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“Gratitude” is also my word for the Lakers. Once I failed my physical, they had zero obligation to pay for my surgery. Zero. I had never even met Dr. Buss at that point. But they did, and they were added to the list of people I needed to honor by getting back on the court.

I don’t think many people know this, but after every home game I played with the Lakers, I would see Dr. Buss in the Chairman’s Lounge. Just to make sure I acknowledged him. We had that unspoken language. He knew why I was coming to see him, and looked at me like, “I got you, son. You’re part of the family.”

I told Mitch Kupchak to bring a jersey to the hospital. I had a Sunday white right in front of my bed. He came to see me, and I had tubes in my neck — tubes everywhere. But I told him, “I’m gonna rock that No. 21. I guarantee you.” He didn’t believe me. I know he didn’t. He had to be like, There’s no way that kid comes back and plays.

For protection, I used to wear this plastic molded thing on my chest. Kwame Brown, who was so strong, hit me and actually broke it. Everybody freaked out. I looked at them and was like, “I’m fine.”

That day was big, mentally. If I can handle a hit on my sternum from that big old dinosaur, I’m good.

But I still needed to play in a game. Every time I would try, Phil Jackson would yell, “Ronny, get off my court!” Not just because I was a rookie and rookies were, in his words, “lower than whale poop.” Phil had put me in glass because he was worried about me.

Finally, I got a chance.

February 8, 2006, in Houston against the Rockets. There was a minute or so left in the game. Phil Jackson looks at me and growls, “Ronny, do you want to play?” I’m like, “Hell yeah!”

Everything was going so much faster than practice, but I don’t give a damn because I’m playing in the NBA! The first person I hear is Lamar Odom. “Hey, you popped your cherry! YEAAAAAH!” Everybody’s jumping on me. I’ll cherish that day for the rest of my life.