I have tried to curb my bouts of escapism as my understanding of it and its detrimental effects has matured. And that’s probably a good thing, but as with correcting any problem, the first step—even before admission—is realizing you have the problem.

June 4, 2000, wasn’t my first foray into escapism, nor my last; it wasn’t a revelatory experience. It was, in essence, just a game.

Sports fandom is very low on my list of escapist tendencies (as in, not very problematic). It may not be the most productive pastime, but it is a pastime nonetheless. For me, at the tender and oblivious age of 14, Game 7 of Lakers–Trailblazers had become so important, and the game was going so poorly, that watching basketball on TV became the thing I was trying to escape, instead of acting as the thing to escape to.

I was never any good at basketball, but I had developed a habit of playing (alone) before or after Laker games. So at halftime, with the Lakers losing 39–42 at home with a chance at the Finals on the line, I shot some hoops, trying to vicariously inspire an insipid Kobe & co. to liven things up in the second half.

Alas, I returned to the living room, ball in hand, only to witness an even more lackluster performance. I can’t remember the details now (the box score shows the Lakers being outscored by another 10 points in the quarter), I just remember needing to escape; feeling, against all reason, that if I didn’t see it happen it wouldn’t mean as much.

So I fled back to my makeshift court, about 100 miles away from Stapes Center but still not far enough. Idly and passively watching had become too painful, so I sought solace in the methodical, thought-consuming rhythms of dribbling and shooting on my own. All the while unable to shake the utterly unimportant while at the same time all-consuming event playing out on my TV.

So I kept checking in, against my better judgement. My escapism sprung leaks, eventually sinking into the gravitas of the moment. And it was saddening, watching it unfold. Then Brian Shaw, a rare professional sports product of nearby UCSB and thus a local favorite, started hitting threes. The math became more and more logical, all leading up to that alley-oop—from the team’s most ardent realist to its philosophizing jokester escapist.

According to the statistics, Kobe had 25 points in 47 minutes on 9-of-19 shooting, going to the line a whopping 12 times. He had 11 rebounds, 7 assists, 4 blocks. In other words, he was a workhorse, refusing to go down without a fight. Even the box score knows he was always present, undoubtedly oblivious to the outside world for the entirety of the game. You can imagine him stone-faced in the locker room at halftime, a mind impenetrable even to Phil Jackson’s prodding.

Shaq threw down that foundation-shaking alley-oop. It felt like the moment in the actual moment, and history has proved that to be correct. His eyes widened in excitement bordering on disbelief as he ran back down the court, pointing and shouting all the while. But that was one of only five field goals he made on the day. He finished the game with 18 points, shooing 5-of-9 from the field and 8-of-12 from the line. He only had nine total rebounds against Rasheed Wallace and Arvydas Sabonis, adding five (impressive) assists and a block. But the efficiency of his stat line belies his 47 minutes of playing time.

Bryant was and is often criticized for his inefficiency, for trying too hard, for being a combative individual in a team game. But what he is, what he was in this game, in the most important basketball moment of his still young career, is present. His body was everywhere, but his brain never wandered, tethered to the confines of the 50-by-94-foot hardwood. He shot poorly from the line, poorly from deep, he had a couple turnovers. But he led the way, his hustle and embrace of the moment belying his 21 years.

The Lakers had been good for Kobe’s previous three seasons, making the Western Conference Finals in the two preceding seasons and the second round in Bryant’s rookie campaign. But they had gone 1–12 in those three season-ending series, stealing a game off the Jazz in the ’97 semifinals and then being swept in both Conference Finals appearances (Jazz in ’98, eventual champion Spurs in ’99).

So while they may have been used to the stage, they were also used to losing on said stage—they had repeatedly looked the end of their season in the eye…and succumbed to the moment. They had Jackson and his six rings calling the plays, and Ron Harper and his three rings steadying the backcourt. They had Big Game Robert Horry, but he was still more man than myth. While Harper was the opposite: 36 years old, more presence than physical ability. And Scottie Pippen was on the other side of the floor with a group that looks even more impressive in hindsight.

In short, it would have been easy and understandable to want to just get out of there. Down 16, past playoff demons bubbling up, a home crowd that hadn’t been satisfied for over a decade. In the third quarter, the game became difficult to watch, that choking feeling of inevitability crept up from the stomach to the throat, threatening to drown the helpless viewer. It surely affected some of the players.

But Kobe kept chucking it, kept chasing down blocks, drawing fouls, and finally he got us all out of the funk when he found Shaq for that alley-oop. His refusal to escape led to a different kind of escape. An escape from the recent past, from mediocrity, from humiliation, from the Western Conference—and into the Finals and the victory that awaited.