Basketball has played a big part in constructing my identity and making me who I am today. 24 Seconds is a collection of 24 second, third, and fourth thoughts I’ve had about moments in basketball that have lingered with me beyond the 48 minutes spent on the hardwood playing the game. Philosophical musings, poetry, shit talk, childish gripes, subjective inaccuracies, statistical theories…
The Island: The Death of Isolation Basketball (7 of 24)
Basketball used to be a game of heroes. When did that die? Am I killing myself?
I·so·la·tion
/ˌīsəˈlāSH(ə)n/
the process or fact of isolating or being isolated.
I·so·lat·ed
/ˈīsəˌlādəd/
far away from other places, buildings, or people; remote.
having minimal contact or little in common with others.
Is·land
/ˈīlənd/
a piece of land surrounded by water.
a thing resembling an island, especially in being isolated, detached, or surrounded in some way.
I·so·la·tion bas·ket·ball
/ˌīsəˈlāSH(ə)n/ /ˈbaskətˌbôl/
a type of offensive play used against man-to-man defense. The idea is to give the ball handler room to play one-on-one against an inferior defender by preventing the remaining defenders from joining the play.
Basketball is a team game, probably today more than ever. And that’s good. The Stephen Curry led three point revolution has reshaped basketball into a game that emphasizes ball movement and a more balanced distribution of offensive duties. For the majority of basketball history, the keys to the offense belonged to a select few. In its infancy, it belonged to tallest players who could prop themselves up next to the basket and repeatedly hammer the ball into the goal. Wilt Chamberlain, Bill Russell, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Moses Malone, and more. Entire offenses ran through the post, the best ones did at least. Then there was a shift to more skill based players, often wings, who would run the offense through the mid-post. They played the game with a flair, the game became more musical and vertical. It became a time in which we really could feel the creativity of a singular basketball entity. Isolation basketball was the primary tactic for these players because they were practically unguardable in one on one situations with their blend of skill and athleticism. Jordan, Kobe Bryant, Tracy McGrady, Carmelo Anthony, Allen Iverson, LeBron James, and more. They were superhuman. Heroic. Sometimes, 1 could beat 5. On their island of wizardry, finesse, and power; thousands were at the mercy of one.
This formula worked with varying levels of success. As different teams rushed to emulate the mold of the winning teams, a lot of fans grew to resent the less talented avatars of isolation basketball. These are the selfish, shoot-first players that are often stricken from the modern game. “Hero ball” picked up a negative connotation.
Then the game sped up, the canvas in which the artistry of basketball was explored had expanded to the full court from the half court. Zone defenses entered the equation, providing less opportunities for one-on-one play. Analytics entered soon after and indicated that isolation/post-ups were more efficient when the isolated player was looking to create for others through passing rather than looking for their own offense. Basketball changed in a way that spotlighted the everyman just as much as the superman. And maybe we changed as a culture too. Everything was in flux at all times; a shapeless, evershifting cacophony. The game traded a lot of its rhythm for a faster tempo. And something was lost, a certain purity, at least for me.
Of course isolation basketball maintained some type of position in today’s game. The Houston Rockets version of James Harden seemed to completely live and thrive in a mad scientist mixture of isolation basketball and the analytics movement. But even then, it hardly functioned in the same vein as the glory days of that particular style. The similarities were there but the spirit was not. The role of isolation in basketball has eroded down to spots. There are guys like Kawhi Leonard, Kyrie Irving, Kevin Durant, Jayson Tatum, and more who often have isolation sets run for them because they possess gifts that make them difficult to contain, even with the extra defender that wasn’t previously allowed. But it’s not the same. And that’s good for the game but it does not illuminate my soul the way basketball used to. I find it hard to explain.
My basketball soul was unsurprisingly raised and cultivated by Kobe Bean Bryant. In my estimation, he is the hero of hero ball. The most deadly isolation basketball player of all time. Even as the NBA shifted to zone defenses and he was double teamed every possession, he only continued to get better. His island could accommodate more people than anyone else before and everyone else since. Everyone else played with their body, Kobe played in increments, nothing appeared to move at the same time. His eyes, hands, feet, head, legs, shoulders all seemed to have a separate heart but the same mind. Guarding Kobe in single coverage was like trying to guess a phone number that would shift to something else the moment you got it right. Defending Kobe was a guessing game and he killed you in those moments of lost information. That was his job in isolation, to make you lose information. You guess, you’re dead. I don’t think anyone has ever been better.
But that’s not where the winning came from. Even Kobe had his detractors that implored him to pass the ball and involve his teammates in the offense more. And that’s what he did. Isolation remained his bread and butter but when it came to winning championships, more often than not, the onus was on him to leave his island and include his teammates due to creative gameplanning. Society seemed to have come to a conclusion on the accepted perception of hero ball: YOU ARE NOT THE HERO. YOU CANNOT DO IT ALONE. I would agree. Kobe agreed. Kevin Durant. LeBron. Jordan. The heroes always needed someone or something else to elevate them to the levels that they aspired to. And that’s probably why it has faded. Teams no longer feel inclined to invest into the idea. Hero ball has died.
It is customary to align yourself with the hero of the story. We are a slave to perspective and the protagonist is the position we most naturally picture ourselves in. But in my experience with life, I am more often the defender trapped on the island than Kobe. That loss of information is where I find myself. I don’t know where things are going and I can’t stop thinking about what I need to do to stop everything. For the most part, I just need a break. To just to stop and breathe and reassess. When the state of lost information lasts too long it begins to warp the mind. The isolation forces you to forget a time in which you did know. You need to get off the island, before you forget forever. There’s no easy out. As the defender you just have to give it your best shot and live with the result. And then you keep living.
The Rubicon (6 of 24)
I examine my history with Kevin Durant and how we have gotten to this point.
Last night, I watched the Brooklyn Nets and the Atlanta Hawks play a regular season basketball game at the Barclays Center in Brooklyn, New York. The Atlanta Hawks are my favorite team and due to our playoff run last season(1), we are playing this game on ESPN. The crowd and court was littered with stars. James Harden, Trae Young, Blake Griffin, John Collins, Stephen A. Smith, Penn Badgley(2), Daniel Cormier, David Beckham, etc. Jay-Z! My favorite rapper ever. But the entire game, the only thought that would not leave my mind is: “wow, I am really watching Kevin Durant play basketball.”
I have a complicated relationship with Kevin Durant. Of course, we’re total strangers. The primary tension has always been me versus my idea of Kevin Durant. An idea that he’s not responsible for and he has consistently reminded me of that truth over the majority of my adult life(3). Kevin Durant, the hero. Kevin Durant, the villain. Kevin Durant, the loser. Kevin Durant, the champion. Kevin Durant, the artist.
