When Kobe died last Sunday, I was getting ready for
church. Going about my normal day. I was sitting in a pew just as church was
starting when my husband turned around and said to me, “Kobe Bryant just died.” You know how sometimes people will say things
to you in a language you know but none of the words fit and it sounds like
another language? That’s how I
felt. He repeated himself at my request
and I immediately went to Google to verify his news…sure he was wrong. He wasn’t.
I spent most of the day on Sunday tracking the story. For a minute there was a mistaken report all four
of his children were with him, there was a false report that Rick Fox was on
the fated flight. There were reports
that three others were gone, then five, then finally, nine. I was tracking the report when confirmation
that all of Kobe’s children were not on board, but his Gianna was. I couldn’t figure out why, but I was…numb. The kind of numb-sad that you get when
someone you KNOW dies. I didn’t know
Kobe. Hell, I didn’t even like most of
what I knew. I’m a SUNS FAN. I bleed orange. I don’t buy stuff that has purple and yellow
in it together. The Lakers SUCK. But I couldn’t shake it. I couldn’t shake the numb-sad weirdness all
day on Sunday, or for several days after, so I decided some introspection was
in order to figure out what on earth I was mourning.
Kobe was born on August 23, 1978. That makes him exactly one month older than
me. He graduated from high school in 1996,
the same year I did. He was a kid when
he came into the NBA, but I was a kid at the same time. A kid, who thought I knew everything, not
unlike Kobe. I mean, I wasn’t signing contracts
worth millions of dollars, but I was growing up at the same time as Kobe. I think that’s the part that connects me to
him. Kobe made mistakes. He was selfish on the court, rude at times to
his coaches and teammates, and then there was the sexual assault charges, known
since his passing as “the Colorado incident”.
The accuser refused to testify, charges were dropped, there was an out
of court civil settlement, he admitted to mistakes that night, cheating on his
wife. She almost left him. It scared him, he loved her and he seemed to
work at getting it together. He was no
Michael Jordan (who I didn’t like either BLEED ORANGE people), but he spent the
first part of his career in MJs shadow, always being compared to the GOAT. I wonder what that might have done to his
young psyche. It was shortly after all of
the issues from “the Colorado incident” were concluding that he stopped wearing
number 8 and started wearing number 24. I
could be totally off base, but in my head I though of him as “next” after MJ,
24 to Michael Jordan’s 23. He got his
life back together, stories started to come out about his work ethic, his mentoring
his teammates, and he started to really be seen as not only a leader in his
team, but in national basketball on the whole.
His wife filed for divorce in 2010, but the divorce was never finalized,
and they publicly reconciled in 2013. He
had devastating injuries. He MADE two
free throws AFTER is achilles snapped for heaven’s sake (look it up, it’s dumb). When he announced that he would retire at the
end of the 2015-2016 season, I was not upset, I was happy (could the Laker’s suck
on the scoreboard as much as they did in my heart now, please?). I was glad that a man who spent 20 years
doing what he loved, got to get the send off that he deserved. Fans all over the country would get to say goodbye
during his farewell tour.
In the years since his retirement, I’ve seen him surprise
people on Ellen, make jokes on Fallon, and sit courtside with his daughter,
Gigi. Since retiring Kobe added two
daughters to his family with Vanessa, one in December of 2016 and one just last
year. By all reports, he was enjoying
retirement, becoming an amazing father, an advocate for women’s sports, and an
all around good guy.
Why am I telling you about all of these things? Well, because I thought about them as I was
trying to figure out my grief. And I
think I figured it out. I care about
Kobe, because he was a real person. Sure,
he was some kind of stupid superhero on the court, but he was flawed, he made
stupid mistakes, he almost lost the things that matter most. But, like all of us, he grew up, and in my
case, he grew up at the same time I was growing up. He made amends, with his wife, with his
coaches, with his teammates, with his fans, with himself.
It was a normal Sunday morning for him last week too. He regularly commuted by helicopter, it was
nothing special. He probably fussed at
Gigi to hurry so they weren’t late, just like I fuss at my kids when I’m trying
to get out of the door. He probably
kissed his wife in that quick way that we do when we know we are going to see
our loved ones in a couple of hours, not like you would if you knew it was the
last time. Maybe his other daughters got
hugs and kisses and maybe he didn’t even bother since it was Sunday morning and
they were probably sleeping in. I wonder
if he knew for the 80ish seconds that the helicopter was quickly losing
altitude that those were his last few seconds.
I think of the helplessness he must have felt, that he couldn’t save
Gigi, or himself, or anyone else on that helicopter.
Why do I, a SUNS fan, who literally hates all things Lakers
(except that minute Nash played for them, because I just love Steve Nash) care
so much about Kobe’s passing? Because,
in some ways, Kobe and I are alike. Flawed
human beings, who have made mistakes and amends. Parents, who love our children, completely
and unconditionally. And ultimately, I’m
a normal person, who doesn’t tell people how much I love them enough, because I
think I have all of the time in the world…just like we all think we do, but the
truth is, we don’t. So, tell your people
how you feel, do good things, take advantage of the time you have to make a
difference, because none of us knows how long we have, not even the superheroes.
