By late summer, people were starting to notice.
Open gym at Lower Merion was supposed to be loose. Run a little. Get shots up. Shake off rust before the season. Instead, it was starting to feel like something else entirely.
Gregg Downer leaned against the wall near the weight room entrance, arms crossed, eyes locked on the court.
He was still new to this job. New to the pressure of fixing a program that hadn't mattered in a while. He knew what raw talent looked like. He knew hustle. He knew kids who worked hard.
This was different.
The kid with the ball—Bryant—was only fourteen. Everyone in the gym knew that. They'd seen him around, skinny, quiet, always early. But watching him play made that fact feel wrong.
It wasn't just that he was scoring.
It was how he was doing it.
Kobe brought the ball up, already scanning. Before the defense could even set, he pointed.
"Switch left."
"Stay home."
"Cut."
The older guys hesitated—just half a second—but that was enough. Kobe slipped a bounce pass through traffic, hit a cutter in stride, then relocated to the corner without watching the ball.
Swish.
No celebration. Already jogging back on defense.
Downer frowned.
The footwork caught his eye next. Kobe wasn't rushing. He wasn't dancing. Every move had a reason. He pivoted clean. Used angles like he'd been taught by someone who understood spacing at a higher level.
When a senior tried to body him up, Kobe absorbed it, spun off contact, and finished soft off the glass. When they overplayed him, he back-cut them without mercy.
He rarely forced anything.
That was the part that bothered Downer—in a good way.
Most kids with talent wanted to prove it. Kobe didn't look like he had anything to prove. He looked like he was managing the game.
At one point, a fast break broke down. The ball stalled. Kobe waved it off, slowed things down, then called for a simple screen. The defense relaxed for a beat.
Wrong move.
He split them, kicked to the wing, and pointed again as the shot went up.
"Box out."
Downer exhaled through his nose.
This kid plays like he's been here before.
From Kobe's side, everything felt quiet.
The court made sense. The reads were obvious. These guys were athletic, sure—but they reacted late. They guessed instead of knowing. He could see plays forming seconds before they happened.
He kept his shot count low. Took open threes. Finished clean looks. Passed out of traffic without thinking twice.
Efficiency over ego.
When the scrimmage ended, the older players bent over, hands on knees. One of them laughed, shaking his head.
"Man… that kid ain't normal."
Kobe grabbed water, calm, breathing steady.
Across the gym, Gregg Downer kept watching him, trying to figure out what he was missing.
Whatever this was—it wasn't just talent.