I’ll never forget where I was when I heard that blood-curdling news roughly a year ago on January 26, 2020. I sat in my flat in Loughborough, U.K. doing some last-minute research for a paper when a teammate burst into my room with eyes bulging out of his head exclaiming, “Kobe died!” I looked at him incredulously as a smile crept on to my face and I waited for the punch-line of the joke. “Get the hell outta here” I responded, gesturing to the door while I cursed myself once again for procrastinating on this assignment. It wasn’t until I turned back around and removed my headphones to find him standing defiantly in the doorway that I realized I had brushed him off too quickly. He showed me a TMZ article and, citing their shady journalism and propensity to click-bait, I assured him it couldn’t be true. But my better judgment gave way to curiosity, and I immediately began phoning friends from home to see if they had a better pulse on things back state-side. Within minutes the story was confirmed. I shut my laptop dramatically. That paper would have to wait. I stood up, locked my door, returned to my desk and sunk into my chair. Tears streamed down my face as I scrolled endlessly through social media feeds, hoping that the ensuing frenzy was just evidence of the fact that everyone I knew fell victim to a remarkably well-orchestrated hoax. It was the second time in my life that Kobe Bryant had brought tears to my eyes. The first: when he put up 60 points on 50 shots to beat Gordon Hayward and the sorry-ass Jazz and close out the regular season and his basketball career in typical Kobe fashion. I cried then because I was amazed, because I couldn’t comprehend why I was so irrationally happy for this man that I had never met, and because I would never see him in another NBA basketball game. It seems silly now, but at that point, I thought we had seen the best of Kobe. I thought it was all downhill from there. He would retreat from the public eye and never do anything remarkable again. Poor guy. So much of that mentality reflected where I was at that time in my life. I was a college basketball player, a freshman, and I couldn’t imagine my life without the game of basketball. I was a hooper. I had no other words to describe myself, and I attached my identity to that round ball and where it could take me. I could never have known that it would be Kobe himself who would break me out of that box I put myself in by putting a unique spin on the mantra “more than an athlete” in a way that only he could.
In the second act of his life, Kobe somehow managed to dazzle us even more than in the first. It was no longer his spectacular dunks, clutch 3’s and tenacious on-ball defense that made us marvel at him. Still, though, it was the tireless work ethic he exhibited through his playing days that reared its head as if to say that he still had more left in the tank and was just looking for new ways to channel it. He took on the titles of author, director/producer, coach, mentor, and mogul in an effortless transition to life after basketball. It is this second act of Kobe’s life that inspires me most. During this time, he ventured into his other eclectic interests with an air of grace and professionalism that hinted that basketball might not even be what he was best at. He founded his own production company, Granity Studios, through which he created Dear Basketball, the award-winning animated short that captivated the hearts of many as his playing days came to a close. He used that same production company to inspire youth through other mediums, publishing and co-authoring young-adult fiction novels such as Geese Are Never Swans and The Wizenard Series. He even took up coaching and training through his Mamba Sports Academy situated in Thousand Oaks, CA, where Kobe happened to be headed along with his daughter, some teammates, and their parents on the day of the tragic accident.
Kobe reminds me that I am unlimited. For so long, I allowed people to tell me that my primary contribution to institutions of higher learning was my ability to throw a ball into a hoop (with unique precision, might I add). Because of stereotype threat, imposter syndrome and internalized casual racism, I believed that. The role of “basketball player” engulfed everything else in my life such that it was all I aspired to be. I thought that there was no point in pursuing my other interests because this game is just one of those things that young black men are supposed to do. Seeing Kobe find even greater purpose in his life once he finally put down the basketball showed me that I had options. I had other avenues to see the world, and to add value to it. Even though my career wasn’t quite coming to an end at the same time his was, I began to think differently about life after basketball. Living beyond my basketball career isn’t a chore. It’s an opportunity. Basketball was never meant to be more than a tool for me, one that helped put me in places I never would have envisioned myself in otherwise. Once I freed myself from the limitations of having to be constantly perfecting a craft that demanded so much of my time and energy, I realized the opportunity that lie ahead — the ability to channel that energy in a multitude of ways that fulfilled me so that my cup would run over, and I could pour into others.
Kobe mastered controlling his own narrative, and doing things his way, on his terms. Despite no longer having the trademark verticality or the star-studded supporting cast that helped him establish himself as a force to be reckoned with, he bid farewell to the NBA on a 60-point night. When young stars threatened his records and his legacy, he mentored them, motivated them, and challenged them to exceed even the astronomical milestones that he set. When he welcomed 4 beautiful daughters into the world rather than the coveted male heir that the basketball world yearned for, Kobe coined the term “girl dad,” and even championed the WNBA as a staunch advocate for women’s basketball at all levels. Finally, when LA traffic prohibited him from being able to meet both his professional and his fatherly duties, he bought a chopper and began taking flying lessons. Though it ended up being his demise, that helicopter was a symbol of the lengths to which Kobe would go to be able to wear the hat he donned most proudly: that of “father.” And though I, like many others, found myself nearly inconsolable when I heard the awful news of his passing, I found solace in the fact that in their final moments, Kobe had his daughter Gigi and Gigi had her coach, mentor, friend, workout-partner and court-side companion all wrapped into one awe-inspiring figure, her dad.
It’s been over a year since we lost Kobe and Gigi, Sarah and Payton Chester, Alyssa, Keri and John Altobelli, Christina Mauser, and Ara Zobayan. Somehow it hasn’t gotten any easier. We lost a figure larger than life, and as I pen this piece even after having so much time to process, I still struggle to find words that adequately capture the magnitude of the sorrow I feel. When I am able to grit my teeth, however, and look past that sorrow, I am so glad that the world got to experience Kobe Bryant. To say that he taught me how to play basketball would be a grossly narrow-minded mischaracterization of what he was all about. He taught me how to approach any undertaking. Simply put, Kobe taught me how to live life. And what better lesson could I have drawn from a man whose immense impact is evidenced by the countless murals, memoirs and monuments dedicated to his legacy? Much like he did in that historic final game, Kobe, in just 41 short years of life, looked like he was just getting started. He left us on-lookers on the verge of tears, clamoring for more. Like I said, in typical Kobe fashion.