My first introduction to KD was through SLAM magazine. I was 11 years old. Issue 110, KD was on the cover standing opposite of eventual number one pick, Greg Oden. The cover promised of a “JUDGEMENT DAY” in bold electric blue lettering. The interior compared the two and SLAM comes to the conclusion that regardless of the order that they’re drafted, both franchises would have made the right decision ten years down the line. Unfortunately for Portland, it did not work out that way(4). I bought the magazine, the first issue I ever owned.
After reading, I chose KD. Something in me told me he was special even if that wasn't exactly a secret to the rest of the world. When my older brother and I watched the NBA draft, I confidently told him that Kevin Durant was the best player in the draft. He scoffed and asserted that Corey Brewer appeared to be the better prospect(5). Kevin Durant went on to win the 2008 rookie of the year award for the Seattle Supersonics and averaged 20-4-2. It has only been up from there. An All-Star by year two. First team All-NBA by year three. Best player on a Finals team by year five. League MVP by year seven. He blew a 3-1 lead in the WCF to the Golden State Warriors in year nine. Then he crossed the Rubicon.
The Rubicon is a river in northeastern Italy at the mouth of the Adriatic Sea. Up until 1933, it was named the Fiumicino. Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon with his army in 49 BC, an act that triggered the Roman Civil War and Caesar’s eventual rise to roman dictatorship. The river was lost for thousands of years but its historic importance was re-discovered in 1933, thus the name change. To cross the Rubicon, means to make a decision that moves you past the point of no return into irrevocable consequences that often go beyond the individual. Kevin Durant did that on July 4, 2016 when he joined the 73-9 Golden State Warriors(6).
KD has never been my favorite player but I have always respected him. And for a few years, I actively rooted for him. He played alongside Russell Westbrook (probably my second favorite player of all time behind Kobe Bryant) on the OKC Thunder and they were electrifying at their best. At their worst, they weren’t just enough(7). Every summer ended in disappointment. On the morning of his decision, I surmised that he was done with the disappointment and needed assurances. And I was disappointed by that conclusion. There was a certain level of vulnerability involved in sports, an almost religious faith is required in order to be a fan of a team or collection of players. To put it simply, I was a bit hurt. I was vulnerable and Kevin Durant hurt my feelings. It sounds weird to say, considering the fact that I was 20 years old at the time. But in my head I had been on a journey with the character of Kevin Durant of 9 years at that point and he had betrayed my trust by refusing the vulnerability of the possibility of losing. To want the sure thing not only betrayed the competitive trust of basketball but it unsettled me. I had got him completely wrong. I came up with a character and I got him completely wrong.
Acclaimed sports journalist, Scoop Jackson, coined the term, “Kobe people.” To be a Kobe person is inane. You either are or you aren’t. We see Kobe play basketball and we get it. Our reference point for great basketball has the tendency to revolve around the artistry of the game. Skill set and flair often take precedence over resume or career output. I’m a Kobe person. Nothing is more important than what we see and how we feel when we see it. I think Kobe people have always had an affinity for Kevin Durant. KD looks like he was made in a lab to play basketball. Long arms, long legs, graceful runner, silky shot, tight handle. He is probably the most devastating combination of skill, finesse, and physical advantage ever amalgamated into a single player. And when it was time to anoint the “next” after Kobe, while the mainstream media was adamant that it was LeBron, the Kobe people were a little more enamored with the 7-footer with outside of the gym range. KD was scary and we loved him. But not for any of the reasons I already stated.
KD really gives a fuck about his craft. I care too much about a lot of things and it’s inspiring when you can see the rewards of someone caring too much about a craft. You get the feeling that nothing in the world is more important to him than basketball, even if that’s not true. During the 2011 NBA lockout, he was everywhere. Hooping, just giving buckets to anyone who needed them. KD lives and breathes basketball. KD, like Kobe, felt like a basketball artist rather than a player. He was an auteur and a vision on the court. Sure other bigs had been able to shoot it, but they hadn’t had his handle and quickness(8). Sure other wings had approached his skill level, but they hadn’t had his size(9). KD is a basketball enigma. On the court and off of it. There is only one him and I feel as though I can confidently say there will never be another(10).
Everything felt differently when he crossed the Rubicon and joined the Golden State Warriors. The act was shared to the world through an essay written by Kevin Durant in The Players’ Tribune “My Next Chapter.” Up until that point we had written all of his chapters for him. When he got the opportunity to choose his next step, we shunned him. Or I did at least(11). The parallels with Julius Caesar were clear. He went evil, made a heel turn. His character was a bit more unhinged in GS. Free of expectations and free of the shackles of OKC’s shitty offense. And through that, he ascended to the top. 2 championships. 2 Finals MVPs. Probably a third consecutive championship without injuries. When he tore his achilles and jumped ship to Brooklyn, I felt a bit of hollowness. I was worried that this was his end(12).
Then he came back over a year later, perhaps better than he had ever been. He was even more polished and he still retained his quickness. No one ever came back from an achilles tear arguably better. But KD did it. His first season in Brooklyn, he fell short by a few literal centimeters in Game 7 against Giannis and the Bucks. This season? Who knows. But I know that KD will dedicate himself to the process completely.
Last night, I watched KD play basketball. He had 32-7-5 on 65% shooting, eerily similar to his stats from his 2014 MVP season, seven years earlier. Just another night in the office. When he hit a buzzer beating three pointer to end the third quarter, I felt that my relationship to KD had finally crossed the rubicon. I let it go. He’s real(13). Not a character. I got to watch the real Kevin Durant play basketball.
FOOTNOTES:
Trae averaged 29-9-3 and led an upstart Hawks team to the Eastern Conference FInals in his first playoff appearance.
The Brooklyn crowd cheered louded for when his attendance was announced than they did at any point during the game.
I feel like a loser for having any expectation of him at all.
One of the biggest draft blunders of all time for sure. Greg Oden played 105 career games with career averages of 8 points and 6 rebounds.
I still bring this up all the time.
KD wants people to stop talking about it, but to be honest this is one of the three most surreal moments of my life. The other two? Donald Trump becoming the president of the United States and Kobe Bryant dying in a helicopter crash. So yeah, I can’t forget.
Game 6 of the 2016 WCF hurts my heart to watch or remember.
Dirk, Sheed, KG etc
Kobe, TMac, Jordan etc
Emoni Bates, Brandon Ingram, etc... none seem to approach him.
I still maintain that it was a weak move but I wouldn’t have let it affect me in the same way today.
Kobe having his prime ended by the same injury gave me some difficult memories for sure.
