Thanks for everything, Kobe-24
The last few months have been tough no doubt. It’d be foolish of me to claim exclusivity to that statement. With the pandemic, the lockdowns, people losing loved ones or fearing that they might lose them; we are truly living in a time which definitely qualifies for those “once in a lifetime” clichés, and I pray it is indeed only once in this lifetime.
This time last year, life was so different. It had been a few months since I quit my job, took the call to pursue higher education. I had gone hammers and tongs at the process, just thinking “mamba mentality” occasionally; not because the going got tough, but because I’d gotten used to reminding myself the two words that I always needed to.
Growing up as the last kid; pampered and well taken care of; my childhood had been a breeze, even compared to that of my elder brother. An egoistic kid who thought of himself to be worth his salt in whatever he did, I fell in love with the game of basketball. Without a purpose, a goal or a direction. I obsessed with playing basketball after school, before school, watching mixtapes and clippings of old games, and just fell in love with the person I’d go on to consider my idol. It wasn’t a tough choice, you see. The numbers were Hall Of Fame worthy, the Lakers were winning again and if the Lakers were a damaged plane after Shaq left, Kobe was the Sully Sullenberger of sorts.
The championships, the loss to the Celtics and through it all. Sometimes, when you’re young and see patterns, they tend to stick in your memory. As I started failing in bits and pieces, in those little moments in life, so did the Lakers. Things that were in the right place that allowed you to just go through your regular process and get the job done, didn’t seem to be in place anymore. I fell out of rhythm, out of sorts, and in a confused place. While Kobe wearing the 8 with all the youthful arrogance had me hooked, Kobe with the 24 hit different; more suited to how I was thinking. Oddly superstitious when it came to sports, I wrote down Kobe-24 on the back of a visiting card and put it in my wallet; visible every day, I was going to Mamba myself out of situations and get back up; put in numbers like Kobe did in those 05–06 seasons before getting back to that championship contention level.
Coincidentally, Kobe would go on to tear his Achilles, still make the free throws and get the Lakers to the playoffs; I’d go on to wreck my math exam and still manage to scrape through in the Board exams (high school final exams).
Then began a tougher phase — more confusion, trying to figure out what I’m doing, what I need to be doing, who I am turning out to be as a person and on top of all that deep introspection, working on something not of particular interest. Far away from home, sitting on some bench, I’d look at my wallet, and smile. Memories.
Memories of when I cut my finger accidentally, mimicking Kobe’s dunk on Dwight Howard only to hit the ceiling fan and have a nice cut in the finger and a dent in the fan blade. Remebering the times when I stayed back on the court till there was no one left, or times I went early way before everyone else, just to try out the moves Kobe did the day before; the assist to self of the board, the two pump fakes before a jump shot, the baseline reverse lay-up and so on. A little kid with no pressure, just imitating his hero, and after innumerable fails, making it and walking home with a goofy smile. I never did any of those in a real game whenever I played. It oddly felt as something personal, something just meant to be a ritual of watching games — remembering plays and trying it when no one was watching. The introvert in me didn’t want to try and fail in front of others for some reason.
I laugh at those memories. If it was a sign of anything, it was a sign that I hadn’t learnt anything from idolizing Kobe. I hadn’t watched closely enough, I’d just been fascinated by the highlight reels, and been deaf to the times he spoke about the process, about taking shot after shot even if he missed because he had practiced the same shot over a thousand times. I was immature.
As I’d continue to grow older, Kobe would get injured a few times, miss a large portion of the season, and I’d get angry at the disrespect that was thrown around. “Why did the Lakers pay him so much?”, “Kobe’s a washed man” were in a few thousands on Twitter on the regular, people more like parrots on the platform just belting it out at all times. I’d grow to ignore them and watch more and more interviews, snippets, whatever I could find from whenever Kobe spoke.
It was about the 4 A.Ms , the desire to outwork his competition, and when it came close to retirement, he had already worked and built a foundation for his next passion, for life after basketball. Kobe had the work ethic of a mad man and was a genius who was on a quest to find more knowledge on things he was passionate about; be it down to studying film, cold calling people who he could learn from, or playing through broken fingers, broken nose or shooting freethrows on a torn Achilles.
My love for basketball only continued to grow, but my love for Kobe continued to outgrow my love for most things in life. And I continued to go about life, preparing for opportunities I wanted, and going for it again if I missed.
And then came the day. This day last year. It was early in the morning of the 27th of January, 2020. A few friends were trying to reach me via calls and texts but I slept peacefully through all of it. Around 6.30 A.M my brother would go on to shake me till I was fully awake. Even though he was not a sports fan, he knew what Kobe meant to me. And I still remember the words coming out of his mouth, “Dei, Kobe Bryant has passed away.” He handed over his phone. Tears in my eyes, I’d go on to look at my own phone, with messages from friends saying Kobe passed away. I’d jump frantically to Twitter and every other social media platform hoping it was TMZ or someone with a vicious misleading report. It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. After all, I’d just seen him recently at a few Lakers games with Gianna, the All the Smoke interview, he’d just won an Oscar, written his books and more books were to follow. There was way too much on the list for this to be true. NO, it wasn’t happening, for once I hoped it was really fake news. I bawled my eyes out, I couldn’t. As the day passed, I tried to watch some Basketball to get some relief. The players were crying, broken, and the NBA would go on to call some games off. I got to see Shaq, Derek Fisher and Jerry West speak, tears in their eyes, and tears in mine, and tears in the eyes of many; the Lakers fans who thronged outside Staples Center, the unlucky ones like me sitting in their homes and offices, not knowing how to express the grief.
It is tough to explain, but nothing explains it better than Michael Jordan speaking at Kobe Bryant’s memorial:
I told my wife I wasn’t gonna do this cause I didn’t want to see that for the next three or four years. That is what Kobe Bryant does to me. I’m pretty sure Vanessa and his friends, all can say the same thing — he knows how to get to you in a way that affects you personally, even though he’s being a pain in the ass. But you have a sense of love for him and the way that he can bring out the best in you. And he did that for me.
Kobe Bryant made his mistakes and had grown from them. And I hoped that one day, I would be doing the same; to figure out a passion, put in my 4 A.Ms, to obsess and try to outwork myself and my competition, and when I reach a milestone, probably hope I can convey my gratitude in some form or the other.
I’ve found my thing, and I’m starting to go at it, and on days I feel down, and on the day I achieve something, I just open my wallet to look at that old card, where a little me inscribed “Kobe-24”, since that was the only thing I could think of when I wonder how to overcome things.
I’m yet to get over it, and probably never will. Maybe I don’t need to.
Rest In Peace, dear idol.
