Dear Kobe: A letter for Kobe Bryant on his birthday

On 8/24—and one day following Kobe Bryant’s birthday, no less—it only feels right to pen the late legend.

Dear Kobe Bryant,

Like so many others, I will never forget where I was when I heard the news. I could not believe it then, and I’m still not so sure I believe it to this day. How could I?

You? Kobe Bryant? The 42-year-old basketball and Los Angeles Lakers icon? The epitome of physical and mental health? The five-time NBA champion? The Oscar winner? The youth girls basketball coach? One of the sports’ greatest global ambassadors? The loving husband to Vanessa? The always-present father to Gianna, Natalia, Bianka, and Capri?

Gone?

Yet sadly, my level of disbelief in the situation matters not. The facts—regardless of how vehemently I attempt to ignore them—remain facts nonetheless.

You. Kobe Bryant. The 42-year-old basketball icon. The epitome of physical and mental health. The five-time NBA champion. The Oscar winner. The youth girls basketball coach. One of the sports’ greatest global ambassadors. The loving husband to Vanessa. The always-present father to Gianna, Natalie, Bianka, and Capri.

Gone.

Somehow, it has already been roughly seven months since that fateful event transpired in Calabasas, California. A day of sheer bewilderment, countless people wept at the loss of one of their heroes. I know I did. After all, throughout the last few years, you had become one of my greatest inspirations.

However, my admiration for you did not always run so deep. As a matter of fact, there was a large part of me that regrettably could not stand you. At least, for a time, I couldn’t.

I loathed your more-often-than-not selfish style of play. Annoyed, I would shout at my television as you so frequently bypassed open teammates to shoot a contested 21-footer over two defenders. Even more frustratingly, as those same wide-open men called for the ball, that contested 21-footer would always seem to find the bottom of the net. You have no idea how mad that would make me.

Seeing your spiteful smirk as you catapulted daggers into the hearts of your opponents filled me with disdain. As a Cleveland native, hearing the incessant LeBron-versus-Kobe debate angered me even further.

I hated you. I feared you. I certainly respected your abilities, but make no mistake: Watching you struggle—as infrequently as that occurred—was always a satisfying experience.

Knowing you, though, you would take that as a compliment.

You not only seemingly loved the animosity that so many felt toward you, but you welcomed it with open arms. Then, as your own personal cherry on the top of your ‘F-you’ sundae, you would bask in the glory of proving us wrong. You were a competitive psychopath to the umpteenth degree, and instead of allowing those pressures to break you down to dust, you used them to forge diamonds.

Take, for instance, your Achilles injury—or, as I remember it, the moment I threw my Kobe Bryant disdain out the window.

Just minutes following the injury, I was blown away by your undying will to step up to the free-throw line and sink both shots on a shredded leg. Then, over the next year, the way you tackled your rehabilitation process inspired me in ways I had never previously known. For the first time in my lifetime, it was nearly impossible for me to root against you. You no longer appeared as a mythical, immortal basketball alien sent to torment all who opposed you; You were simply, plainly, unapologetically Kobe.

Though the remainder of your career was not much to write home about, I stayed on the bandwagon. Watching some of those mid-2010’s Lakers games was undoubtedly a grueling exercise, but every once in a blue moon, you would summon the old Kobe.

Only this time, I cheered you on as you did.

And finally, when you pulled the greatest final-game performance of all-time out of your magical hat, I—as well as so many others—could not have been happier for you. Your career ending on such a triumphant note was the only fitting way for you to go out, and despite my rather new admiration, I simultaneously shed subtle tears and exuberantly clapped my hands together with each incredible, logic-defying shot you buried in that fourth quarter. I will truly never forget that.

You won multiple NBA championships, accumulated some of the most incredible accolades the league has ever seen, grew the game of basketball in ways that so few ever will, and, most importantly, proudly built a happy family in the process.

You weren’t perfect. Similar to everyone else, you made plenty of mistakes during your life. But if there was anything you taught us, it is that life isn’t always about mistakes. It’s about how you combat those mistakes and become a better person from them. It’s about attacking everything you hold dear—whether it be school, or sports, or your career, or your relationships, or a host of so many other things—with unrelenting passion. It’s about the impact you have on those around you. It’s about how you treat your loved ones. Most importantly, it’s about the paths that you pave for future generations.

Being the role model that you proved to be, you did all of those things and then some.

So, as I sit back on this 8/24 and reminisce on your career, I think little of the previous angst I once felt toward you or the sadness that I feel now that you are gone.

Instead, I think of how many great memories you provided for us.

I think of how incredible it was to watch you dismantle everybody in your path.

I think of the countless times you left me with an empty feeling in my stomach following a rip-your-heart-out performance.

I think of how the game of basketball—the game I have loved my entire life—is in a better place because of your contributions.

I think of your family and how you are proudly watching over them.

Most notably, I think of how lucky we all are to have had something that made saying goodbye so damn difficult.

Thank you for everything, Kobe Bryant.