What Kobe’s Death Means to Me
Kobe Bryant died today. He was 41. I almost feel silly writing a eulogy for a man I never knew. And yet, when I learned this afternoon that Kobe’s helicopter crashed into the hills in Calabasas, it felt as if I was punched in the gut, and my knees buckled such that I had to sit down. Kobe was not just another celebrity. Not to me anyway.
My earliest memory of Kobe Bryant is uniquely personal. I was a 17 year old kid, driving north on Pacific Coast Highway in my mom’s midnight blue Honda Accord. I was the only car stopped at a red light when a BMW sedan pulled up to my left. When I looked over, I did a double-take; the driver’s seat was pushed back as far as possible, and I immediately recognized the mini-afro and the pointed, Roman nose. For a brief moment, Kobe and I made eye contact, and we nodded in recognition — that is, I nodded in admiration, and he nodded in acknowledgement.
Kobe was 20 years old. It was his third year in the league. It was known around my high school campus that he rented our gym in the evenings — after our basketball team’s practice ended — so he could fine tune his skills.
Kobe Bryant and I were teenagers together. In his first year as a Laker, when he was just a pimply upstart, I was a pimply high schooler, and because of that, it always felt like we shared a bond. For nearly twenty-five years — my entire adult life — I grew up with Kobe, not just as a basketball player and as a Laker, but as a man and as a brother. Some of my most cherished memories are memories spent watching Kobe. Watching Kobe and Shaq put together an historic comeback in Game 7 of the 2000 Western Conference Finals against the Portland Trail Blazers. Watching Kobe go for EIGHTY-ONE in a lowly regular season game against the Toronto Raptors. Watching Kobe dismantle the San Antonio Spurs in the 2001 playoffs. Watching Kobe struggle, but emerge victorious in Game 7 of the 2010 Finals against the Boston Celtics.
But equally unforgettable was watching Kobe stumble. Watching as Kobe was publicly humiliated by allegations of rape. Watching Kobe cobble together an MVP-worthy season while simultaneously flying to Colorado for periodic court hearings. I was there — now a second year student in law school — sitting in the nosebleeds at Staples Center, for Kobe’s final meaningful game, when he tore his Achilles tendon against the Golden State Warriors. I remember taking the train home that evening (after the Lakers squeaked out the Pyrrhic victory), thinking that things would never be the same (and then later that night, taking comfort when reading his Twitter post, as he poured his heart out and simultaneously steeled himself for the battle that was to come). I remember when I read in the tabloids that he and his wife were on the rocks, and feeling shitty about that.
Kobe Bryant was one of my heroes.
As the black Mamba, he cultivated a reputation as the most feared player of his generation — the human embodiment of grit and resilience, with a near masochistic penchant for withstanding pain. As a Laker fan, he drove me mad. Over the years, I probably spent as much time yelling at the television screen as I did gawking in slack-jawed adulation. He turned hard work, dedication, and love for one’s craft into an artform. All the while, he was an imperfect man and a cantankerous asshole. He grumbled publicly when the Lakers lost, and demanded more from his teammates than they were capable of. He took bad shots, and was unapologetic when he missed. In doing so, he dazzled us with absurd shotmaking and uncompromising edge-of-your-seat excitement.
I learned from Kobe Bryant. I remember his menacing intensity, and his reluctance to quit, despite the odds. I remember feeling embarrassed for him because he had the misfortune of growing up in the public eye, even though he never shied away from the spotlight. I remember thinking that I was grateful that he made mistakes, so I wouldn’t have to. Meanwhile, I remember trying to emulate his work ethic, his perseverance, his ability to keep fighting. I had grown to love Kobe Bryant.
Maybe the hardest thing to accept about today was the timing. Only a few years removed from basketball, and already a cultural icon, he was busy rewriting his narrative, remaking himself into something bigger. He was basking in the afterglow of a storied NBA career, enjoying time with his family, and cultivating new passions. Kobe had evolved from the pimply teenage kid to a thoughtful, introspective man, an ambassador for basketball, and an ambassador for men of my generation. He was a man in full, cut short in the prime of his life.
Kobe Bryant died today. He died doing something he had done thousands of times before, likely embracing his daughter, hoping against all hope that he could shield her from fate. His death shook me to my core, because Kobe was larger than life — he was one of the immortal ones who would seemingly live forever. But through his passing, I take one final lesson: the angel of death plays no favorites. Tonight I hold my loved ones a little bit tighter, and I remember how fickle it all is.
Thank you, Kobe, for helping me become a man. I promise you, brother, through me, through us, your legion of fans and your LA family, your memory will live on. May you rest in peace.