be, who were the 12 players that were taken ahead of this future Hall of Famer?" asked Gregg Downer, Bryant's coach at Lower Merion High School in Pennsylvania. "That is a good trivia question today. Some of those names are, after the way it panned out, laughable."

It was a different NBA. If Magic made the league popular domestically and Jordan expanded it globally, Bryant ushered it into modernity. Scouting wasn't anywhere near what it is today. Kobe was the son of an NBA player, Joe "Jellybean" Bryant, and as a high schooler, he often got buckets on members of the Philadelphia 76ers during open runs. But back then, guards just didn't make the leap from high school to the NBA. Practically no one did.

Only a year earlier, Kevin Garnett had reopened the dormant floodgates. One could make a case for Garnett. His grades had been scrutinized. He was conscious that people would make money off his name had he gone to college, and he already stood damn near 7 feet tall.

Bryant? He could've gone to the school of his choosing. He didn't make any college visits, even though his father was an assistant coach at La Salle at the time. He just wanted to prove that he could beat everyone's ass on the court, even at a precocious age.

"I'm not sure there's ever been a player, maybe with the exception of Jordan, that has the internal confidence that Kobe has," Downer said. "He was chomping at the bit to play against [Charles] Barkley, to play against Patrick Ewing, to play against Jordan before he retired. I don't think Kobe really listened to the Kevin Garnetts of the world or was necessarily watching stuff like that. He has such an unwavering confidence that I believe he would've done it regardless of what Garnett did."

Teams knew he would be special, even if they couldn't take a chance on waiting for him to be great. "Kobe ... has been the best workout I've ever seen," said Danny Ainge, who coached the Suns in 1996. Phoenix drafted two slots behind the Hornets that year and landed Steve Nash.

"Every candidate I ever tried, every draft that I was involved in, we used this one particular drill," said Bill Fitch, then the Clippers coach. "And he did some things so well, that physically he had it. You were just going to have to wait for him to grow up." The Clippers chose not to at the time, selecting Lorenzen Wright out of Memphis six picks before Bryant.

Jerry West, then the GM of the Lakers, didn't have the same concerns.

"To watch him work out, you saw the incredible skills that he had for a young kid," West said. "I think the one thing that we all saw was that he had an immense desire to compete. I mean, he just didn't want to stop competing, and in an hour workout, it was something to see. When he was done, he wanted to keep going."

I knew it would take time for Kobe to make a mark. The Lakers already had a capable 2-guard in Eddie Jones. Most of the excitement around the franchise that summer swelled around the Lakers' trade for Shaquille O'Neal from Orlando. It felt like another era of Lakers dominance was upon us. Kobe didn't want to wait for his time. "You have a chance to be great, but you will not be able to be a starter on the team until you knock out a starter," Del Harris, his first NBA coach, told him. "You will not be given the decision on a draw."

"He understood and, of course, believed he could deliver the knockout punch from the start," Harris recalled. "But it was not as easy as he expected. Still, he worked hard and never doubted."

Bryant started earning those minutes as the season progressed. "He never paid attention to any outside activities that I could tell," Harris said. "He never went out. Of course, he was only 18 and 19. On the airplane, he never had any particular fun—no cards, no video games. He was always looking at basketball things on his computer. In those days, we did not have the DVDs of games to take with us right after the game, no iPads, etc. But he had plenty of DVDs from our earlier games, or of the next team or of Jordan. He was a total student of the game."

The Lakers advanced to the Western Conference semifinals against the Utah Jazz his rookie season, and with Byron Scott injured, he found himself in a leading role in Game 5.

We watched Kobe fail. He missed a shot that would have won the game near the end of regulation, and the Lakers' season ended in an overtime loss with one Bryant air ball after another.

"I gambled that Kobe would be able to get open easier, and the main thing was to get a good shot in a short period of time," Harris said of earmarking Bryant for the play. "And exactly what went through my mind was this: Hit or miss, we win or tie, but Kobe will know his coach had confidence in him to give him that shot in his rookie year. Either way, he will gain from it. He got the ball at the right elbow area and rattled the jumper in and out from 17 feet."

Bryant desperately tried to still claim the game as his own, heaving air ball after air ball. It wasn't the misses that struck those around him, but his unwavering willingness to not be afraid of the moment.

