The Enemy of My Enemy Is Probably Just Another Enemy I know who I am,” is among the first things Kobe Bryant tells me, which is the kind of statement made only by people who are very, very right or very, very wrong. He tells me this in a breakfast café called Haute Cakes, tucked inside a strip mall in Newport Beach, Calif. We’re fifteen minutes from his house, but I nonetheless mention that this is not the kind of place I expected to meet him. “What did you expect,” he asks, “a dungeon?”