It wasn't a revelation or discovery for me. I had been building to that point for quite some time. I just accepted it at that moment.
FOOTWORK (5 of 24)
I recollect the steps I’ve taken and the different shoes I’ve used along the way. I’m still fixing my footwork.
My shoes had seen many miles, many of them not of my own volition. I look down at my outstretched secondhand white and black Converse Weapon Mids, the only basketball shoes I owned(1). Scuff marks aplenty, shoelaces too long, bunny ears droop to the hardwood, tied too tight around my ankles, too loose around the toes, I toe the baseline of the amber court and smile. It was the first day of middle school basketball tryouts and I was not having second thoughts yet. I looked around the court at my competition and I was confident. I had not yet known that everyone makes the team, but a simple designation of age and talent decided whether we made the 7th grade team or the 8th grade team. Maybe I was overconfident, standing about 4’11” and weighing about 90 pounds in the 6th grade, I was not physically exceptional. I was not an especially good shooter. I was not an especially good ball handler(2). I had no real experience playing organized basketball(3) and I unfortunately had a target on my back at my new school(4). Still, right there in that gym in East Atlanta in Fall 2007, I felt as though I was at the height of my basketball powers.
Tryouts go as expected. I make all of my layups. I make a few jumpers. My passes were good. I did not fuck up any of my drills. When we scrimmaged, I played hard defense. I listened to everything the coaches said. I even found myself playing with an extra swagger in my gait. I felt good about my chances, regardless of my size. I was named to the 7th grade team. As a 6th grader, that felt good, even if it was the lowest possible designation. The day went well. When tryouts were over, Coach Salim, the athletic director at the school had pulled me to the side. He was an older short light skinned man with grey hair and glasses. He was calm at all times, warm. He definitely cared, he had built the program with less resources than he’d have somewhere else. But he looked like he was always fighting disinterest. Maybe it was the years, maybe fatigue. Maybe I just don’t know what I’m talking about. You could tell he had seen a lot. Coach Salim pointed down at my shoes. I look down at them, embarrassed and aware of them for the first time since practice had begun. He asks me why I play in them, old shoes from the 1980s. I tell him it’s the only pair I have and that my dad had promised me some new basketball shoes before the start of the season. A man of little words, Coach Salim grunts and begins to amble away. I twiddle my fingers a bit before looking to head back to my friends but Coach Salim turns around and calls my name again. I stumble back over to him.
He tells me I move too clumsy and that my footwork needs work. He brings me over to the sideline. I stand and watch everyone else shoot around, partially jealous and a bit embarrassed. I needed extra work? I thought I had done a good job? I calm my breathing and ask him what he meant by that. He says my running pattern needs work and I always look like I am about to fall when I’m doing my moves. I lack control. I lack precision. Or at least from the outside looking in(5). He points down at the navy blue sideline and tells me to put both of my feet on either side. I do as I’m told. He tells me to jump to the other side with both of my feet landing at the same time. I try to do as I’m told. Again. I do it. Again. I do it. Again. Again. Again. I’m bouncing back and forth between both sides, my eyes transfixed on the sideline all throughout. The activity begins to gain a slight crowd from my prospective teammates. I finally stop to take a breath. Coach Salim grasps my shoulder and tells me to continue to do that a few times a day to improve my coordination. I shake my head in affirmation, my confidence a bit shaken. But optimistic. I was given a mode of improvement. Everything helps.
I was not lying about my dad promising me new shoes before the start of the season. My father and my mother were divorced. My mother had recently remarried, I didn’t like him very much(6). My dad was part of the United States Naval Reserves at that point in time and was stationed in South Korea for 6 months. He bought a bundle of shoes and toys in South Korea and shipped them to our house in College Park. What I asked for was very simple, an assortment of action figures, specifically a replacement Thing from Fantastic Four(7). I did not get him but I got other toys(8). I asked for new sneakers, both for everyday leisure and for basketball. My dad gifted me some all black low Air Force Is for leisure. I hadn’t made any specific request in that department, I just knew I wanted a departure from the usual Payless brands that I had access to. I knew exactly what I wanted as far as basketball shoes were concerned however. The Kobe 3. Did not matter the color or size, I just wanted to be like Kobe(9). But that did not play out the way I had initially desired either. I dug my hands into our bundle and pulled out a pair of Converse Dwyane Wade 2.0 sneakers. All black with yellow laces, red Converse star on the side, red stylized red “3” on the outer sole, red generic DWade Converse logo on the tongue and heel(10), and red roses with yellow stems on the inner sole(11). The silhouette was strange but I found the shoe alluring somehow. Plus, they weren’t old and beaten. I was pleased. New shoes had arrived just in the nick of time, the Friday night before my first game on the following Saturday morning. I slept with the shoes next to my pillow. The game in the morning did not go as planned. We lost 48-6(12). I do not remember most of the game(13). The main thing I remember were my obsidian shoes seeping onto the amber court in the saturday morning sun, sunrays shooting through the big sliding windows atop the gym wall. Thinking back, feels like a win.
May 2011. My family and I are at South Dekalb Mall. My brothers and I spent our summers with our dad in Kansas City, my Momma wanted to spend some time with us before we left the following day. I had not grown all that much vertically in those years since my first middle school basketball game, only a couple inches. But my feet had extended out before me considerably, growing several sizes. Aged 15, maybe I was expected to be uncomfortable and uncertain. Adolescent, shuffling through my days with my mind on the next. I looked to tomorrow a lot back then. But that was a good day.
It was especially good because my Momma took us to the movies to watch the first Thor(14) film and gave us a budget for new summer clothes after. The budget wasn't very high, only around 80 bucks person(15), but it wasn't often I got new clothes and that was exciting. My Momma said no shoes but it was all I was interested in. I wasn't drawn to many clothes, except this navy blue 2-piece tracksuit. There weren’t many options I had as far as shoes (not from Payless) for under 80 dollars. Especially with 15 dollars from my budget allocated towards the tracksuit. I only had two options left at The Foot Locker: DRose 2s and some Nike shoes with Flywire technology. I had never been the biggest fan of Adidas and their sneakers and the DRose shoes were about 20 dollars more expensive. So I got the Nikes. It was mainly black, blue trim. It had an emboldened blue “F” with “Flight” in tiny text on the tongue. I wasn't in love. But they were shiny and new. And I needed them(16). I begged my Momma, on my hands and knees. And she relented. She bought the shoes. I sat in the food court, satisfied with myself.
