Anymore these days, there are few events with the capacity to truly shock.
The death of Kobe Bryant — along with his 13-year-old daughter, Gianna — in a helicopter crash on Sunday was one of them.
No matter if you were conflicted on the retired NBA superstar, a man who unified in his brilliance on the court always felt larger than life, a superhero in sneakers.
His sudden passing at 41 hit like a sledgehammer to the stomach, one of those rare, remember-where-you-were moments that overloads the senses.
To those outside the sports bubble, that will understandably be hard to comprehend.
Bryant was a basketball player, not a saint, and his death is no more incomprehensible than other tragedies. Also reportedly on the helicopter were his daughter, his daughter’s friend and dad, the pilot, and four others. Let us think of the families and friends of all on board.
But, of course, it was Bryant who we knew.
Or felt as if we knew as as we watched his Hollywood story unfurl with the Los Angeles Lakers, from an 18-year-old rookie to a five-time champion to a legendary statesman.
It was just Saturday night that LeBron James — now with the Lakers, too — passed Bryant for third on the NBA’s all-time scoring list, prompting congratulations from one future Hall of Famer to another.
“Continuing to move the game forward @KingJames,” Bryant wrote in his final tweet. “Much respect my brother.”
For a hoops-mad kid of the ’90s, it felt like a collision of worlds, because just as there was Wilt and Kareem and Magic and Larry for past generations, there was Jordan and Kobe and LeBron for mine.
Bryant was the bridge between them, and a worthy heir to the Showtime stage in L.A., too.
Shaq and Kobe in the late 1990s and early 2000s were the best show in sports, the playful big man and the cutthroat magician. Until I headed to college, my dad and I saw those championship Lakers teams in Cleveland every year, sitting in the $10 seats behind the basket. I can still see Bryant as I see him this moment on his 1996 rookie trading cards — yes, I still have my binder from seventh grade — his mouth agape as he soared to the rim.
Bryant seemed invincible.
What a treat.
And now, suddenly, he is gone, as is no small piece of the sport moving forward.
Cut down in the prime of his life, Bryant will never get to deliver his Hall of Fame speech, never get to see his statue outside the Staples Center, never get to be the old-time legend.
And that’s the trivial stuff.
My heart breaks for so many. It’s hard to fathom.
Understand, this is not to deify Bryant, who appeared to be a force for good in recent years — including as a devoted champion of his four daughters — but left behind complex legacy off the court. See: the well-documented sexual assault complaint in 2003. The charges were dropped, but Bryant settled a civil suit with the accuser.
But this isn’t the time to litigate his legacy.
Let this sad day instead be a reminder to appreciate the fragility of human life.
We’ll remember it forever.
First Published January 27, 2020, 2:24 a.m.
