On the Passing of Kobe

The headline was printed in big, caplocked letters. The kind of headline you only see when a country declares war on another country or a world leader dies.

It can’t be. Not him. Not Kobe.

The night before, while ubering some strangers around town, we joked about the California weather, and the innocent fog that had rolled in for the second night in a row. “The weather’s terrrrible here,” I quipped. We got to talking about basketball, and, as it always is when the subject comes up, Kobe’s name was mentioned. We discussed LeBron James surpassing him earlier that night in all-time points scored, which naturally led into a discussion of how much fun it was to watch Kobe play. “He was fuckin crazy,” I reminisced. “He was just a shooter. A gunner.” We discussed the remarkable longevity of Kobe’s career; how he always seemed invulnerable, except towards the end of his career, when injuries started to catch up to him. “Time catches up with everyone,” I’d said.

“…NBA legend aboard a helicopter that crashed…”

What had seemed so innocent the night before now seemed menacing.

…it may well have rolled in and taken my childhood hero with it.

I checked his Wikipedia page, to confirm. “Kobe Bryant was… “ It was shocking, seeing Kobe in past tense.

My girlfriend came into the room and I didn’t know how to tell her. I didn’t know if she knew him like I did. I trembled as the words stutter-stepped out.

“Kobe’s dead.”

The headline got one thing wrong; they didn’t need to say his last name.

Kobe was ubiquitous. He’d rolled in innocently enough, as a teenager, when we didn’t even have a pro football team, and we adopted him immediately. We spoke his name colloquially, as if he were our only son. We watched him grow up. Watched him become a man, then a hero, then a villain, before finally morphing into a Walter-White-esque version of his former self, the innocence taking on a lovable kind of menace with time.

Points. Not in a series. Kobe was no mere mortal. He was our Excalibur, cutting down entire teams on his own. In a game.

Just four years ago, he’d scored sixty points in his last game, and we’d sung him home. Yet he continued to play. He was the tongue-in-cheek exclamation point I placed on every crumpled paper banked into an office trash receptacle. That every reference to his hallowed name would now have to be viewed through the lens of the tragic brevity of his life made my stomach turn.

“…Really?” She knew. She trembled slightly, too. “My brother loves him. He’s probably crying right now…”

I never wanted this for my hero. I didn’t ask for any of this.

We are, none of us, untouchable. But Kobe seemed to be.

I’d seen him fall on the parquet floor hundreds of times before.

And I’d seen him get back up as many times, as reliable as the California weather. He played through broken fingers and broken noses, in splints and face masks, doggedly rising from every hard foul as if to prove to the world, on live tv, that death was just a rumor.

2006 NBA playoffs. Lakers vs Suns. We were outgunned. Outrun. Out coached. We had Smush Parker on the team and he was our second best player. We didn’t have a chance.

“Kooo-BE! Kooo-BE! Kooo-BE!”

…But we had a Kobe.

To the faithful who chanted it in Staples Center-the Parthenon he helped to build-his name was a verb. A call to action. The low rumble of it would start, him walking down the court, sizing up a hapless defender, the ball in his hands, as it always was, down the stretch. We came to rely on him; like Atlas, he was called upon to put the game on his back and carry it, when we needed him the most…

“He scored in vicious, greedy flurries, as if somewhere deep down, he sensed that time was limited.”

…And so with the Lakers down 99–98 in the final moments the game, when the jump ball was tipped errantly towards a streaking excalibur, the outcome seemed almost assured; as if predetermined, Kobe drove at two defenders, stopped on a dime and pulled up just inside the arc, his long arms flopping forward in the jerky, spaghetti-like way they always did, his Gumby-ish body falling backwards, the shot ringing through the air in his signature low parabola as if it were an arrow from Odyseuss’s bow…

It is strange to me even now, that I can so accurately map in my mind the movements of a man I’ve never even met in real life.

I never had the luck of watching Kobe play in person. I watched Kobe quietly, on my living room tv, doped up on pain meds, when I was playing against myself.

Sixty-five. Fifty. Sixty. Fifty.

He wasn’t the showtime Lakers; he the show. He scored in vicious, greedy flurries, as if somewhere deep down, he sensed that time was limited. was

I hung my hope on every shot, every turnaround jumper, every pump fake, every fadeaway. I watched him when I needed a win; when I needed to believe that people, perhaps even mere mortals, could transcend dire circumstances.

2008 Olympic Games. Gold Medal Game. Closing minutes of the fourth quarter. The US Olympic Team looks to avenge its loss in 2004, but Spain is chipping away at a tenuously held lead; Chris Paul and LeBron James look scared. It’s unnerving to watch.

Kobe is on the wing.

Kobe is waiving for the ball.

Kobe is not scared.

“Kobe knew it’s only what we do with our time on the shot clock that counts.”

The pass comes to Kobe. Kobe fakes right and the defender kindly follows. Kobe jumps. Shoots. The defender reaches, fouling him on the follow through. The shot drops. It’s a three. Kobe drops. The whistle blows. It’s a four point play. Still standing, he brings his finger to his lips. He stares at the crowd. Silence. He shushes them. Silence.

Kobe didn’t just want to beat you; he wanted to rip your heart out.

In sports, as in life, the score always starts and ends at zero. Between the buzzers, the game is unpredictable, the refs (allegedly) indiscriminate. Kobe knew it’s only what we do with our time on the shot clock that counts.

Towards the end of his career, time caught up to Kobe. He began to look mortal. It was an odd sight to see; Kobe, splayed out on the court, clutching at his ankle, or his knee. Like seeing Iron Man fall from the sky.

In what would later be retold as the stuff of legend, after finally rupturing his achilles, a season-ending injury that sends most players hobbling off the court, Kobe famously got up, walked back to the free throw line, and took both free throws, before limping off to the locker room. He may well have been mortally wounded, but that could be sorted later; there was still work left for him to do.

As I watched the news coverage later that day, the kid in me was still pulling for him to walk out of the wreckage unscathed. As he always did.

But this time, he didn’t. And it left everyone feeling a little more mortal; not only mourning him, but mourning the loss of everything we’d built him up to be. It was evident as I walked through downtown, the people stutter-stepping through the streets, uneasy after having witnessed the revelation, on live tv; that death can come streaking in at any moment, stopping on a dime, pulling up above you and fading away.

On Sunday morning, one last dagger, from the Mamba. In characteristic fashion, Kobe didn’t just leave us silent; he ripped our hearts out.

We live and die by the legends we co-create. We love our heroes not for their earthly deeds, but for the lofty ideals to which they aspire, and, on occasion, attain. He rose when we needed him to rise. When we begged him, chanting his name. He put the city on his back, back-to-back. And then he did it again.

Last Sunday, we lost more than a man; we lost an Achilles.

As we sing him home, let’s pick up the ball where we dropped it, step back to the line and finish our work, before we limp off the court.

Originally published at https://thepennypress.press on February 2, 2020.