When I touched down in Kansas City, I was hooping immediately. I put up shots in the morning and night and played pickup games all throughout the day. Hoop dreams were real for a few weeks. Then my feet grew some more. And some more. And I couldn’t fit my brand new basketball shoes anymore. I had begged for these shoes and I begged for the moment. I couldn’t let the moment end after a few weeks because I didn’t have shoes anymore, could I? So I shoved my feet into shoes I had outgrew. It hurt my feet, running on crumpled toes but I felt myself getting better, what was I if not amicable in discomfort? What was I if not eager to please and quick to be silent? What was I if not pain and resilience and fear and anxiety? What was I if i didn’t spin all of that into joy? I played basketball all summer, with my shoes too small. I made 100 shots every morning with my shoes too small. I played basketball until both my big toenails fell off, with my shoes too small. I had a lot of fun that summer, with my shoes that small.
In my senior year of high school, I made my “grand” return to organized basketball(17). I had grown a few inches and my newly restored health following my diagnosis of Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis had finally given me the license to move the way kids my age were accustomed to. Practice and workouts went fine but I found myself in a familiar place, struggling to find basketball shoes on par with those that my teammates used. By this point, my mother had remarried and we were not as poorly off financially as the years before. But I was still the middle child in a large family and dropping a hundred dollars on shoes outside of any special occasion was a hard sell. I was nervous to ask my Momma for the money but to my delight, I got a yes. She gave me exactly 100 dollars. My oldest brother took me to South Dekalb Mall(18). I had my mind on a particular shoe, the Reebok Kamikaze II. They were the signature shoe of Seattle Supersonics Forward Shawn Kemp back in the 90s and had made a cultural resurgence in the summer of 2013. The shoe looked like stylized lightning on feet, high tops. It was cool, the type of flair and flavor I had never been permitted to own before. The particular pair that I bought were blue with white bolts, a white tongue, and blue laces(19).
But I couldn’t get them, not after tax. It went over budget and I bought some Nike sneakers that came in under 96 bucks. I liked them good enough, they were bulky and fashionable. But they weren’t basketball shoes. After one single practice, the shoes began to feel like bricks on my feet, like weights around my ankles. I had to take them back. I convinced my mother to let me take them back and exchange them for the Reebok Kamikaze II sneakers. The shoes came up to 110 dollars with tax. My older brother lent me the last 15 bucks and I got the shoes. As the season grew closer, it became time for all the players to put our money into a pot to get the team shoes. That particular season, our coach had decided that we were to wear Nike Air Max Stutter Step sneakers and they were as ugly as they sound. But they were relatively inexpensive, he was thinking of kids like me, who were struggling to scrape together the money in the first place.
When it was time to put all the money together, I was the only one who had nothing to put in. I was not about to get another hundred dollars from my parents for shoes only a month and a half after the last time. I didn’t get the team shoes, the only player on the whole team with different shoes.
I played that season out, mainly sitting on the pine and hyping up my teammates in their uglier shoes. It felt good, once again, being the exception. I was so used to sticking out, to being without. But this time, being the sore thumb wasn't so sore at all. I felt outstanding in this truth. I didn’t feel like I was clumsily jumping from one side of the line to the other. I felt like I could stand on my two feet and be myself. Many miles later, I could finally stand on something all my own.
Footnotes:
I owned some rundown SHAQs as well, but nothing could have made me consider wearing those in public.
When I say that, I mean I was not on the track to NBA superstardom. I was pretty damn good at both of those things for my age by my estimation.
I had played a few games for the YMCA in Kansas City when I was around 6-7 years old.
Within my first few weeks at Mohammed Schools, our math teacher, Bro Yusef began goading the older students on about my basketball talent and letting them know that I'd be better than all of them after he witnessed me dominate a 3 x 3 game with some of my new classmates.
I honestly rarely traveled (I still rarely travel), so it maybe was not that bad.
It’s not relevant enough to get into here.
The Thing was my favorite toy during my entire childhood, even dating back to when I lived in Kansas City, MO. I lost him when we were living in a 1-room Motel in Marietta, GA. I left him in the parking lot by accident and came back a few hours later. The Thing was gone.
Thankfully for me, I was able to get a replacement Thing from Wal-Mart because of merchandise for Fantastic Four: Rise of The Silver Surfer. He was much more realistic looking than my cartoonish original, but I acted like it was the same person in my toy continuity and the canon of the shared toy universe I created with my brothers.
Okay, maybe the size mattered a little bit.
Seriously though, what the fuck was that? It was basic. Was he supposed to be in a defensive stance or something?
My favorite thing about the shoe to be honest.
We played against The Paideia School. They had future D1 and pro-basketball player, Nate Mason on their roster. He bust our ass and we couldn’t break their press. Most of the other guards had no confidence. One guy scored all 6 points on three layups. I had two shot attempts. One was a deep airball three. I promise you I played better in the future.
This does not sound like a good earmark for my hooping ability.
Probably the worst in the trilogy (4th one coming out soon) but enjoyable nonetheless. A bit tame by today’s Marvel movie standards.
80 x 5= 400 dollars. That’s how having a lot of siblings works out.
I had aspirations of making my grand return back to organized basketball. I was sidelined for two years by that point by my Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis, which was undiagnosed at the time. I put in work all summer but my health hadn’t been what I had hoped by the fall. All the work for naught. So it goes.
My role was greatly diminished from middle school, as expected. I went from rotation player to a benchwarmer. I had a few really fun basketball moments my senior year though. I wouldn’t give it back for anything.
Old Reliable
It was the same color as our team jerseys so that made me hopeful that I would be allowed to wear them during the season.
Before & After (4 of 24)
One year removed from Kobe’s and Gigi’s tragic death, Najee AR Fareed looks back on what he has learned and the different ways his perspective on Kobe and what Kobe taught him has changed.
January 26, 2021
It has been one year since Kobe Bean Bryant and Gianna Maria Bryant passed away. But that’s not what I’m ready to write about. Not yet. Maybe not ever again. The feelings are still too raw or not raw enough. Basketball hasn’t felt the same. I haven’t felt the same. Everything is now before and after. In moments filled with so much loss, I’ve realized it is my responsibility, as a human being, to grasp happiness. For as long as a can. It’s mine. I can own it, these feelings, because maybe nothing else is. There is a moment concerning Kobe Bryant that I want to write about. Share my thoughts, before and after.
Game 1 of the 2009 NBA Finals. Los Angeles Lakers vs Orlando Magic. Kobe finished with 40-8-8 on 16-for-34 shooting. It was his best scoring performance throughout his 7 NBA Finals appearances. But that is not why this game is seared into my memory. I was 13 years old at the time, I had not been watching basketball through my own volition for very long. I was almost a year removed from the 2008 NBA Finals Game 6 drubbing by the Boston Celtics(1). Emotionally, I hadn’t received any of Kobe’s first three championships with Shaquille O’Neal by his side(2). Not really. Those winning years came to me inorganically, as real as a dragon. No different from a myth, something I wanted to be true, so desperately but it ultimately wasn't. A rumor. Hearsay. Fiction. History.