"It would be impossible for me to describe the look on a face, but you know the look of somebody that has it," said Kurt Rambis, then an assistant coach for the Lakers. "It's fear. It's doubt. It's hesitation. It's they're uncomfortable. They don't believe in themselves. You can just kind of see that in a person when they're going to the free-throw line in a difficult situation or they've missed the front end of two free throws or sitting on the bench. It's just very clear to me with that look that they just don't believe. You never saw that in Kobe. It was almost like indifference. It was like, yeah, fuck it. You just knew it wasn't going to bother him. You just knew that."

Indeed, Kobe learned from that experience, drew upon it to will himself into becoming his generation's greatest basketball player. Phil Jackson arrived, and in time it was clear what Bryant had become, claiming three championships while pairing with Shaq.

Though he didn't spark the preps-to-pros era, Bryant's success fueled it, helping convince Tracy McGrady to follow him into the league from high school a year later, or Darius Miles to do so in 2000, or LeBron James in 2003. The movement brought more misses than hits, but with every win Bryant engineered, teams grew increasingly anxious to not want to miss out on the next Kobe.

Kobe, though, was different. We watched him mature and thrive. We watched him struggle through dark days. And yes, he was a flawed human whose legacy is complicated.

But as a player, he was an uncompromising, unflinching superstar.

With the end of his NBA career, though, questions arose about how he would transform himself after spending more than half his life in one jersey for one team, constantly pouring himself into perfecting his craft.

"No matter who it is, when they're the best at what they do and they're obsessed with what they do, it almost takes over their personality to where they can't think about anything else, they don't want to do anything else," said Rob Schwartz, one of Bryant's high school teammates. "I think it was just in his makeup. I do. I think it's just the way he is. He kind of sort of figured out where he was gonna go and what he had to do, and it was almost like it was all he thought about. His dad playing professional basketball, you have those competitive genes in you. But this was like a level beyond being competitive. I really put it in the category of obsession. I think he was just obsessed with being the best."

Bryant had prepared for his post-basketball life just as passionately as he had for his career. He had already won an Oscar for his animated short Dear Basketball. You saw the joy he had in being around his daughters and seeing the game through Gianna's eyes.

We last talked as the 10-year anniversary of the 2008 Olympics came around. Listening to the interview now, I sound nervous—awestruck in talking to a hero. For the first time, I hoped that I didn't disguise my impartiality as well as I thought I had. I commented to him that at those Beijing Olympics, it seemed like his steel exterior had cracked, that some of his NBA players had finally gotten to know him a little better, beyond just being an ultimate competitor.

He agreed, relaying that the Olympic experience of living in the same quarters and eating and training with the rest of the Redeem Team allowed him time to spend with his teammates.

"I have such a narrow focus," he said. "As you can see, I didn't have much time to socialize at all. When I wasn't training, I was writing and I was studying the art of writing, of filmmaking. My days were booked. It wasn't that I went out of my way not to be social. It was just that I was busy preparing for what I'm doing now."

A genuine love for basketball and desire to propel themselves ultimately separated the bulk of those who successfully made the transition from high school to the NBA. Kobe spent his life painstakingly and precisely extracting each strain of potential from his talents. The game coursed through his veins. His father and maternal uncle played in the NBA. Nature and nurture resulted in one beautiful, generational gift to basketball.

He had so much more to offer.

Kobe is the last person we ever expected to mourn over lost potential.

       

Jonathan Abrams is a senior writer for B/R Mag. A former staff writer at Grantland and sports reporter at the New York Times and Los Angeles Times, Abrams is also the bestselling author of All the Pieces Matter: The Inside Story of The Wire—available right here, right now. Follow him on Twitter, @jpdabrams.

"Howard, do you need me today?"

The voice came from behind me, but I knew who was asking before I turned my head.

Kobe Bryant was striding across the gym at L.A. Southwest College, heading toward the exit. Practice was over, players were slowly dispersing, and I was in the middle of asking Robert Horry about something.

Kobe was 19, a Lakers reserve in his second season. Not yet an All-Star, not yet a champion, not yet an icon or a pitchman, neither hero nor villain, and not yet a Mamba. Just "Kob," a swaggering, charismatic kid from Lower Merion High who spoke fluent Italian and played a little like Jordan.

I was one of a handful of beat writers covering the Lakers full time. Kobe and I were just getting to know each other. I hadn't seen him finish his post-practice shooting routine. He could have just left. But he stopped first.

"You need me?"

No, I said. I'm good. Even young prodigies need a break now and then.

Kobe Bryant is gone—the shock of that is still raw as I type, with unsure fingers—and we'll all search for comfort in our own memories of choice: The acrobatic plays that thrilled us. The pyrotechnic performances that inspired us. The stubborn resiliency that moved us.

