The Fish Praise Blog

It was summer, 1996. The Pyramid basketball court in Long Beach, California. My old man, as part of his unending dedication to the game, takes me, his scrawny 14-year-old son, to the Summer League Classic. He knows my love for the game is just blossoming, and wants me to respect the abilities of these superhumans when they're just another player in a gym, not under the lights of The Forum. Plus, it's a cheap ticket. A basketball purist's haven.

The instant you entered The Pyramid, you heard the murmers from the Purple Hats. The Kid, the high school Kid, he's playing today. The one who we traded Vlade for, the one who Jerry West possibly sold the franchise for. He was so keen on him, he traded our only quality center. The Kid is playing today, pre-season, and we're going to be the first to watch him.

No, not all Lakers fans are spoiled, make-up wearing, eye-brow waxing multimillionaire Valley babies. There are some who bleed purple and gold. We were still reeling from Magic, still aching for Worthy, and looking under every stone for an answer.

Cedric Ceballos: goes awol in Tahoe mid-season.

Nick Van Exel: bat-crap crazy, then he pushes a ref and gets suspended.

Dennis Rodman: nuff said, only this time without his shoes on during the game.

What was becoming of this glorious franchise, we asked. Where is our savior? Perhaps, perhaps, the Kid will come through. This Kobe kid.

The summer league game starts. A team of gold jerseys walk out, only a couple I recognize. George Lynch, recently off his rookie year. A young Anthony Peeler. And a bunch of nobodies, running up and down the floor, in the glorious Purple and Gold.

Suddenly there's a scrum at midcourt. The Laker, on defense, literally jumps into the ball beind dribbled up, and after sliding a couple feet, makes his way to an open and uncontested layup.

Is that the kid, they ask. Is that him?

I dunno, man, I thought he was taller.

Next posession, he gets switched off and is left with the huge dude, like 6'10" 280 huge. One dribble and the kid already has the ball. Man, that was quick. In transition, he finds a wide-open forward under the basket. Buckets.

Next posession, an ugly, ill-advised three, the kid comes up with the board. I mean, he is beating everyone all over the court, including George Lynch, Peeler, everybody. Comes up the court, fakes off the screen, drains the three with the prettiest jumper you've ever seen.

Was that leftie? He's a leftie?

He's jacked too. Look at him pound in there.

There's a collective sigh in the building. Our Lakers, they made the right choice. Our Lakers, they might be saved. If we weren't sure, two more threes just argued it for us. This is the start of something big.

* * *

Truth be told, that wasn't Kobe Bryant. Kobe didn't play that day. That dude dominating, that was Derek Fisher.

He came out of the gate with something to prove, after being overlooked in the draft and at Arkansas. His hustle didn't diminish, and his gaze, an ever-intense steady focus, showed his smarts and his confidence. A veteran as a rookie, he was going to be the one to save the franchise.

I would contend, honestly, that without Derek Fisher on that Lakers squad, even with Kobe and Shaq, they would have never won a championship. Not one. Who else would balance out those egos? Hit the three when both were doubled? Get on their cases when they were lazy, acting up, or bitter? He was Shane Battie before he became the definition of "glue." He did everything, took nothing away from the table, and facilitated that triangle offense to its peak capability.


No team can win without a Derek Fisher. No one. Credit much of this Jazz success to him, and don't forget it.

Credit the Lakers and the Warriors, too.