Quite honestly, I still can’t believe news.
Yesterday I was at a jovial family gathering to celebrate my nephew’s first birthday. During the lunch portion, one my cousins said, “Have you guys heard that Kobe died?”
My immediate reaction was hard laughter, because the notion of Kobe - the Kobe Bryant - dying is so wild and unfathomable that it simply has got to be a joke. I said as much to my cousin - as did other cousins at the table - but he then affirmed his position and restated that the horrible news is absolutely true, and to go check our phones for confirmation.
I thought to myself that if Kobe has indeed died, my phone would be blowing up right now because my boys would for sure let me know of such monumental breaking news. Sure enough, as soon as the lock screen appeared of my phone, I saw the text messages: Kobe Bryant and his daughter Gianna - among a total of nine people - have perished in a helicopter accident near Calabasas.
I was in utterly disbelief. How can he be gone? Kobe Bryant, the transcendent basketball talent of my youth (more so than Jordan), whose work ethic and dedication to the craft is stuff of legends, can’t possibly be taken away from us already. At only 41 years of age, there’s still so much he has yet to give to the world: to be that wizened man providing guidance to the kids, reminding them the true meaning of hard work, to be singularly focused on what’s important.
It’s a profound lost; of what Kobe has already given to us, and of the immense potential that’s now disappeared forever.
My heart aches for the Bryant family, the unimaginable pain of losing a husband and a father, and a child as well. It’s difficult to think of circumstances crueler than this.
From now on, my every yell of “KOBE!” when I toss something into a bucket or receptacle will be in honor of the great man. Rest in peace, good sir.
Here we go again.