In mourning, we'll celebrate Kobe's furious passion and dedication, his pure love of the game, and of family. We'll pay tribute to his athletic feats. All those points (and all those shots!), all those clutch moments, all those timely passes to Shaq and Fox and Fisher and Gasol, all those awards, all those banners and rings, all that beautiful, fluttering confetti.

Me, I'll remember his humanity. (And I know, that part of Kobe's story is as complicated as the rest of him.) NBA stars live their lives in a swirling fishbowl, their every triumph and misstep filmed, framed and cataloged. For a Lakers star, that goes 100-fold. Fame warps everything.

I saw Kobe struggle with it all at times. Saw him alienate teammates, push away relatives, turn surly and insulated. That was the Kobe Bryant who emerged in the mid-2000s—jaws clenched, chin out, domineering, merciless, the Mamba.

But the Kobe I knew those early years was warm, charming, intellectually curious, eager to make a personal connection. "Howard, you need me?"

I'll remember the day his two older sisters, Shaya and Sharia, came to watch practice, and Kobe—the proud younger brother—warmly introduced them.

I'll remember the day his high school coach visited, and Kobe impishly introduced him as "the guy who taught me not to pass."

I'll remember that June evening in 2000, Kobe sitting on a trainer's table at Staples Center, drenched in champagne, a big goofy grin on his face, a young woman cuddled up next to him. "Howard, this is Vanessa."

A year later, the Lakers claimed a second title, this time in Philadelphia. A bouncing scrum formed at one end of the locker room, champagne spraying everywhere, as Shaq led them all in a chorus of DMX's "Party Up." All except Kobe, who was quietly sitting alone in the far corner, deep in thought.

Beneath that soaring bravado and entitlement, I always sensed a vulnerability. Kobe arrived as a teenager, playing in a man's league. As a cultured suburban kid who'd spent his childhood in Italy. As a brash MJ clone, trying to claim space next to the most powerful big man in the game. As a mild introvert who eschewed the clubs and parties frequented by his older teammates.

It wasn't easy those early years, even as Kobe evolved from wunderkind to superstar. On the court and off, he was just trying to carve out an identity and a secure place, like anyone else in their early 20s. Shaq kept him at arm's length. Older teammates, drawn more to Shaq's effervescence, found it hard to connect with the more reticent Kobe.

But Kobe yearned for those connections.

"Howard, do you golf?" he asked one afternoon, gesturing toward a locker-room TV with a tournament on. No, I said. Do you? "No," he replied. "I could never play anything that I couldn't master." And you can master basketball? "Absolutely," he said. "Absolutely."

"Absolutely" was one of Kobe's go-to replies, deployed generously in interviews—the perfect verbal tic for the most confident person I've ever met. Did Kobe think he could be the next Jordan? Absolutely. Win a zillion titles? Absolutely. Lead a team without Shaq? Absolutely. Go down as one of the all-time greats? Absolutely.

Did any of this seem preordained, or certain when Kobe entered the league? Not to anyone but Kobe.

Sure, he'd been a phenom at Lower Merion, possessed of slick moves, preternatural instincts and considerable hops. But Kobe was never the biggest, the fastest, the strongest or the springiest. Vince Carter jumped higher. Allen Iverson was quicker. Tracy McGrady was taller and longer.

What lifted Kobe above them all was his intense drive and absolute focus. No one worked harder, or longer, or studied more game tape. No one I've ever met, in any walk of life, was more dedicated to their craft. To greatness.

In those early years, critics chided Kobe for modeling himself after Jordan, for poaching his moves and even mimicking his vocal cadence. How presumptuous! How audacious! Yeah, he was all of that. And he came the closest of anyone to approximating Jordan, in style and approach. Do you know how hard that is? Do you know how many would-be heirs ran from that comparison? Kobe embraced it.

Those stories about Kobe being in the gym at all hours? All true. The offseason? Never off. He once spent a summer working out alone, on an empty court, with a bunch of folding chairs serving as defenders as he practiced a variety of moves to get to the basket. It's the kind of story you might take with a grain of skepticism from anyone else. From Kobe? You know it was true. Absolutely.

Kobe didn't just dominate the game—he inspired others to do the same. An entire generation of NBA stars, from DeMar DeRozan to Kyrie Irving to Joel Embiid, counts Kobe as its role model, its inspiration, its muse (to borrow another Kobe endeavor). Damn near the entire league was on Twitter on Sunday, posting tributes and sympathies, expressing its grief.