As a fan, I wasn't privy to any championship experiences. I felt like that was going to change. I liked our chances against anyone but I had hoped to see LeBron James and the Cleveland Cavaliers make the Finals, just so Kobe could kick his ass(3). The Cavs didn’t make it(4). The Orlando Magic didn’t strike any particular fear or excitement into my heart, but Kobe being there was enough to get my heart racing. He was concentrated greatness, an act of precision and aggression. Kobe knew what needed to be done. He was focused. He wasn't nervous. I wasn't nervous, how I get now. I wasn't anxious, I was sure(5).
There is a stretch in the 3rd quarter of Game 1 of the 2009 NBA Finals, when I truly realized how great Kobe was(6). The exact moment in which I realized Kobe was the best basketball player of all time. From 4:30-3:17, it goes like this:
Kobe Dunk
Hedo Turkoglu Missed Jumper
Kobe Middy(7)
Orlando Magic Turnover
Kobe Bryant And-1 Bucket off the glass
Kobe “Motha Fucking” Bryant snarls(8)
Recalling this sequence is almost like remembering my first breath. A revelation of truth. But more importantly, an understanding. Kobe didn’t owe me anything else after that. Yet, I got it. I got it all. Cheo Hodari Coker once said in SLAM Issue 24(9) released in 1998, “Kobe Bryant lives and dies with every game. That’s just the nature of legends in the making.” 11 years later, I feel as though that was the moment he finally lived through, even if he seldom gave a smile postgame(10). Even if he was already stamped, even if he was already the best player in the NBA. My Kobe wasn't anyone else’s. 23 years later, I realize Kobe was more prepared for his death than I could ever be. A few weeks after Game 1 of the 2009 NBA Finals, he won his fourth championship. My first. A few months ago, LeBron won his fourth championship, my third. It was the first championship I felt like I needed, since my first. I told myself it was for Kobe, but maybe it was for me. I lost something 365 days ago and it stayed lost for quite some time. The championship felt like it bookended an emotional arc, I had finally grown my spine back and now I was ready to move on! But that was a lie. The next day came and went and the day after that came and went and more confusion followed. I learned that joy can be empty.
Kobe gave me a sense of security and faith that’s normally reserved for religion. I chose Kobe over logic and common sense, I was rewarded every time. He taught me to bet on myself and double fuck down(11). I subscribed myself to his belief in himself, and somehow that has carried onto me. Confidence emanates. Beyond basketball, beyond that moment. I believe in myself and love myself a bit more right now and Kobe Bryant is a reason. In life, that’s more than I ask for. Before, I thought Kobe was a basketball player and my hero. After, I know Kobe is a story as we all are. I can’t explain it or tell it the way I want. Not in a way that anyone would understand. I just keep watching Kobe snarl, over and over again. Words can wait for another day.
Footnotes:
FINAL SCORE: 131-92. BOSTON.
I knew whenever the Lakers won the championship, and Kobe was my favorite player but I didn’t watch the game.I did not know it or study it obsessively the way I do now. When I was a kid, the Lakers winning the championship was expected and just the way it was. I did not even know when they didn’t because I always knew they did. Until the 2004 Pistons happened that is.
Kobe vs LeBron has been won and lost a million times but has never been played once. The biggest on-court travesty in the history of basketball.
Euphemism for they choked.
Out of the three real contenders to make it out of the Eastern Conference, the Magic were probably the least interesting outcome. They definitely earned their opportunity, beating Boston and Cleveland. I just know most fans were left wanting for more.
Kobe was and is my favorite player. He scored 81 points in an NBA game. I knew I loved him. I knew he was the best. This realization was more in spirit rather than knowing.
This description undersells the difficulty of the shot. Dwight Howard’s outstretched arm shoots up into the sky just as Kobe releases the ball, Pietrus is on his hip. He dribbled into the jumper after grabbing the board. Swish. Designed to look effortless.
Mamba Face.
This was Kobe’s first SLAM Magazine cover story.
“Job finished? I don’t think so.”
Shoutout Philly Cheese.
AIR JORDANS (3 of 24)
It’s gotta be the shoes right? What Micheal Jordan’s signature shoe line could have meant to me at different times in my life.
I like my AJs dirty,
like I had to run through the mud
in all-white tube socks to get em
and back through the mud to get to the
court. I like my laces without the aglets,
polyester spraying from the ends of
tightened bunny ears, drooping to the pavement.
I like my AJs scuffed at the toes and without soles.
I like my Jordans two sizes too big and bloody
like the blood my brothers spilled to cop some air
so my brother couldn’t get a pair of his own.
I like to pump my fist and tug on my shorts
and drive with my tongue out. I like my AJs,
1s and 3s and 4s and 5s and 6s, retro just like me.
I like my AJs clean,
so clean they stay in the box. So expensive,
it was a limited drop. I like my AJs to fit
so tight that they pinch me at the toes.
I like em so shiny that I can see my
smile in the patent leather on my 11s.
I like my Jordans dancing in the sunlight
like an Audemars Piguet watch, seeping
onto the amber varnished hardwood floor.
I like to stand outside on cold nights, for
AJs with icy bottoms. I like my Jordans bred,
through and through. I’d like to fuck you up,
if you step on my shoes and I’d like to buy me
some more, if it helps me feel cool.
Somewhere, deep in the inner city,
where niggas don’t fly all too often,
is a tale of two Air Jordans and
the same river that runs through them
both. Made for the sky, destined
for the ground. Gravity laughs, but
there is a soul in those soles.
I want my AJs to make me feel like I’m flying,
like a P-51 Mustang fighter plane, ripping
the sky in half. I want to be skybound, stuck
and drifting like a cloud, waiting to rain
down and wash away my problems. I want
my AJs to make me feel like a falcon, like the wind
beneath my wings holds the weight to keep me up.
I want to levitate, soar, and walk on air like Jordan,
suspended above the earth, free from worldly laws.
I want the world to stop when I jump, my split legs
propel me like Mike, gravity be damned, I defy it,
for the love of the game. Red and black toebox piqued
off the edge, I’m on the brink, overlooking the abyss.
Look to the sky, ready to fly, come fly with me.
Jump man, Jump man.
Jumpman.
WRAPAROUND (2 of 24)
Why Robert Horry was a superhero and what I learned from Brandon Jennings, Manu Ginobli, Sarunas Marciulionis, and of course… Kobe Bryant.
