75: Chapter 75 Kobe's autograph

"Chen Mo."

"I know who you are." Kobe held the ball under his arm, "My daughter, Gianna, she's nine years old and loves your songs. Last month, she played one of your songs in the car. I asked who it was, and she said it was Chen Mo."

"I asked who Chen Mo was, and she rolled her eyes."

He mimicked that eye roll, his eyes turning upward, lips pursed, just like a nine-year-old child asked a stupid question by an adult.

Chen Mo's lips twitched slightly as he asked: "Which song?"

"'See You Again.'" Kobe took the ball from under his arm and spun it in his hand, "She asked me, 'Dad, when this person sings, is he thinking about someone too?' I said yes, and she asked how I knew. I told her, because I've thought about someone too."

The sound of basketballs hitting the floor in the training facility continued, but this small patch of air suddenly went quiet.

"That friend of yours," Kobe said, "Zhao Lei. I saw it in the ESPN report. You made the whole world remember his name."

Kobe placed the ball on the ground and stepped on it.

The lights of the training facility cast his shadow onto the polished floor as he reminisced: "April 2013, Achilles tendon rupture. I sat in the locker room for a long time. The team doctor came in, and I asked, 'Can I still play?' He said, 'A lot of people don't come back.' I told him, 'I am not a lot of people.'"

He kicked the ball out from under his foot and took it back into his hands.

"Later, I came back. Played six games, knee tibial fracture. Came back again, played thirty-five games, shoulder tear. This year is my twentieth season."

He looked at Chen Mo and asked: "When you were being cursed at from China all the way to the United States, did anyone tell you 'you won't come back'?"

"Yes, many people."

"But you came back."

"I came back."

Kobe bounced the ball once on the floor and caught it.

"All top-tier people are crazy. Not because they are crazy, they become top-tier, but because if they weren't crazy, they couldn't reach that level. You are the same."

Chen Mo looked at him and said sincerely: "You are too. You've inspired many people, including me."

Kobe's mouth twitched—not a smile, but more like an affirmation of "You get it."

He threw the ball to the ball boy on the sideline, walked to the scorer's table, dug a purple home jersey out of his backpack, and picked up a black marker from the table.

He spread the jersey out on the scorer's table and wrote a few words.

He wrote slowly, stroke by stroke, as if he had signed it thousands of times but was still as serious as the first.

He picked up the jersey and handed it to Chen Mo.

The back of the jersey was number 24. On the front, right on the chest, a line of text was written in black marker—

"To Chen, mamba mentality."

Signature: Kobe Bryant.

Chen Mo took it.

The fabric of the jersey was lighter than he imagined, a moisture-wicking material, the purple mesh shimmering with a matte finish under the training facility lights.

He looked down at the words and suddenly asked: "What do you think mamba mentality is?"

Kobe capped the marker and asked: "Have you ever seen Los Angeles at 4 a.m.?"

"I have. The lights in the recording studio stay on until 4 a.m. Not just one day, but every day."

Kobe looked at him, then reached out, fist-bumping. Their knuckles touched, the force just right.

Kobe handed him a piece of paper, a ticket, front row.

"Next month, Staples Center," Kobe said, "It's my last game against the Spurs in my career. I want to invite you to watch."

"Will you win?" Chen Mo asked, "After all, it's the curtain call."

"Winning or losing isn't important," Kobe looked at the sunset of Los Angeles outside the window, "What's important is that that night, I will burn through all my fuel. I want you to listen to what that sounds like."

When Chen Mo came out of the training facility, the sun in Los Angeles was blazing. He got into his CLA and placed the folded jersey on the passenger seat.

Purple, number 24. The line of text on the chest was reflecting the sunlight slightly.

He picked up his phone, took a picture of the jersey, then opened Twitter and posted it.

The caption was just one word: "Mamba."

After posting, he put his phone on the center console and started the car.

The phone started vibrating—continuously, like a remote-controlled car that got stuck.

He looked down at it. The number of likes was jumping: from hundreds to thousands, from thousands to tens of thousands. The speed of the numbers scrolling was too fast to see the individual digits.

On Twitter trends, the entry "Chen Mo Kobe" surged to number one globally less than twenty minutes after posting.

"Chen Mo Kobe" surged to second.

"mamba mentality" surged to third.

In the comment section, someone zoomed in on the words Kobe wrote: "'To Chen, mamba mentality.' Kobe wrote these five letters next to Chen Mo's name. This isn't an autograph for a fan; it's for a peer."

This comment received over 200,000 likes.

Charlie replied: "Whatever shoes he wears, it's the same."

Sean later posted on Twitter: "I've played basketball with him. His shooting arc is very flat, but every shot that goes in has the exact same arc. I thought this guy had a mental illness at the time. Now I know what the illness is."

He tagged Chen Mo below.

Kobe himself didn't retweet it, but that night, Kobe's wife, Vanessa, posted an Instagram story—

Gianna was sitting on the living room floor with the purple jersey spread out in front of her, taking a picture with her phone.

The caption read: "She said she's taking it to school tomorrow."

On domestic Weibo, the entry "Chen Mo Kobe" surged to number one within half an hour.

"mamba mentality" surged to second.

"Kobe gives Chen Mo signed jersey" surged to fourth.

In the comment section, someone said, "Kobe wrote 'mamba mentality' for Chen Mo, not 'Best Wishes.'"

Someone said, "Los Angeles at 4 a.m. Kobe is in the training facility, Chen Mo is in the recording studio. Same city, same paranoia."

Others said, "Kobe said 'I am not a lot of people.' From being blacklisted by the whole internet to where he is today, Chen Mo is not a lot of people either."

The People's Daily Overseas Edition official Weibo account posted a status with a picture of the jersey Chen Mo took. The caption was just one line: "Los Angeles at 4 a.m. Same city, two Mambas."

Lu Han retweeted it with two words: "Mamba."

Huang Zitao replied below: "Bro, your sentences are getting shorter lately."

Lu Han replied: "Kobe only said one word too, Mamba."

Huang Zitao: "You aren't Kobe."

Lu Han replied: "I am learning from him."

September 10th, Hollywood Boulevard, Los Angeles, outside the El Capitan Entertainment Centre. The afternoon sun made the tiles on the Walk of Fame scorching hot.

When Chen Mo stepped out of the CLA, a few tourists were squatting on the ground touching John Woo's handprints. One of them looked up, saw him, froze for a second, and then violently tugged on their companion's sleeve.

He didn't have time to say anything—

Jessica walked out of the door, the sleeves of her beige shirt rolled up to her elbows, holding two iced Americanos, and said: "It's time for rehearsal."