Bynum leaped and won the tip, slapping the ball cleanly toward the Lakers' side.
Lakers ball.
From the opening second, Kobe Bryant was locked in—shoulders rolling, eyes narrowed, every muscle coiled like a spring. No warm-up. No easing in.
He caught the inbounds pass just beyond the left three-point line with Gilbert Arenas glued to his hip. Three hard jab steps, testing the big guard's balance.
Arenas stayed low and rock-solid. No bite.
Kobe suddenly exploded right, two thunderous dribbles, shoulder dipping into Arenas' chest.
Arenas slid his feet perfectly, absorbing the contact without giving an inch.
Odom sprinted up from the top of the key and set a single screen.
The instant Arenas got hung up—
Kobe used that sliver of daylight. He rose, body fading backward, knees bent deep, wrist flicking with surgical precision.
The ball floated just over Arenas' outstretched fingertips.
Swish.
Nothing but net. Clean.
2-0.
Kobe opened the game with a filthy high-difficulty long two.
Lakers strike first.
The Verizon Center let out a low groan.
Wizards ball.
Their plan was crystal clear—attack.
Arenas brought it up, used a quick screen to blow past Kobe, and barreled toward the paint.
Before Odom could fully rotate, he whipped a no-look pass to Caron Butler on the wing.
Butler pump-faked once, then exploded downhill.
Link closed out hard, feet chopping, arms high.
Butler lowered his shoulder and slammed into Link's chest—full 235 pounds of power.
Link's ribs still remembered the last hard foul, but he held ground, giving up just half a step.
Butler spun on his left foot, faded away, and let it fly—his signature kill shot, silky and effortless.
The ball kissed Link's fingertips… and dropped through the net.
2-2.
The former Laker was now the Wizards' sharpest blade.
Lakers ball.
Link started in the right corner, then flashed hard across the baseline to the wing at the free-throw line.
"They're running elevator doors—switch!" Smush Parker barked from the point, voice tight.
He knew exactly what was coming.
The Wizards had studied the tape.
When Kobe delivered the pass to Link's hands—
Butler had already fought through the double screen, arms spread wide like wings, completely taking away the shot.
The play died right there.
"Beautiful D, Caron!" Parker shouted, pumping his fist.
But Link wasn't the rookie who lived and died by open threes anymore.
Facing Butler, he gave one quick jab step… then exploded straight up—release point ridiculously high, like he was reaching for the rafters.
Butler's maximum leap barely grazed Link's nose.
The ball climbed in a perfect rainbow arc.
Swish.
Nothing but net. Three-pointer.
5-2.
Parker's grin froze on his face.
Wizards ball.
Parker crossed half-court, called a couple of screens.
When Link switched onto him and Jamison tried to come set another pick—
Parker waved Jamison away.
Link raised an eyebrow. This version of Smush still wanted to go one-on-one?
He dropped into a low, wide stance, arms outstretched, feet glued to the hardwood like magnets.
Parker suddenly burst right, lightning-quick in-and-out dribble, ball to his left hand.
Then a blur of a spin move and a soft floater.
It looked smooth on film.
But against the new Link? Harmless.
Link slid his feet in perfect sync, timed the spin, and rose like a rocket.
SMACK!
A clean, violent block!
The ball flew all the way past the three-point line. Kobe snatched the long rebound.
Lakers pushed instantly—two-on-one fast break.
Kobe drew the lone defender, then threw a gorgeous behind-the-back pass to a flying Link.
Link caught it in stride, ignored Parker chasing desperately from behind, cocked the ball back with one arm, and threw down a thunderous one-handed tomahawk.
BOOM!!!
The rim shook violently. The backboard rattled.
7-2.
Lakers off to a scorching start.
Running back on defense, Link shrugged at Parker with a smirk. "Save your legs, Smush. You're not getting past me tonight."
Parker was breathing heavy, glaring at Link's back, teeth clenched so hard his jaw flexed.
Next few possessions.
The Wizards got one back on a strong drive from Arenas.
But the Lakers answered immediately—Link was heating up.
He caught it at the elbow, rose over his man, and drained a smooth mid-range jumper.
Then, on defense, he jumped a passing lane, picked off another sloppy feed from Parker, and zipped it ahead to Kobe for a soaring alley-oop slam.
With Kobe and Link running the show, the entire Lakers squad was clicking—everyone moving, cutting, sharing.
Midway through the first quarter: Lakers 16, Wizards 9. Seven-point lead.
The Wizards coach had no choice. Timeout.
Parker was 0-for-3 against Link and looked lost.
As he walked to the bench, Arenas got right in his face and roared, "Hey man! You see me wide open or what?!"
Parker didn't say a word. He just dropped his head.
The General's temper was legendary.
The home crowd was strangely quiet. Scattered cheers, mostly nervous murmurs.
On the Lakers bench, Phil Jackson clapped sharply. "That's how we start! Keep the aggression. Stay connected."
"Next, watch Gilbert—he's going to hunt screens and attack the paint hard—"
Timeout over.
Just like the Zen Master predicted—Gilbert took the wheel.
The pace jumped instantly.
Arenas ditched the complicated sets. One quick hand signal—Jamison stepped up for a high screen.
Kobe fought over it.
Arenas didn't hesitate. He dribbled back a step, planted, and rose up.
Swish.
Three-pointer from the wing.
Backpedaling, Arenas shook his head and grinned.
"Can't guard me, Kobe!"
Still the same cocky superstar.
And tonight he had every right to be.
Next possession.
Kobe tried to answer the exact same way—iso, fadeaway.
Brick. Butler crashed the glass, outlet to Arenas.
The Wizards' big three flew down the floor like a freight train.
Arenas attacked the middle of the court, eyes darting left and right, scanning for passes.
Kobe stayed glued to him, hands high, ready to slap any dish.
But right at the logo—
Arenas pulled up. No warning. No gather.
Kobe was a half-step late—he couldn't even jump.
The shot was three full steps behind the three-point line.
The arc was ridiculous—sky-high, like a moonshot.
The entire arena held its breath.
One heartbeat of silence…
Swish.
Three!
Arenas had six straight points.
Score flipped to 16-13.
"WOOOOOW!!!"
The Verizon Center detonated—fans leaping out of seats, towels waving, the roof nearly coming off.
"I told you! I told you! You can't guard me!"
Arenas pounded his chest with both fists, screaming directly at Kobe.
Kobe's expression turned ice-cold.
Two straight buckets in his face.
It brought back every memory of that December night when Arenas dropped 60 on him in this same building.
Same disrespectful, logo-deep threes.
Sideline, Phil Jackson stood up fast, ready to signal for timeout.
Kobe threw up a hand sharply—no.
"No timeout. I got this."
The tension in the building shot through the roof.
Fans were on their feet, roaring, smelling blood.
This was the exact script they came for.
Two alpha dogs going at it—superstar versus superstar.
Kobe marched straight to the sideline, called for the ball, and waved every teammate out to the corners.
Phil Jackson's face tightened.
Kobe was going one-on-five again.
Once the Mamba flipped that switch, the offense became Kobe versus the entire world.
Exactly what the head coach hated to see.
---