In basketball, there is a concept called the “childhood hero.” It is a term coined for when a fan in their adolescence attributes a player more talent and acclaim than they really have. For me, that player was Robert Horry, primarily when he was a backup power forward for the Los Angeles Lakers. My brothers and I did not even know his correct name, Robert Horry was just “Orry'' in our eyes(1). I was convinced he was the third member of a trio with Kobe and Shaq. I was born in ‘96, Horry played for the Lakers from 1997 through 2003 and he averaged 6 points and 5 rebounds with a steal and a block. He was a stretch four, ahead of his time and a consummate winner but he was no star. Once he departed to the Spurs, that energy waned and I didn’t overrate or overstate the talent of a player to such an egregious degree ever again (maybe Flip Murray(2) during his tenure with the Hawks but to a smaller degree). I didn’t think I was alone though, not for thinking that Robert Horry was a star, but for such a small moment or player to move the needle in such a dramatic way. The idea of a “childhood hero” prompted me to think of something of my own, the “the unexpected oh shit moment from a player you aren’t exactly enthralled with and don’t dislike either that left a remarkable imprint on the way you see basketball” (I couldn’t think of a catchier name)(3). For me, this moment came from none other than former Oak Hill phenom and Milwaukee Bucks rookie standout, Brandon Jennings.
Brandon Jennings was the first person I’ve ever seen do the wraparound move and it was possible he invented the move in my young mind, but I was wrong. Looking back, Kobe did the move February 10th 2009 against the OKC Thunder, a few months before Jennings was even drafted(4). That wasn't even Kobe’s first time, 2003 against the Nuggets infamously preceding that incident(5). Manu Ginobili had done the move in transition plenty of times and it was an integral part of his arsenal. Further investigation and more years spent on this Earth revealed the name “Sarnunas Marciulionis” to me. Sarunas Marciulionis is a 6’5” guard from Lithuania and one of the first European players to really make a splash in the NBA. Marciulionis is widely known for bringing the wraparound move to America in the 90s during his time spent with the Golden State Warriors(6). Regardless, all of this basketball history had converged upon Brandon Jennings at this moment. And Jennings was a savant and a wizard in my teenage eyes the moment I saw it. Brandon Jennings already had a certain cool factor in my eyes. He scored 55 points in three quarters against the Warriors(7). He skipped attending college to go play pro basketball in Spain. He changed up his hairdo every few months to something unlike anyone else in the NBA. He was on the cover of SLAM magazine(8). He danced on opposing point guards with his lightning quick handle and hit a bunch of “what the hell man” type three-pointers. And he had a way of taking basketball back to its roots, in ways many other players could only pray to relate to.
To begin the play in question, Jennings strips the ball from Jason Maxiell (infidelity GOD) (9) and treks down the court, Rodney Stuckey (10) backpedals to stop the ball. Stuckey runs towards his basket with his head reared back to keep an eye on Jennings. As Jennings crosses the halfcourt threshold, Stuckey manages to get in front of him and slow down his acceleration but Jennings continues to ram the ball down his throat. Still, the slight decrease in speed allows Maxiell to get back into the play. Jennings hesitates at the top of the key, the herky jerky split second action freezes Stuckey but Maxiell only closes more ground. Brandon Jennings drives directly at Stuckey who is now positioned in the paint, contorts his body so that his back was to the basket and wraps the ball around his torso before softly kissing the ball off the backboard and into the goal, Maxiell’s outstretched arms missing the block by inches. It was peak NBA tightrope action: skillful athleticism, torque, strength, touch, finesse, and culture all rolled into 4 seconds of play.
It was a simple run of the mill fastbreak before Jennings imbued it with flair and magic. 4 seconds. That’s all it took for the move to entrance me. I spent months thinking about the move, imagining myself pulling it out in a high school basketball game, the crowd screaming and chanting because of a move I(!!!) did. I went into the summer, determined to add the move to my arsenal, to do the move as instinctual and seamless as Kobe, Marciulionis, Manu, and Brandon Jennings would. I practiced it for a while. At first the ball moved slowly around my body, it got stuck on my shirt, my short gawky legs and long gangly arms proving to be a mismatch to use such a sophisticated weapon. I keep at it, because even if I couldn’t do the move in a regulated basketball game, I had to do the move in a game at some point. 21, HORSE, 1-on-1, full court pickup, any game! And through repetition, I got there. I smoothly did the move, over and over again. Maybe not as well as Jennings or Kobe(11) but it was an efficient way to get a bucket when I was in my Dad’s Kansas City driveway, putting up shots by myself.
I remember the first time I did the move in a pickup game. The court we played on was nowhere close to the regulatory 94-feet, each goal being on opposite sides of a pavement court in an upscale apartment complex down the street from my dad’s house. My brothers would walk there often in the hot July sun (12), it was the best place nearby to get a decent run. My older brother grabbed a rebound and kicked it out to me on the semi-break. I grabbed the ball, took two (unnecessary) dribbles before dipping my shoulder and driving my right foot into the ground. I curled the ball from my left hand to my right and laid the ball off the glass and into the basketball, my defender rolling off me. It was one fluid motion. Play did not stop, there was no big ovation for my growth. The other team just inbounded the ball and I got back on defense. I don’t remember if we won if we lost. I don’t remember much of anything else from that day but I was so fucking happy I got to do a wraparound like Brandon Jennings(13). I did the move a bunch of times after that and it eventually rescinded in importance. I no longer do it or think about it. I’m still waiting for it to just happen when I play, the way it seemed to for Brandon.
Basketball is important because it inspires and imbues. It keeps us moving and growing.
Footnotes:
Almost everything I knew about Robert Horry was passed down to me from my older brother, like an old urban legend. It’s almost like minor details as in his real name were lost in translation.
Ronald “Flip” Murray was like Leandro Barbosa meets Monta Ellis at one point for me. I don’t know what I was seeing but I remember being devastated when he left Atlanta. He averaged 12-2-2 in his single season with the Hawks and we got SWEPT by Cleveland led by LeBron James. Solid player, but not the guy. I also thought Carlos Delfino and Landry Fields were insanely good for some reason.
In other words, a guy who wasn't one of your favorite or least favorite players but still had a large impact on your basketball life.
Kobe has literally all the moves so it's understandable how this receded to the back of my mind before Jennings did the move. Kobe worms between Earl Watson, Jeff Green, and Russell Westbrook in an almost instinctual way to kiss the reverse layup off the backboard. The other team barely reacted.
The wraparound leading to the flush on Vincent Yarbrough’s head off a full court baseball pass from Robert Horry. It is one of the most famous dunks of Kobe’s career. What a time to be alive.
