Kobe was my hero. Heroes represent an ideal, an unattainable state meant to inspire others to strive beyond what we are. For a time, I felt that way towards Kobe. I wanted to be an NBA player, the best, and I worked as hard as I could imitating my hero. All the while, I failed to recognize that Kobe, the person, not the athlete, was like me. It sounds selfish to even write this, because I never knew him. We never met, but he showed me that I wasn't so different.
When I was a kid, I didn't fit in initially. In middle school, I switched from my base school and had to start over, new friends, new community, but same me. I was in a neighborhood school where everyone seemed to know each other. I was an outsider, a suburban outsider, an oreo (as my peers called me), an outcast. That's how it was until gym class. Hoops was the only way I could share and express myself in a way that my peers appreciated instead of them jeering. I made friends because I could play. People stuck up for me because I could play. The game was my tool, my lifeline to connection in a foreign lonely world. I could tell Kobe had used the game in a similar way. You could see how no matter how people spoke poorly about him, or his character, between the lines he screamed at us and demanded we listen to one singular phrase, "You're wrong about me!" Every grimace, every crossover, every pump-fake, every steal, every scream, every tech was a way to share what couldn't be spoken, only proved. This is what made him so relatable because we've all ben doubted before. For me, someone who people did not expect much from, I lived vicariously through his defiance until I was strong enough to shout myself.
Basketball was a refuge for Kobe. His indomitable will and relentless pursuit of perfection was part pathology and part habit. Getting extra shots up after playing 40 minutes in a game, working out to a full sweat before practicing were all testaments to his competitive spirit but also a practiced behavior. When the world doesn't make sense, basketball always simplifies.When my relationships fractured, when family and friends died, I ran into the arms of the game. The game never asked for explanations or solutions, it only asked for my passion. So I dribbled and took jumper after jumper because the sound of a swish or the echo of a dribble could settle any uncertainty, could erase any fear, and cause wells of confidence to rise to the surface and fortify my brittle soul. Basketball was a refuge for him and I learned to entrust my heart to the game because Kobe showed I could trust it. Thank-you for that big bro.
Kobe refused to be boxed in, he was an international black man who loved learning, and basketball was an extension of the intellectual curiosity he had. He could bust your ass on the court and still converse about an array of topics, in multiple languages! For a black boy struggling with his identity of not being black enough, he showed me the way. You could hoop, be smart, and still be appreciated for all you could offer. That felt like a myth, a pipe-dream before Kobe. You showed me the way big bro.
My wife told me, "I really thought you were going to meet him some day." I thought so too. I believed it with all my heart. You've taught me so much and when I finally broke through, I knew we'd talk. I'd explain what and how I learned from you. I won't see you as soon as I thought but I'll see you. When I do, we'll look at each other and agree on one thing, "we can't believe we made it."
Love you big bro. Rest in peace. My heart and prayers go out to all of the families who lost someone. This is a terrible tragedy for so many people. I hope that this piece, helps us all to grieve and eventually heal together.
