My Kobe Bryant Thing.
A few thoughts and simple ideas about a complicated man.
It was with no great fanfare that I heard about Kobe Bryant’s death. DMs on Twitter, group texts with family, notifications from news apps of all sorts — this was how the news broke first. I was at work, standing at the cash register when I finally checked the source of the buzzing.
I couldn’t believe what I was reading. Turning to my coworker, I could feel it sinking in.
“Yo. Kobe’s dead.”
He was confused; he had every right to be.
“Kobe? Kobe Bryant?”
I almost felt like I should double-check.
“Yeah. Helicopter crash.”
“No way. That’s gotta be a mistake.”
He wasn’t worried. But he hadn’t read what I’d read. The TMZ reports, recklessly released before the Bryant family had even gotten confirmation themselves. The ABC speculation that his family had maybe been on board. The devastating reality: GiGi, his basketball-loving 13-year-old daughter, had perished along with her father and seven others on board.
Kobe Bryant leaves behind a legacy, one whose merits will be debated someday in the not-too-distant future. He leaves behind a legend too big to be believed. He leaves behind a story of success at every turn. He leaves behind pain and the mentality to push through it. He leaves millions of fans from teams besides the Lakers, teams who missed out on a championship because he was left standing while their players boarded the bus. He leaves behind a complicated story in Denver of the money it takes to pave over accusations of sexual assault.
All of this is Kobe. All of it will make up his story, to varying extents. Kobe, regardless of your feelings towards him whilst he lived, left an impact on every NBA fan. He possessed a unique quality in that opposing fans never felt truly comfortable with their team ahead. Truly great players generate that unease because they are unafraid of the moment.
Aaron Rodgers. Tom Brady. Christiano Ronaldo. Of late: Patrick Mahomes and Steph Curry.
Kobe wasn’t just ready to break hearts. He thrived on it. He was fully willing to play the villain, to suck the air from the lungs of fans. He did it hundreds of times, imprinting his end-game grimaces and gesticulations on the psyche of fans around the globe.
And yet, when he tore his Achilles, we held our breath. We clapped when he took those free throws and shuffled down the long, dark tunnel into a similarly long and dark recovery. We cheered when he returned, we lamented in his struggles, and we lost our minds when he bombarded the Jazz with 60 points on his final NBA appearance. Kobe didn’t end as a villain. He was the hero we loved to hate. He was the Joker to our Batman, ruthlessly opposed and yet infinitely symbiotic. He fed on our vitriol and we fed on his failures. Each fueled the other.
Grief is not a simple emotion. Grieving is a varied process. I can’t tell you how to do it; it is complex in nature.
Kobe was complex too, even for a sport of complex characters. He was multifaceted. He was an artist, a final vestige of selfishness as the era of utilitarian collectivism was dawning on the NBA. He was well-spoken. He was acutely aware of his influence. In his post-career years, he remained a savant of the game. He inspired an entire generation of players, many who grew up watching him methodically dissect entire teams and dreamed of one day doing the same. He left his imprint emblazoned on the league that created him, becoming larger than sport for a period of time.
He’s Kobe. And for us, he always will be.