His best season? Marciulionis averaged 19-3-3 on 60.7% TS in 29 minutes per game, mainly off the bench.
2nd-4th quarters.
Issue 135. He bursts through a paper backdrop in a way that makes it seem as though he’s coming out of the magazine with the word “BREAKOUT” screaming at you.
Jason Maxiell admitted to cheating on his wife Brandi with over 50 different women on the OWN show, Iyanla: Fix My Life and having had sex with 341 total. He has 266 career assists. He had sex 1.28 times for every time he set a teammate up for a basket. Insane.
Stuckey was another one of those guys who I thought would blow up when I was younger but never did. The Pistons were a powerhouse for much of childhood and I thought he and Ben Gordon were there to continue that legacy a bit. He was a very solid player though. I stand by that.
I have extremely high expectations of myself basketball wise although I haven’t even sniffed an NBA level of talent at any point of my life.
We had a certain cool factor to those kids, being black and living in the more urban Atlanta.
Brandon Jennings once predicted that the 8th seeded Milwaukee Bucks led by he and Monta Ellis would upset the Big 3 led Miami Heat in six games. The Miami Heat went 66-16 and won 27 straight games. He was so cool I believed him for about two minutes. Then I came back down to reality and laughed a bit just like everyone else. He got traded to the Pistons, had a few entertaining years there before tearing his achilles tendon in January 2015. He had a few more moments in the NBA, none as memorable as his first act. He went overseas and had some weird beef with Paul Pierce. Pierce would walk up to random people in China and record himself asking about Jennings’ whereabouts (a supposed jab at Jennings being washed out of the NBA). Pure hooper.
BEAN (1 of 24)
Kobe Bean Bryant. A life lived. A retrospective by Najee AR Fareed, written on the day after his tragic passing.
January 27, 2020
Yesterday was the fourth time I cried about Kobe Bryant. The first time was April 12th 2013, the night he tore his Achilles tendon. It wasn't anything he hadn’t done a million times before. The game was routine. The scenario was routine. The move was routine, a simple first step in an attempt to get past Harrison Barnes. It wasn't until after the game when I realized the true extent of his injury, after his heroic effort en route to leading the Lakers to their 43rd victory of the season over the not-yet-an-unstoppable-powerhouse-but-still-a-damn-good-team Golden State Warriors(1). Stephen Curry hung 47 points on the Lakers but Kobe matched him shot for shot down the stretch with a cool 34 points(2). It was done with his usual array of tantalizing spins, precision crossovers(3), tough fadeaways, and intentional drives to the rim. He limped off the court after draining two free throws with swelling tears filling his eyes. 44 minutes and 54 seconds played of 44 minutes and 54 seconds possible to be played. 34 years old in his 17th NBA season, he had nothing else to prove. But that didn’t feel like the end, I was hopeful about the future because he had shown me no reason to feel any other way. He would be back and we will rise to the top again.
The second time I cried about Kobe Bryant was following the release of his self-made autobiographical documentary, Muse. Released in February 2015, it surrounds his ambitions in his career and chronicles the different ways he lets his passion manifest. Kobe explains the development of his Black Mamba(4) persona, a Frankensteinian invention from his own mind, his own struggles, and the spirit of Beatrix Kiddo(5) (the protagonist of Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill). The world had turned its back on him and he went to find his therapy, he went to the basketball court. Kobe locked in and dedicated himself to becoming the best version of himself. His sanctuary and his madness. A segment in the film revolves around Kobe’s infidelity and the effect it had on his wife, Vanessa Bryant. He blamed her miscarriage she had around the time of his case on the stress he put on her. As he cried, I watched and I cried. I couldn’t relate to the amount of guilt he had been carrying but it showed me Kobe, the man, instead of Black Mamba, the character. Up until that point, Kobe was a God to me. Even in his mistakes, he held his head up high and played the same way. Surgical. Angry. Creative. Unrelenting. I never felt like Kobe cheated me, it was heartbreaking that he was still distraught over cheating himself. Family was everything to Kobe, he and I were perfect strangers and I could even see that. The Black Mamba was an assassin who seemed like he would rip out his own liver sooner than he’d cede a possession to his opposition. Kobe Bean Bryant? He was a man with manly flaws and manly regrets. That’s worth the catharsis of tears. I sat there in front of my computer screen, crying along with a perfect stranger(6).
The third time I cried about Kobe was in April 2016, the final game of his 20 year NBA career. I had friends over to my college dorm, we watched the game on ESPN2 on my tiny college student TV(7). They lamented me for getting emotional over and over again but the only actual tears came in the third quarter. I excused myself to my bathroom and cried like a fucking baby. But at the end of that day was jubilation. He scored 60 points and I watched every single second of it. He was clutch down the stretch as usual, making big shots over and over again. His body had given up on him, ravaged with injuries, so he relied on his skill. He used his footwork, his will, awkward angles, little elbows, and lucky bounces to grind out a rare Lakers victory that season(8). Nothing left in the tank, he goes 5-5 from the field(9) and 4-4 from the free throw line after a late timeout in the fourth quarter. Up five with just a few seconds left, his wife blows him a kiss as their daughters(10)watch by her side. He breaks his character and smiles then winks knowingly to his wife. The moment he looks away from her, his smile writhes back into a frown, back into the game. Forever in the moment. The baddest man on the planet. Number 8 was gone, number 24 was gone(11). Kobe was gone. I was sad that he was retiring and I would never see him in a new NBA basketball game again but I knew I’d see him around. I knew he’d do something great. I took solace in that... It was a satisfying goodbye to my favorite player. I was prepared to move on with my basketball life, which meant only watching old Kobe highlights on YouTube everyday rather than tuning in on TV everyday. Kobe went out a way he only could, with the entire clip empty(12). He plucks my heart strings one final time with his farewell speech, ends it by saying, “Mamba out.”
I’ve cried about Kobe countless times in the past two days since I was told of his passing. I can’t fathom living in a world without him, I was born a few months before he was drafted to the Charlotte Hornets. He was wrapping up the Pennsylvania State Championship at Lower Merion High School the day I was born. Kobe was traded to the Lakers and the rest is history. I was a Lakers fan because of my daddy, I inherited my love but Kobe’s fire was so damn alluring that I know I would have come to be a mega-fan all by myself. I studied his game, I studied his speaking mannerisms, I studied his life, I studied the way he stood when the ball wasn't in his hands, I studied the way he wore his shorts, I studied the accessories he had on his arms. I studied the way he smoothed his fingers over eyebrows during his free throw routine. I studied the way he sucked the sweat from his jersey to stave off dehydration. Everything he did, I was a student at the school of Kobe.
