Today marked one year since Kobe & Gigi’s tragic death and having experienced a year like this one, I’m only now beginning to digest the weight of their passing.
It’s a strange feeling to grieve the loss of someone you really didn’t have much of a personal connection to; despite their indirect impact on your life by virtue of being a fan.
And even more so, to share that grief alongside hundreds of millions of people worldwide.
When I think of Kobe, I find myself feeling less obsessed with the thought of his passing, but rather the fragility of life. But when I dig deeper, in perhaps a bit of an obsessive manner; reading the copious amounts of eulogies, speeches and Instagram posts, it finally hits me. It’s more about Kobe Bryant as a parent that stings, rather than Kobe Bryant as the NBA superstar.
From the eye of the media, Kobe emulated a rather present and caring father figure. Sure, the loss of a star athlete and a universal phenomenon holds heavy on society as a whole, but the icing on the cake – at least for me personally – was the suddenness of his death and the connection with Gianna.
I’ve been focused a lot on that lately. And I’ve come to conclusion that, I’ve just been fucking scared. Scared of dying. Scared of underachieving. Scared of leaving my children without having a legacy to remember me by.
I’m terrified to all of a sudden depart this world with a feeling that I haven’t accomplished enough – for my kids. I haven’t taught my kids enough, exposed them to enough, shown them how to love enough, how to put up a shelf, how to roast a chicken, how to pitch a tent (that’s a lie, I don’t know how to do that), how to be compassionate and empathetic. You get the point, the list is endless. I like to think that one of the greatest gifts of being a father is having the ability to learn or relearn things with your children. But then, unexpectedly tragedy strikes.
Sure, Kobe might have had his time and fulfilled on that journey, or maybe his time was cut too short. Or maybe that wasn’t really his purpose in this world – to be a “father.” I have to believe it was his retirement that finally gave him the perspective that family should come first. And when you make that selfless act to be a parent, it really isn’t even about you anymore. There’s a distinct delineation between NBA Kobe & Post-NBA Kobe and surely, Pre-Paternal Kobe and Paternal Kobe.
But regardless, Kobe was 41 years old. Fucking 41. Just a few years older than me. And already he lived, he prospered, he changed the world, he retired and he died. Pretty morbid breaking it down like that.
In reminiscing about his career and how it relates to me; only one story sticks out during his 20 year career: April 13, 2016.
I had landed back in New York after a business trip. I texted my wife to meet me for dinner at a restaurant in Brooklyn. We decided to forgo dessert, as she alluded to a “sweet surprise” she had for me back at home. My head went to a sexual place. I was wrong.
We arrived back at the apartment and she presented me with a Ziplock bag of homemade peanut butter cookies. I love peanut butter, so I immediately took a bite. Then I jumped into the shower and headed to sleep. A few minutes later, I tossed the covers to the side and jumped out of bed, remembering that tonight was actually Kobe Bryant’s final NBA career game.
I caught the second half. I’m sitting there, watching the team feed him the ball, the LA fans going nuts over his remarkable 60 point finish and all of a sudden it hits me – Kobe Bryant was leaving the NBA. The one outstanding player of my generation, whom I recall witnessing him enter the league at 18 years old, was about to walk off the hardwood floor, one last time. Tears started rolling down my face. I became an emotional wreck. Thinking to myself, Kobe Bryant, at 38, is leaving the sport he loved, a craft he excelled at, one he committed to wholeheartedly, and here’s me, having zero clue what I want to do with my life. Kobe Bryant is retiring!
I went to bed after his post-game speech, depressed.
The next morning I woke up, made myself a coffee. Ate the remaining cookie to try and lift my spirit higher. I had a meeting schedule with a client at 11:30, so I opened my closet to put together an outfit and all of a sudden, I can’t match any pants and shirts together. My head’s spinning. Heart’s beating rapidly.
I texted my wife, freaking out — “Uh, any chance these cookies may have weed in them?”
She replies back: “Holy shit” with a crying emoji.
I reply back: ???
Minutes later I collapse on the bed. I get a text back from her, confirming that yes, in fact the cookies were weed infused and that her co-worker, who gave her the batch, assumed she understood that these were edibles. Particularly considering that he signaled a smoking joint gesture as he was hanging her the bag.
Clearly, she did not put two and two together.
Now, needless to say I endured a slight panic attack. Luckily, my client meeting was with a good friend and I immediately texted them that I’ll be high and probably incoherent for most of our meeting. I also started replaying the events of the evening before and sure, now I understood why I was so deeply emotional about Kobe’s retirement game. And also, why I thought our apartment smelled like marijuana the night prior.
I was never much of an athlete growing up. I was really just too Jewish. But being raised in New York, I had a natural affinity for watching the Knicks and attempting to play basketball. I also believed if I wore Jordans I would play better. In fact, I remember in junior high when my parents moved us down to Miami. I tried out for the JV squad of my Jewish Day School. The coach had felt so badly for all the students that tried out that he didn’t have the heart to cut anyone.
Our first game, we rolled up to this public middle school with 13 year olds that seemed to have had growth spurts at age 7, and we’re 40 Jewish nerds with post-Bar Mitzvah mustaches, walking off three school buses.
Our starting five played the entire time. We lost by 37. And I held the clipboard for the duration of the game. That was the pinnacle of my athletic career. I had to retire after that, before anyone else was exposed to my talents.
It’s been a year since Kobe’s gone now. And I’m happy to continue his legacy by crumpling paper balls and shooting them into garbage bins, yelling “Kobe” as I fade away. In fact, I just did and naturally I missed.
But if I take away two things from his passing, I’m reminded to cherish all the moments of marriage, parenthood and family – the good ones, the bad ones, the fights and the sleepless nights – they’re all equally important and building blocks to leaving behind a real legacy.
And the second thing, well, that’s to make sure I always ask what’s inside any homemade baked goods from now on.
David Nurieli