Yet not a single team asked to cancel its games Sunday, which was appropriate. Kobe Bryant, who once shot free throws after tearing his Achilles, who played through every injury imaginable, would have been appalled by the mere suggestion. Would Kobe have wanted the games to go on? Fuck yes—and that's how he would have said it.

It wasn't just athletes who drew inspiration from Bryant. Amid the outpouring, I got a text from a friend who works in national politics, who said he "tried to model my work ethic after Kobe."

Kobe poured himself just as fully and passionately into his post-basketball career, making films and TV shows and children's books, winning an Oscar and an Emmy to go with his five championship rings.

He could have retired, relaxed, joined the PTA and drove his daughters to school every day. But that's not Kobe. He opened a basketball campus, the Mamba Sports Academy, and put a special emphasis on teaching girls the game. He championed female athletes, recently proclaiming that some WNBA players could compete in the NBA right now.

And he passed on that passion and meticulous work ethic to his second-oldest daughter, 13-year-old Gianna, who died in the same helicopter crash that killed Kobe on Sunday in Calabasas, California. They were, naturally, on their way to a game.

It's been several hours since the news broke. My fingers are still trembling, my throat swollen, my head in a fog. In this job, you never know an athlete as well as you think you do, or would like to.

But I know this: Kobe cared deeply. About basketball. About legacy. About family. About being the best he could possibly be in whatever he was doing at that moment, whether playing, parenting or creating.

Weeks before he retired in 2016, I paid Kobe a brief visit after a Lakers game. I told him I wanted to say thanks and congratulations. I wasn't planning to attend his final game.

"What?!" he bellowed, with a glare and a smile. "You can't be here at 17 and not be here for fuckin' 37, man!" He smacked me on the chest with the back of his hand. "Come on, man! Finish the journey, man!"

And so I did—and got to witness the greatest send-off game a player has ever scripted.

I had the privilege of watching and writing about Kobe just about every day for seven years in L.A., and sporadically after moving to New York in 2004. We writers are only as good as the material we work with—the people we encounter, the performances we witness, the characters we explore.

Kobe provided so much, for so many. And for that, I'm forever indebted.

"Howard, do you need me?"

Yes. Yes, I did. Thanks, Kob.

     

Howard Beck, a senior writer for Bleacher Report, has been covering the NBA full time since 1997, including seven years on the Laker beat for the Los Angeles Daily News and nine years as a staff writer for the New York Times. His coverage was honored by APSE in 2016 and 2017, and by the Professional Basketball Writers Association in 2018.

Beck also hosts the Full 48 podcast, available on iTunes.

Follow him on Twitter, @HowardBeck.

Few people understand the difference between suiting up for the Los Angeles Lakers and Los Angeles Clippers better than Lou Williams.

After all, he played for the Purple and Gold during the 2015-16 and 2016-17 seasons and is now anchoring the Clippers' second unit as they pursue their first championship in franchise history. He understands the Lakers are the dominant team with the history of titles, but he also isn't backing down from the challenge.

Williams, who was traded to the Clippers by the Houston Rockets in 2017, told Drew Ruiz of Slam:

"This is a Laker town. There ain't no confusion about that. That's perfectly fine with us. We prefer it for the odds to go against us. I think that brings the best out of us. I think that's just the difference [between] playing for the Clippers and the Lakers. So much is expected of the Lakers from the beginning and it's, like, surprising if we do something."

The Clippers are primed to do something.

They acquired Kawhi Leonard and Paul George this offseason, giving them a duo of superstars to match the LeBron James and Anthony Davis combination the Lakers boast. They also have an impressive collection of role players, including Williams, Patrick Beverley, Montrezl Harrell and Landry Shamet.

What's more, Doc Rivers' team is 31-13—third-best in the NBA—and are already 2-0 against their Staples Center rivals. The Clippers are within striking distance of the 34-9 Lakers for the No. 1 seed in the Western Conference, even though George has played 26 games because of injuries.

It is not difficult to envision a scenario when the two L.A. teams play each other in the Western Conference Finals.

Williams will be ready, even if the Lakers are the ones with 16 NBA championship banners hanging in the rafters.

It's time for the 2020 NFL Pro Bowl, folks! While the annual exhibition doesn't feature as many top-end stars as it once did—it's an honor to be nominated, not to actually play in the game—this is still the last chance for fans to catch some of their favorite players in action before Super Bowl LIV.