Kobe never let me down, even when he lost. He left it all out there. He was like a superhero, but he wasn't perfect. Michael Jordan was perfect, he was Superman-esque in the way that he seemingly never lost and never came up short. Jordan was beloved everywhere. Kobe on the other hand cursed at teammates, shot too much, missed too many shots, dunked on everyone, could hit a left-handed fadeaway from halfcourt, and scowled after hitting clutch shots. The media hated him, his greatness was debated at every turn. He has the most missed shots ever. He never won a series without Shaq or Pau. Not even top ten(13). He’s a coach killer. Michael Jordan wannabe(14). Kobe was a hero, the hero we didn’t deserve but the one we needed. When he hit fuck you fadeaways after three pump fakes and a jab step, it moved you emotionally. When he cut through the lane and punched the ball into the rim with authority, it made you feel like you were flying alongside him. When he missed the game winner, you could feel him frothing at the mouth, hungry for the next chance to play and avenge himself. You could feel his calmness in the heat of any moment, even as the world around him was anxious. Kobe was passionate and he gave a fuck. Kobe made winning seem so damn cool. It was superhuman. No one could convince me otherwise.
I remember practicing sneering and doing the Mamba face in my front yard, pretending like I knew the type of fire he played with. I remember imagining him as my teammate going for the guts and glory, trading clutch shots with him in my front yard, always draining the shot in Paul Pierce’s face with the crowd going absolutely fucking bonkers. We’d sit there co-Finals MVPs, both damn near averaging 100 points per game. There was nothing he couldn’t do and there wasn't a shot he couldn’t make. If he was on my team, I could never lose. I had the utmost confidence in him. In 2011, following back-to-back championship runs, Kobe and the Lakers were down 3-0 to the Dallas Mavericks. No one has come back from 3-0, even to this day. But when Kobe said we were good and we were gonna win, I was right there. And there wasn't a doubt in my mind. We lost. We got swept(15). It didn’t make me believe any less the next time he made Laker nation a promise because there isn’t a moment too big for him and I knew he would do anything in his power to deliver on his promises.
Kobe Bean Bryant is the best basketball player to ever live and he is the hardest working basketball player to ever live. That’s not a coincidence. Kobe was an even more dedicated father(16) than a basketball player. He can do a lot of wrong, but he was always right. Black Mamba lives forever. Frobe lives forever. Vino lives forever. Gianna Maria Bryant lives forever. Kobe Bean Bryant lives forever.
KOBE BEAN BRYANT AND GIANNA MARIA BRYANT ARE FOREVER.
Footnotes
The Mark Jackson Warriors won 47 games and earned the 6th seed in the NBA. They upset that really fun Gallo, Ty Lawson, & Kenneth Faried Denver Nuggets team in the first round before taking the eventual Western Conference Champion Spurs to six games.
Kobe was absolutely phenomenal in that last stretch of games leading up to his Achilles injury. He had 47 points, 8 rebounds, 5 assists, 4 blocks, and 3 steals in the game prior to this one, against the Blazers on April 10th. He played all 48 minutes.
A particularly nice moment for me was when he dropped Klay Thompson for a three early in the second quarter.
The Black Mamba was said to have awoken the second half of a matchup with Tracy McGrady and the Orlando Magic in March 2004. He had a miserable first half but finished with 38 (26 in the 4th and OT) and played amazing defense in the fourth quarter on T-Mac. Urban legend says Vanessa had put him out of the house the night before. The moment is just so Kobe.
Kobe mostly reminded me of Beatrix Kiddo with the way he prepared and his work ethic. I feel like Kobe’s willpower was unmatched. The scene where Beatrix Kiddo wills herself out of entropy in the back of Buck’s Pussy Wagon captures Kobe’s spirit in such a beautiful way. It was methodical and calculated and she skipped no steps. “Wiggle your big toe.”
I was sitting in the University library with huge headphones on, tears just pouring from my eyes. Passersby probably thought I was crazy. I didn’t care though.
My sister bought me the TV in my first week of school for the express purpose of having a way to watch basketball. I wouldn’t have made it out of college if I didn’t stay up until 2 am following west coast doubleheaders, watching those awful Lakers teams that Kobe was saddled with in his waning years. Or maybe my GPA would’ve been higher. I’ll go with the first one, I needed the therapy.
The Byron Scott-led Los Angeles Lakers went 17-65 that season.
Kobe hits a transition three to cut the Jazz lead to 1 with just under a minute left and Mike Tirico screams, “Got em all!!” as a crowd full of celebrities loses their mind. I felt the world smiling with me when that happened.
This is especially tough to see on re-watch. Natalia, Vanessa, and Gianna Maria all looked so happy.
Number 8 Kobe was hungry and wanted it all. He was fierce and he was tested often. He was a cerebral assassin and often found ways to come out on top. He was younger, more spry, more athletic. But Number 24 Kobe was my guy. He had obtained OG status by that point, no one wanted to piss him off. I think he had the best mix of skill and athleticism of all time. Number 24 Kobe was reminiscent of Brother Mouzone from The Wire. Crossing him was guaranteed to come back to bite you. He was feared and an absolute certainty. His greatness was no longer in question.
I always thought Kobe would lose himself without basketball when I was kid, like he’d die without it. Something similar to how Bill died in Kill Bill, after Beatrix Kiddo hits him with the Five Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique. But by that point, I knew Kobe’s heart wasn't basketball. It was his family.
Bleacher Report honestly ranked Kobe the 14th greatest player of all time back in 2019. He’s number one, in my opinion.
Mid 2000s YouTube mixes with Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” playing over filthy Kobe highlights were often prefaced with talking heads and their anti-Kobe hot takes. Seeing them take all their words back the day he died wasn't gratifying in the slightest.
We lost 122-86.
I remember scouring the entire city for an issue of SLAM 221. It was a triple cover with Dwyane Wade, Kobe Bryant, and my favorite active player D’Angelo Russell. All the D’Lo covers were sold out so I had waited to order one online only to find out all the D’Lo covers were sold out on the official website by the time I gathered my pennies as well. So I never got Kobe and Mamba Academy on the cover together, I ended up ordering D’Lo’s cover off eBay for 30 bucks later in the summer. Kobe is my favorite player of all time but I had so many covers from him, I felt like I had to show D’Lo some love. I didn’t know it would be the last cover of his life. I didn’t know the significance that photo shoot would hold and how much it would craft the way Kobe and Gigi’s relationship is expressed to the world. Kobe was an amazing basketball player and by all means the most skilled ever but he was an even better father.