Dear Kobe Bryant

A lifelong fan’s heartfelt letter to Kobe  Bryant, appreciating and thanking him for his passion, longevity and greatness.

Dear Kobe Bryant,

I was just a kid when we first met.

You only played three minutes that game, but by the time your second professional contest had ended, and your first in MSG, you had gained a life-long fan.

The way you glided along the 94 feet of hardwood; the way the announcers gushed at your potential — you had a 6-year-old neophyte who had just immigrated to North America from halfway across the world intrigued and mesmerized.

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I would follow your career fanatically — from the airballs you threw up in Utah during Game 5 of the 1997 Western Conference Semifinals, to your air-against-heir-tilt with Michael Jordan during MJ’s last season as a Bull.

I watched intently as your hype train officially went off the rails after becoming the youngest All-Star starter ever, despite not even starting for the 1997-98 rendition of the Los Angeles Lakers.

I jumped off my couch when you threw the lob to Shaquille O’Neal during Game 7 of 2000 Western Conference Finals, overcoming a 15-point fourth quarter deficit to defeat the Portland Trail Blazers. I indirectly earned bragging rights in my household over my Dad (an unabashed Kobe hater) when you captured your first championship.

I witnessed your game mature and respected how you unwillingly swallowed your ego and put your differences with Shaq aside in 2001, demolishing every opponent that stood forth en route to delivering one of the most dominant playoff runs of all time.

The 48 and 16 you dropped in a closeout game against the Kings in the old Arco Arena, and the 45 and 10 you followed it up with against the Spurs in Game 1 of the very next round gave a 13-year old me the credence to irrationally proclaim you, and not Shaq, as the best player on the Lakers.

After a somewhat controversial seven-game series win against the rival Kings in 2002, you would earn your third ring, all before the age of 23 — I was there.

The next season, instead of sitting on your laurels, you came back better than ever, putting #musclewatch on notice 10 years before its inception when you put on 15 pounds of lean functional weight. You would tear the league apart that year, inflicting your first 30-point per game campaign.

You would score 40-plus points in nine straight games, tied the NBA record for the most 3s in a game at 12 (a record that still holds true today), and threw down series of otherworldly in-game facials.

I stood by you when you were charged with sexual assault, incessantly defending you regardless of logic and evidence. I celebrated like a crazed puppy chasing its own tail when you miraculously nailed those consecutive 3s in Portland over famed “Kobe stopper” Ruben Patterson. I wept a mere three months later when you fell to the Pistons in the 2004 NBA Finals.

Shaq was traded to Miami during that offseason. The Lakers would miss the playoffs for the time in 11 years, while the Heat were transformed almost instantaneously into title contenders. In spite of your tarnished reputation, you remained the man I so deeply idolized.

The 2005-06 season served as a vindication of sorts. The team was mediocre at best, but your electrifying play and obscene scoring binges outshined the team’s middling performance.

The 62 points in three quarters you poured in against a 60-win Mavericks team, the infamous 81-point masterpiece you dropped on the Raptors — a game I watched on repeat throughout that night as I pulled an all-nighter procrastinating my way through a Science project that was due the very next day — I cheered and gloated as if I scored those points myself.

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In my many ways, I did score those points.

The countless hours I spent in my driveway mimicking your every move, your hesitation puller-up, your between-the-legs crossover, the way you stressed and perched your eyebrows as you bent over, veraciously gnawing on your poor piece of gum — as an only child, you were my imaginary brother; an icon I one day hoped to emulate; a one-way friendship based through the carefully-crafted public relations image I was led to worship.

As I grew older, however, my fandom became less aberrant. I accepted the fact that you will never match Jordan’s legacy — no one can. With the advent of advanced stats, I was forced to come to the irrefutable realization that LeBron James is the better player; while, along the same vein, the early-2000s Lakers were led by the Big Aristotle, and not the Black Mamba.

I still cheered, though, revisiting my childhood ways, when your journey for redemption came full-circle, fulfilling your prophecy by winning the back-to-back titles as “the man.”

But my fandom had taken a deviated course; no longer did I nonsensically adore the very ground you walked on. Alternatively, I began to appreciate the stained odyssey you had embarked upon.

The Finals losses, the game-winning misses, and your personal failures made you human; the way you persevered through such tribulations made you my role model.

Your longevity as a superstar is unmatched in my lifetime. You battled the MJs and Reggie Millers; you outlasted the Vince Carters and Tracy McGradys; and you sustained your greatness long enough to go toe-to-toe against the likes of LeBron, Dwyane Wade and Kevin Durant.

And as you prepare to begin the epilogue of your illustrious career, I want to say thank you.

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Thank you for giving the millions of young men born in the Generation-X era a hardworking, swagger-induced (borderline cocky) marksmen they can look up to. Thank you for the countless debates your play has sparked among my high school/college teammates and family members, alike.

Thank you for the record-breaking performances, the championships, and a generation’s worth of memories.

Thank you for introducing me, like you did with so many adolescents around the world, this beautiful game of basketball — our mutual bond. And as you leave the game, the book on my childhood officially closes.

Thank you Kobe Bryant, for being a polarizing superstar … an indisputable cultural icon.

Sincerely,
Your biggest fan.