And if your favorite team isn't the Kansas City Chiefs or the San Francisco 49ers, this is your last chance to see many players suit up before next preseason.

Will any of your favorites actually be on the field this Sunday? Which players have elected to participate, and which ones have come in to replace members of the Chiefs and 49ers?

Here, we'll take a look at the latest AFC and NFC rosters (as of January 22), along with viewing information and some roster notes.

         

2020 NFL Pro Bowl

When: Sunday, January 26 at 3 p.m. ET

Where: Camping World Stadium in Orlando Florida

TV and Live Stream: ESPN, WatchESPN

    

Pro Bowl Rosters

*Starters are listed in Bold

*Players who will forgo the event are marked with a "*" symbol.

*Players who were named to the roster as replacements are marked with a "#" symbol

       

AFC Offense

QB: Lamar Jackson (Saints), Deshaun Watson (Texans), *Patrick Mahomes (Chiefs), #Ryan Tannehill (Titans)

RB: Nick Chubb (Browns), Derrick Henry (Titans), Mark Ingram (Ravens)

FB: Patrick Ricard (Ravens)

TE: *Travis Kelce (Chiefs), Mark Andrews (Ravens), #Jack Doyle (Colts)

WR: Keenan Allen (Chargers), *DeAndre Hopkins (Texans), Jarvis Landry (Browns), *Tyreek Hill (Chiefs), Courtland Sutton (Broncos), DJ Chark Jr. (Jaguars)

OT: Ronnie Stanley (Ravens), Laremy Tunsil (Texans), *Trent Brown (Raiders), #Orlando Brown (Ravens)

OG: Marshal Yanda (Ravens), Quenton Nelson (Colts), *David DeCastro (Steelers), #Joel Bitonio (Browns)

C: *Maurkice Pouncy (Steelers), Rodney Hudson (Raiders), #Ryan Kelly (Colts)

        

AFC Defense

DE: *Joey Bosa (Chargers), *Frank Clark (Chiefs), Calais Campbell (Jaguars), #Melvin Ingram (Chargers), #Josh Allen (Jaguars)

DT: Cameron Heyward (Steelers), *Chris Jones (Chiefs), Geno Atkins (Bengals), #Jurrell Casey (Titans)

OLB: Von Miller (Broncos), T.J. Watt (Steelers), Matt Judon (Ravens)

ILB: Darius Leonard (Colts), *Dont'a Hightower (Patriots), #Tremaine Edmunds (Bills)

CB: Stephon Gilmore (Patriots), Tre'Davious White (Bills), *Marcus Peters (Ravens), Marlon Humphrey (Ravens), #Joe Haden (Steelers)

FS: Minkah Fitzpatrick (Steelers), Earl Thomas (Ravens)

SS: Jamal Adams (Jets)

        

AFC Special Teams

K: Justin Tucker (Ravens)

LS: Morgan Cox (Ravens)

P: Brett Kern (Titans)

RS: *Mecole Hardman (Chiefs), #Andre Roberts (Bills)

ST: Matthew Slater (Patriots)

         

NFC Offense

QB: Russell Wilson (Seahawks), Drew Brees (Saints), *Aaron Rodgers (Packers), #Kirk Cousins (Vikings)

RB: Dalvin Cook (Vikings), *Christian McCaffrey (Panthers), Ezekiel Elliott (Cowboys), #Alvin Kamara (Saints)

FB: *Kyle Juszczyk (49ers), #C.J. Ham (Vikings)

TE: *George Kittle (49ers), Zach Ertz (Eagles), #Austin Hooper (Falcons)

WR: *Julio Jones (Falcons), Michael Thomas (Saints), *Chris Godwin (Buccaneers), *Mike Evans (Buccaneers), #Kenny Golladay (Lions), #Amari Cooper (Cowboys), #Davante Adams (Packers)

OT: *David Bakhtiari (Packers), Tyron Smith (Cowboys), Terron Armstead (Saints), #Lane Johnson (Eagles)

OG: Zack Martin (Cowboys), *Brandon Brooks (Eagles), Brandon Scherff (Redskins), #Trai Turner (Panthers)

C: Jason Kelce (Eagles), Travis Frederick (Cowboys)

           

NFC Defense

DE: Cameron Jordan (Saints), *Nick Bosa (49ers), #Danielle Hunter (Vikings)

DT: *Aaron Donald (Rams), Fletcher Cox (Eagles), Grady Jarrett (Falcons), #Kenny Clark (Packers)

