March hit different.
The gyms were bigger. Louder. Colder somehow. Neutral floors across Pennsylvania, packed with teams that had survived long enough to believe they belonged there.
Lower Merion did belong.
They were officially in the PIAA Class AAAA State Tournament, and for the first time, this wasn't just a Philly story. Newspapers across the state were running the same photo. A freshman point guard with a calm face and an old-man game.
The bracket was everywhere. Printed out and taped to locker room walls. Talked about on radio shows. Argued over at breakfast tables.
Single elimination.
One bad night, and it was over.
As District 1 champs, Lower Merion drew a manageable first-round opponent. On paper, it was a relief. In Kobe's head, it meant nothing.
Easy rounds were where teams got sloppy.
The night before the game, Kobe had everyone in the film room. The tape wasn't flashy. No hype edits. Just possessions.
"Watch their closeouts," he said, rewinding. "They overrun shooters. One pump fake and it's a lane."
He paused again.
"They don't like pressure on the inbound. We press for thirty seconds, make them feel it."
The guys nodded, tired but locked in.
The 9:00 PM curfew stayed. No exceptions. Ice baths. Stretching. Lights out. Kobe ran it like a playoff rotation, even if their bodies weren't fully ready for it.
Some of them were dragging now. Legs heavy. Minds worn. The grind was real.
Kobe saw it—and pushed anyway.
"This is what separates teams," he told them quietly. "Everybody's tired in March. The ones who win are just willing to be tired longer."
Late that night, alone in his room, Kobe looked ahead.
Not to the first game.
To HersheyPark Arena.
He could already see it. The big floor. The banners. The sound. The weight of a state title that wasn't supposed to be possible yet.
//
The second round erased any illusion that this was going to be easy.
They drew a District 3 team built like a football squad—thick shoulders, strong hands, no interest in finesse. From the opening possession, it was body-on-body. Screens hit harder. Box-outs turned into wrestling matches. Every drive ended on the floor.
The refs let it go.
Kobe adjusted immediately.
He slowed the game down, not by dribbling more, but by being smarter. He initiated contact instead of absorbing it. On drives, he brought the ball low, tucked his shoulder just enough, forced defenders to reach.
Rip-through. Whistle.
Pump fake. Defender leaves his feet. Whistle.
Post-up from the mid-post. Defender leans. Whistle.
It wasn't flashy. It was surgical.
By halftime, the other team's best defender had two fouls and frustration written all over his face. By the fourth quarter, their legs were gone.
Lower Merion's weren't.
The early mornings. The recovery work. The conditioning that felt pointless in December—it showed now. Kobe rotated bodies constantly, trusted his bench, kept the pressure steady. No panic. No rush.
Late in the fourth, while the District 3 team bent over at the free-throw line, Kobe was still bouncing on his toes.
Another win. Another bus ride home.
The Eastern Final was different.
This wasn't strength versus skill. This was skill versus skill. A top-tier eastern Pennsylvania program—disciplined, well-coached, confident they could finally crack the Lower Merion code.
They couldn't.
But it took everything.
The game was tight from the opening tip. Every run was answered. Every adjustment countered. For the first time all postseason, Kobe saw it clearly—
They need me to score.
So he did.
Pull-ups over contests.
Backdoor cuts when defenders overplayed.
Turnaround jumpers from spots he knew by heart.
Free throws, one after another, late in the clock.
No wasted motion. No heat checks.
Just buckets.
By the time it was over, Kobe had over forty points, and the gym felt drained. The other team had defended him the right way. It just hadn't mattered.
Lower Merion was heading to Hershey.
That night, the noise exploded.
USA Today ran the story on the front of the sports section. Not buried. Not regional.
A freshman.
A state title run.
A question nobody was supposed to ask yet.
Is he already NBA-ready?
College coaches didn't hide it anymore. They talked openly about one-and-done before the term even existed. About skipping college entirely. About a timeline that suddenly felt accelerated.
Kobe ignored all of it.
He sat on the edge of his bed, ice wrapped around his knees, notebook open.
One game left.
And he knew—better than anyone—that the hardest one always waited at the end.
The second round erased any illusion that this was going to be easy.
They drew a District 3 team built like a football squad—thick shoulders, strong hands, no interest in finesse. From the opening possession, it was body-on-body. Screens hit harder. Box-outs turned into wrestling matches. Every drive ended on the floor.
The refs let it go.
Kobe adjusted immediately.
He slowed the game down, not by dribbling more, but by being smarter. He initiated contact instead of absorbing it. On drives, he brought the ball low, tucked his shoulder just enough, forced defenders to reach.
Rip-through. Whistle.
Pump fake. Defender leaves his feet. Whistle.
Post-up from the mid-post. Defender leans. Whistle.
It wasn't flashy. It was surgical.
By halftime, the other team's best defender had two fouls and frustration written all over his face. By the fourth quarter, their legs were gone.
Lower Merion's weren't.
The early mornings. The recovery work. The conditioning that felt pointless in December—it showed now. Kobe rotated bodies constantly, trusted his bench, kept the pressure steady. No panic. No rush.
Late in the fourth, while the District 3 team bent over at the free-throw line, Kobe was still bouncing on his toes.
Another win. Another bus ride home.
The Eastern Final was different.
This wasn't strength versus skill. This was skill versus skill. A top-tier eastern Pennsylvania program—disciplined, well-coached, confident they could finally crack the Lower Merion code.
They couldn't.
But it took everything.
The game was tight from the opening tip. Every run was answered. Every adjustment countered. For the first time all postseason, Kobe saw it clearly—
They need me to score.
So he did.
Pull-ups over contests.
Backdoor cuts when defenders overplayed.
Turnaround jumpers from spots he knew by heart.
Free throws, one after another, late in the clock.
No wasted motion. No heat checks.
Just buckets.
By the time it was over, Kobe had over forty points, and the gym felt drained. The other team had defended him the right way. It just hadn't mattered.
Lower Merion was heading to Hershey.
That night, the noise exploded.
USA Today ran the story on the front of the sports section. Not buried. Not regional.
A freshman.
A state title run.
A question nobody was supposed to ask yet.
Is he already NBA-ready?
College coaches didn't hide it anymore. They talked openly about one-and-done before the term even existed. About skipping college entirely. About a timeline that suddenly felt accelerated.
Kobe ignored all of it.
He sat on the edge of his bed, ice wrapped around his knees, notebook open.
One game left.
And he knew—better than anyone—that the hardest one always waited at the end.