There are certain news events where, when you hear it, you know that it’s a really big deal. You feel a pit in your stomach, a loss or a sadness that you didn’t know was there. I got the link to the TMZ article on a WhatsApp group text–by reading the URL itself seeing the words “Kobe Bryant” and “helicopter crash”–it first felt like a hoax, and then the reality set in, Kobe Bryant was killed.
I’m trying to unpack the sadness here, one that I’ve felt and one that’s reverberated across the country and the world. Growing up, my number one sport of interest wasn’t NBA basketball, though when we emulated our favorite players during childhood driveway basketball, we clearly picked avatars from the Jordan, Ewing, Barkley, Malone, Stockton batch–basically the 1992 dream team. Bird and Magic seemed from a brief time before, Shaq and Kobe came after. I grew up with Jordan but watched Kobe in my high school and college years. I first heard of him when I was in eight or ninth grade, overhearing a college aged kid mentioned how old he felt b/c Kobe Bryant skipped straight to the NBA.
And there lies the first seeds of sadness. I played my fair share of pickup basketball, but I was (and am) squarely just average, nothing really more than that. I related to Kobe in the same way most people relate to superstar athletes–in awe of what they can do, envious of their talent, and entertained by the sport they play. Kobe and Shaq’s 3-peat echoed a continuity of the Jordan-Pippen 3-peat from my childhood days, a vague and unknown-at-the-time confirmation that there was some continuity or torch-passing going on in the world, if at least through the silly lens of professional sports.
So, I appreciated and admired the athlete, and sensed the influence he had on a generation, mostly of those slightly younger than myself, but in the same general age bracket. However, as I process his death, I realize that the sadness I feel comes from somewhere else. We all spend so much of our lives working through a grind. First it’s school, then it’s work, then it’s growing into mid-adulthood and balancing life and finding space. When you have these superstars amongst us, it gives you a canvass upon which to look. They grind hard, but they get reap the rewards. They hit the optimized spot where their talent is matched to their passion, and the work they put into their craft provides exponential returns. They get paid a lot of money. They seemingly accomplish so much at such young ages, while in our parallel worlds, we sit behind our screens, fantasizing of the day our student loans will come down to zero.
And there’s this aura around these people. Their lives are great. They are famous, they are rich, they have platforms on which they can stand to define and redefine themselves. They deserve it through the work they do, and through our society’s value on the work that they do. The idea of that may give us jealousy, but it may give us a sense of comfort, that giants live among us.
When you become a father, or at least, when I became a father, you feel this profound shift in purpose. In some ways it feels redemptory–that you can give your kids the lessons that took you a long time to learn. In some ways it can feel immortal–your observations of the world can be absorbed by your children. In some ways it gives us power–in a world where getting older means accepting things more as they are, you can give your kids the values that you think will make them and their world a better place. You can absolve your contradictions and complications and hope that your penance can be paid in your future generations.
The images of Kobe and his daughter, and the idea of them being killed, especially as they were in route to continue exploring their passion, man that just hit me. I don’t think you have to be a father to feel that sadness, but being a father of a daughter, at least for me, certainly amplifies it.
The idea that these superheroes who live among us, they too can have everything taken away, senselessly, suddenly, and with such cruelty, this is part of the sadness that we weep. The sadness that the awfulness of this world can be brutally objective. You can be 41 and a millionaire NBA all-star for the Lakers, but your life can be turned upside down on a routine day out with your family. I think that’s part of the sadness–we mortals may not be immune to the tragedies of the world, but maybe the giants among us are, and when we are reminded that they aren’t either, man that can be really sad.
And simultaneously, the inspiration that we can feel, that the man gave everything to his craft, influenced a generation through his work, and left a promise as inspired as it was unfulfilled, hopefully lead to some more positivity in this world. What better gift to give to the world than to try and succeed to be the very best and what you do, in ways that transcend your work, and then pivot from that to begin working on a second act, empowering others to find their voice, their inner Mamba, fearlessness, competitiveness, take the world by the horns mentality. Over time, that’s what he will be remembered for, it’s just heartbreaking for his legacy to be solidified in this way.
And let it not be forgotten, there are other families who are mourning, who don’t have the stature, but have the same pain that the Bryant family has today. And there are people who go through things every day, with far less support. Be kind, for everyone you see is fighting a great battle.
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