OLB: Chandler Jones (Cardinals), *Khalil Mack (Bears), Shaquil Barrett (Buccaneers), #Za'Darius Smith (Packers)

ILB: *Bobby Wagner (Seahawks), *Luke Kuechly (Panthers), #Jaylon Smith (Cowboys), #Eric Kendricks (Vikings)

CB: Marshon Lattimore (Saints), *Richard Sherman (49ers), Darius Slay (Lions), *Jalen Ramsey (Rams), #Kyle Fuller (Bears), #Xavier Rhodes (Vikings)

FS: Budda Baker (Cardinals), Eddie Jackson (Bears)

SS: Harrison Smith (Vikings)

       

NFC Special Teams

K: Will Lutz (Saints)

LS: Rick Lovato (Eagles)

P: Tress Way (Redskins)

RS: Deonte Harris (Saints)

ST: Cordarrelle Patterson (Bears)

         

Notes

*The Baltimore Ravens, who were ousted in the divisional round, had a whopping 12 players selected to the Pro Bowl. Of them, only cornerback Marcus Peters is expected to miss the exhibition, as he backed out with an undisclosed injury.

*With Baltimore tackle Orlando Brown replacing Trent Brown of the Oakland Raiders, the Ravens will still have 12 players in the game on Sunday.

*Tennessee Titans quarterback Ryan Tannehill is in as an alternate, replacing Super Bowl-bound Patrick Mahomes. Tannehill made his first 2019 start in Week 7.

*Cleveland Browns running back Nick Chubb was voted the AFC's starting running back over Tennessee's Derrick Henry. Henry snatched the NFL rushing title away from Chubb with a 211-yard performance in Week 17, winning the title by a mere 46 yards.

*The NFL will test out a new kickoff alternative in this year's Pro Bowl. After a team scores, it will be able to either give possession to the opposition at its 25-yard line or attempt a 4th-and-15 from its own 25-yard line. Should the NFL adopt this rule, it will likely mean the end of return specialists and special teamers in the Pro Bowl.

As much as the NBA has tried to discourage personal grudge matches with quick technicals, flagrant fouls and even suspensions, a few heated rivalries have survived. Russell Westbrook and Patrick Beverley have had an ongoing feud for years now. Joel Embiid and Karl-Anthony Towns have wrestled both on the court and on their social media feeds.

But there's really only one NBA rivalry that matters now. The one that features the only two superstars who have proven championship pedigrees and the requisite talent around them to get another one. The one where there is too much at stake—and healthy respect—to be cluttered by trash talk on the court or through a keyboard. One that is unusually intimate in that the combatants share the same city and the same building yet is stoked by starkly different personalities and approaches to the game. And one that might have a chance, if the basketball gods allow, to join the league's pantheon of historic confrontations, those forged by fierce playoff battles in which the winner claims the crown.

Not that anyone who is, or has been, around LeBron James and Kawhi Leonard expects them to admit they have one another in their respective crosshairs. (Whether it's in their much-awaited rematch Christmas Day or at some point in the playoffs, count on them talking about their teams more than any individual challenge.) But those on their teams nevertheless know there's something personal at stake.

"They'll never acknowledge it, but I think under the table, yeah," Clippers forward Patrick Patterson says. "You've got two guys in L.A., of all places, who are both eyeing the same prize and are on tremendous teams and have a tremendous chance of making it to a championship and winning it. Our goal, first and foremost, is to get to the postseason, but I think there's a little eyeing going back and forth. There's got to be."

Patterson's proverbial table may be made of glass, though, considering James and Leonard haven't fully concealed their desire for superiority over the other. Leonard's New Balance shoe commercial dropped the day he faced James in the season opener, declaring Los Angeles as "his city," and it included a shot of Leonard's key chain with a tiny crown hanging from it, a symbolic jab at James' "King" nickname.

Even without the ad, the way the two performed later that night made it clear how badly they wanted to establish who rightfully can claim L.A. as their domain. James made second and third efforts around the rim, playing a level of defense not seen from him in years and even taking a charge, all for an early 13-2 Lakers lead. Leonard answered every big shot James made with one of his own and helped hold both LeBron and Anthony Davis to two points combined in the fourth quarter. Result: Leonard finished with a game-high 30 points, and the Clippers were never threatened over the final seven minutes of a 112-102 win.

