Kobe Bryant lies back on his king-size bed in his house atop L.A.'s Temescal Canyon, oblivious to the top-of-the-world view from every window. If he looked up, he could see Catalina Island floating on the Pacific Ocean horizon. If he stepped out onto his balcony and glanced left, he'd see miles and miles of coastline, including the open ocean where he and his trainer unwittingly jet-skied with a tornado warning in effect. (Picture Jerry West finding that out.) If he looked down and, uh, hard right, he'd have a perfect view of Catherine Zeta-Jones' tanning deck. Just beyond that is the sprawling roof of his parents' house. In the corner there's the 80" TV and stacks upon stacks of video tapes, and downstairs there's a full-size billiard table. Just beyond the balcony there's the pool and the Jacuzzi.
But none of this exists for Kobe at the moment. Instead, his eyes are trained on the shadows beneath an antique desk just inside his bedroom door. More specifically, he's locked in on a tiny boutique trash basket tucked hard against the desk's back left leg. It's the kind of basket that barely holds a coffee cup and three crumpled sheets of paper. Objective: Fire the blue plastic water-bottle cap pinched between his right thumb and index finger into that foofy little basket.
What with the basket's slender mouth, the shadows, the 25 feet of distance, the narrow angle from the bed and the corner of a black-leather couch pinching the sightline, most people, on a lark, might give it one futile try. Not Kobe. He shoots once, then gets up, hunts down the cap, returns to the bed, reclines and fires again. And misses again. And again. The ocean view, the TV, the video games, the hot tub and the pool table, it's all right there. Not one of the near 19,000 who fill Staples Center this postseason and scream his name, begging him to do something spectacular, is watching. Vanessa Laine, his fiancee, is nowhere to be found. He's All-Star starter, an All-NBA second teamer and All-Defensive first teamer who has restored Laker pride by guiding L.A. to its first Finals since 1990-91. And still he fires the blue cap. And still he misses. And still he tries again. More than 100 attempts and he's still at it. Missing. Retrieving. Firing again. Not once does he think it won't be good.
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