Kobe Bryant (1978 - 2020)
It’s hard to collect 20 years worth of memories and distill them into something that makes sense when Kobe Bryant’s death still doesn’t make sense. In a few weeks, when the investigation is over and we find out the full, detailed reason for the crash, it will just confuse us all over again. So I’m not even going to try to make sense of it at this point. Instead, here are fragmented memories of him over my life.
1998. Distinct memory of a field trip to the La Brea Tar Pits. 8 years old. A Sprite vending machine in the outside picnic area with a young, slim, Afro'd Kobe on the side of it. Mesmerized. Who was this guy?!
2000. I’m eating Lunchables watching Game 6 of the 2000 NBA Finals. Kobe is fouled with 2.5 seconds left and clinches the championship with the first of his two free throws. He winks to the bench. The buzzer rings. He jumps into Shaq’s arms. I run around my house, somewhat performatively, screaming about the championship. The first of any L.A. teams in my lifetime. The crowd spills outside of Staples, joining fans who came to the then-desolate stretch of DTLA. The first of several Laker riots that decade. I ask my mom if we can drive down there to see. My friend Chris showed up to class the day after the parade with a Lakers WASSSSSUP t-shirt.
2003. I’m in my room, on the PC I just bought with my Bar Mitzvah money. My internet buddy Tyler AIM chats me to say he can’t believe the news about Kobe. What news? I check ESPN.com and find out he has been arrested and charged with sexual assault. It was the first time my 13 year old self seriously thought about rape and sexual assault. The media circus that followed, including Kobe’s defense team’s vicious attacks on the accuser, likely poisoned how countless young male Angelenos view accusations of rape and sexual assault.
2004. I’m sitting in my gym teacher’s office. For my 8th grade elective, I’m his TA, which means I spend all period reading the L.A. Times and old Sports Illustrated issues in his office. The night before, Kobe responded to internal and external critics who say he shoots too much by not shooting at all in the 1st half against the Kings. So fucking petty. We get blown out. Two days later, the Lakers are on the road against Portland, the division title on the line. Kobe hits a miraculous three to send it to OT, then another to win it. Two months later, the Shaq-Kobe era ends in Detroit. We lose in five games, but in our lone win, Kobe hits another game-tying three to send it to overtime. Assassin.
2004. A month before the loss to Detroit. Semi-Finals. I’m on the phone with my dad. The Lakers are down 2 points to the Spurs with 0.4 seconds left. I hear him scream and several seconds later, the delay on my TV catches up to what he just saw. I run around the house just like Kobe and the rest of the Lakers who rush out of the AT&T Center in case the refs reverse the call. A month later, he asks me what jersey I want for my birthday. I ask for a Milton Bradley Dodgers jersey. He buys me a Kobe Bryant purple #8. It is a large adult jersey. I am about 5’5” and barely 100 lbs. I do not fit in it. I never do.
2004. I walk into the Los Feliz Costco. The TVs at the entrance are all tuned to the news that Kobe has rejected the Clippers and would be resigning with the Lakers. Shoppers high five each other.
2006. I’m downstairs in the living room. Kobe scores 26 points against the Raptors in the 1st half of a lazy Sunday night game. I go to my room and started AIM chatting with my crush. When I saw that he finished the game with 81 points, I thought that was an error. I am livid with myself.
2006. I’m at my grandpa’s house. He’s upstairs dying of cancer. Kobe hits his game tier and game winner against the Suns in the playoffs. I scream and yell. He doesn’t wake. Vic the Brick hugs Kobe.
2008. I’m dropped off at my house as the Lakers lose Game 6 of the 2008 Finals in a blowout to the Celtics. The fucking Celtics. The first five games were close, but the sixth was devastating. Kobe looked like death. As Kobe goes, so goes the Southland...
2009. I’m at the Coliseum with my friend Yervand to celebrate the Lakers 2009 title. Really, it’s to celebrate Kobe’s first title without Shaq. Instead of the usual parade, the whole city is gathering at the Coliseum where the initial parade route will lead into a packed stadium of nearly 100,000 fans. Kobe gets the biggest cheers, of course. A man spills Hennessy on me. We have a blast. I get sunburned. It’s my last really bad sunburn.
2016. Kobe’s last game. The last few years have been frustrating. His $50 million contract an embarrassment. Kobe goes for 60. The fix is in. His teammates pass to him the second they gain possession. The Jazz don’t play defense. It doesn’t matter. It’s beautiful. I’m shouting and yelling like I haven’t done in years. The Golden State Warriors win a record 73rd game that night and nobody cares.
2019. I sell my Kobe jersey. Even at 5’10” and 150lbs, it didn’t fit me. I also felt a little odd wearing it in the aftermath of the Me Too movement. We never found out exactly what happened that night in Eagle, CO. It made me a little uneasy to wear it, even though I never did because I never physically could. In college, my roommate put up San Francisco Giants and Sacramento Kings posters in our living room. So I hung up the jersey and a Kobe poster I found at the Goleta Target for $5 to balance the energy.
2020. I’m in my living room having just read a couple chapters of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s A Season On the Reservation. My plan is to write a couple Goldstein and Gasols. On Twitter, an L.A. Times reporter retweets a story about five people dying in a Calabasas helicopter accident. I click it and see a troll replying “Kobe died” over and over and over again to every person who replied. “Fucking asshole,” I think. By the end of the night, I’ve rewatched the 81 point game, the 60 point final game, the Achilles free throws, and other highlights. Earlier, I go to Staples Center to join tens of thousands of other Laker fans to pay my respects. We’re across the street in L.A. Live because the Grammys are happening at Staples. One out of every 300 people is wearing a billowing gown or sequined tuxedo. It is just another surreal moment in a surreal day.