Then there was James' recent disparaging comments about load management, a term associated with Leonard's habit of missing games last year in Toronto as well as this season with the Clippers. Coach Doc Rivers, who responded by derisively saying the Lakers' load-management philosophy "is whatever LeBron says it is," suspects there was some mental warfare behind LeBron's remarks. "Everybody has a reason for saying whatever they say," Rivers says.

An Eastern Conference general manager, his identity concealed because the league prohibits executives from discussing other teams' players, agrees that the James-Leonard rivalry is apparent to him, even if the combatants won't come right out and say it.

"I would say there's mutual respect but that there's an appropriate level of fear as well," the GM says. "They know each other are really talented. But there's not a lot of admiration. I don't see them going out to dinner."

Clippers center Ivica Zubac, who played with James before being traded across town last season, echoed that sentiment. "I've played with both, and they're big competitors," he says. "I'm sure they've got that mentality."

The advantage James enjoyed in the Eastern Conference for so many years is that he knew there was not another superstar who understood what it took to develop and deliver a championship team. The two met in the Finals twice when James was with the Miami Heat and Leonard was still in San Antonio. James and the Heat came from behind to win the first time in seven games. Leonard and the Spurs completed a season-long mission for revenge in a five-game series the following year.

They know each other are really talented. But there's not a lot of admiration. I don't see them going out to dinner.
— Eastern Conference GM on the LeBron-Kawhi relationship

To say those were James-Leonard-centric battles, though, wouldn't be accurate to Richard Jefferson, who played in San Antonio during Leonard's rookie year and went to the Finals twice with James in Cleveland before retiring two years ago.

"We say that Kawhi has beat LeBron, but he had three other Hall of Famers on his team," Jefferson says of the Spurs' 2014 championship squad. "Mind you, they were going to pass the torch to him. But Tim Duncan was still one of the best bigs. He had arguably the greatest coach in modern-day basketball in Gregg Popovich. People make it seem like it was a Kawhi-LeBron series. That couldn't be any further from the truth."

Lakers guard Danny Green, who played with Leonard both in that series and last year in Toronto, agrees, even though Leonard was the Finals MVP.

"When he won Finals MVP, it was up for grabs—a lot of different guys could've won it," Green says. "I don't think he really came into his own until the year after that."

No one disputes, however, that Leonard was the driving force behind the Toronto Raptors' title last season. And although he didn't have to go through James, another Eastern Conference GM is convinced the psychological advantage James enjoys against everyone else doesn't apply to Leonard. At least not in Leonard's mind.

"Kawhi knows, 'Oh, I can get him,'" the GM says. "And LeBron knows he knows."

The desire to prove that, head-on, has been brewing for a while. Memphis Grizzlies forward Kyle Anderson spent his first four seasons in San Antonio, Leonard's last four there.

"When you had a guy like LeBron come in [to town], you could tell Kawhi wanted to make a name for himself and show the world he was up there [with James]," Anderson says. "I would've been shocked if he went to the Lakers. I don't take him for the kind of guy who wants to play with the best; he wants to prove he's the best. If there's anybody in the league ready to step up to LeBron, it's Kawhi."

Giannis Antetokounmpo of the Milwaukee Bucks, the reigning league MVP, also has a team capable of vying for a championship and potentially crossing paths with either James or Leonard in the Finals. But after looking overmatched versus Leonard and the Raptors last May in the Eastern Conference Finals, it's unclear if Antetokounmpo can harness his extraordinary "freakish" athletic skills to make the crunch-time plays that result in titles.

"LeBron and Kawhi are traditional great players," Jefferson says. "Good defense, big shots, big plays. A guy like Giannis, he's so physically different in the way that he plays; it's just different."

The stark contrast in personalities between James and Leonard also mirrors some of the all-time great rivalries—Muhammad Ali vs. Joe Frazier, Magic Johnson vs. Larry Bird or Kevin Garnett vs. Tim Duncan, to name a few. James is Ali/Magic/KG as the brash, emotional talkative type, while Leonard is stoic, no-nonsense and seemingly unflappable in the mold of Frazier/Bird/TD.

If there's anybody in the league ready to step up to LeBron, it's Kawhi.
— Memphis Grizzlies forward Kyle Anderson

"Kawhi is not wired to overthink any situation," Jefferson says. "He's very RoboCop, robotic. These are compliments. I've seen him with a block for a game-winner, hit a game-winning jump shot, and he walks off. There's no yelling. No excitement. That's just his personality. His heart rate never goes up or down. He has shown emotion, but emotion is not a part of his game.

"Emotion is very much a part of LeBron's game. He has apologized in film sessions for his body language before. He's an emotional person."

Jefferson also notes that those personalities reflect the way they wield their talent.

"LeBron is going to be talking everything out, mentally trying to beat you, getting 10, 12 assists and making everybody else better," Jefferson says. "Kawhi puts his head down and says, 'My job is to defend, to defend all things, and then go score.' He does those two things as well as anyone has done them in the game of basketball, where LeBron tries to do five things very, very well."

In both cases, though, there's never a doubt about who is in charge. Even when they defer, in James' case to forward Anthony Davis, or Paul George in Leonard's case, they made the decision that was the best strategy in the moment. That when-and-where awareness, on a championship level, is what Antetokounmpo has yet to master, or at least prove.

"It's fun to be a part of but watch at the same time," Patterson says. "'Chess match' is a perfect thing to call it. Each possession matters more than the [last] one, and when you're out there sometimes you get a little ooh-ahhy, watching each possession, whether it's them trying to take advantage of something they see with us and being vocal about it, or with us doing the same thing. Playing with and for guys who have been in that situation and know what it takes to win championships, it's cool to see and something you definitely appreciate at the same time."

How much George's decision to pass on joining James with the Lakers when he could have as a free agent before last season adds to the emotional bouillabaisse of the rivalry is hard to determine. It was only a year later, though, when George, a Lakers fan as a kid, asked his way out of Oklahoma City to finally get back to L.A. and join the Clippers and Leonard.

The first Eastern Conference GM believes George's move was more of a business decision than an emotional one, adding that it also reflected how Leonard was following James' lead in not only deciding where he wanted to play but also in directing how the team was built around him before he committed.

Leonard, 28, and George, 29, are close in age, while James is about to turn 35. "There probably hasn't been enough credit given to how Kawhi orchestrated all that," he says. "Kawhi looked at joining LeBron on the Lakers and said, 'I'd be helping him with his legacy more than mine. Oh, and by the way, Paul George and I fit the same timeline. I think some serious thought went into that."

For the Leonard-James rivalry to enter the pantheon of the aforementioned classics, of course, they need to create more history. For one Western Conference vice president, there's no time to waste.

"It has to happen now," he says. "You just hope injuries don't happen. And hopefully it's not just one year. Hopefully it's two or three. But you want to see them in the conference finals this year."

Green hopes for the same.

"I think everybody is picturing that down the line, hoping for that and wanting that," Green says. "Guys have thought about it. It's crossed their mind. But we've been in this league long enough to know not everything plays out the way [we] want it to."

That certainly will be the case for James and Leonard. At least one of them.

    

Ric Bucher covers the NBA for Bleacher Report. Follow him on Twitter, @RicBucher.

NFL owners reportedly want to offset the rising costs of SoFi Stadium in Los Angeles, which has seen its cost balloon to an estimated $5 billion, by asking the players to offset some of those costs in collective bargaining agreement talks.

Dan Patrick said on his eponymous radio show Wednesday: 

"The league is proposing that maybe they give players 49 percent of the revenue, but they want to use the extra money they get—the percentage [point] is about $150 million I was told—they want the players to then help finance the Los Angeles stadium. We'll give you 49 percent of the revenue, but we want to use 2 percent of that revenue—so $300 million over the next couple years—to help the stadium."

DP heard from a source that old school owners don't want 17 games and they're having problems with LA stadium pic.twitter.com/LDK3PIBezj

— Dan Patrick Show (@dpshow) October 16, 2019

Originally projected at a $2.5 billion price tag, SoFi Stadium has seen its cost rise precipitously ahead of its 2020 opening. Kroenke Sports & Entertainment, which owns the Rams, is privately financing the stadium.

Patrick notes that it's unlikely that the players would agree to any CBA in which they help finance a stadium. Ownership was entirely responsible for approving the plan, along with the Rams and Chargers relocating to Los Angeles. SoFi will be the home for the two L.A. franchises.

Players currently receive 47 percent of revenue under the CBA signed in 2011. That deal is due to expire after next season, but the two sides have been in negotiations about striking a potential compromise early. Patrick said owners have targeted Thanksgiving as their preferred date, which would give them a united front going into renegotiations of the league's television deals, which are also nearing their conclusions.

Owners have also been pushing for an additional regular-season game and/or an expansion of the playoffs as a way to generate revenue. Given there has been no formal agreement on any of these tentpole issues, these goals seem particularly unlikely.