It was a typical Sunday morning at our house. I had gone to early church service, picked up the standard Dunkin Donuts half dozen, and Kate, the kiddos, and I had a home church session about the prodigal son. After the fullness of the morning, I found myself relaxing in my reading chair, waiting to watch the NFL Pro Bowl game. I had my phone on vibrate in case any of my adult children were to call to wish me happy Sunday. Just then, my phone buzzed and I glanced down to see a pop-up message that read Kobe Bryant killed in helicopter crash. Then the message disappeared.
Everything went numb. Did I really just read that? Was my mind playing tricks on me? Was it some sort of fake news hoax? I hoped so. At that moment my ten-year-old son, Leo, jumped on my lap to show me a magic trick, so my attention was diverted 100% to him. When Leo finished impressing me with his magician acumen, I saw my phone light up with a caller ID photo of my oldest son, Shawn. “Hey, what’s up?” I answered. “Did you see Kobe died?” he asked with his voice trailing off as if he were hoping I would tell him that it wasn’t true.
So, it WAS true, and I immediately began to feel the gravity of the day. Shawn and I continued to talk and I heard the tears in his voice. Kobe’s #8 was Shawn’s first basketball jersey as a 7-year-old in 2002. I have a precious video of my young son beneath a seven-foot-tall basketball hoop in our driveway saying, “Dad, watch my spin move, just like Kobe.” I watch as he bounces the ball and turns his little body in a complete 360-degree spin, dribbles the ball again, and asks, “Did you see that?” with a smile like he hung the moon. That was his Kobe.
At age 57 and looking back through the years, there are certain monumental moments in life that tattoo your soul forever. I remember sitting with my mom watching TV and seeing coverage of the Bobby Kennedy assassination, and another time sitting with my mom and watching The Space Shuttle Challenger explode in the sky just after takeoff. I'll never forget where I was to watch the Magic Johnson press conference to announce he had AIDS, or where I watched the white Ford Bronco car chase with OJ Simpson in California. And then there was the morning of September 11, 2001, watching the TODAY show as it was interrupted to show a plane flying into the World Trade Center.
These are my tattooed moments.
Losing Kobe will be another. I cried in the back bedroom away from my family. I texted my adult daughters who were also basketball players that I had coached through middle school and I knew they had their own Kobe memories because we had watched him win numerous NBA championships together as a family 20 years ago. Kobe was to them what Magic Johnson and Michael Jordan had been for me as a young athlete. For so many around the world, Kobe was more than just basketball. He was an icon and a brand that represented discipline, intense focus, and excellence. And in the later years of Kobe’s career, he became a man in reflection and focused on fatherhood. Recently stories became more mainstream about Kobe's philanthropy, his acts of kindness, his giving spirit and his mentoring of several generations, including Lebron and Tiger. And in the last three years since his retirement, I enjoyed hearing Kobe talk about moving away from basketball as the center of his life and making his family and his four daughters his biggest priority. I respected that so much, as it is a transition few men make in life.
Later that tragic Sunday afternoon in the back room, I brought myself to watch the tributes and the reactions from other athletes, celebrities and reporters. So many of them brought me to tears. Kobe was a special man with so much to offer the world. My entire being ached as I grieved such a promising life cut short at only 41.
And then more details began to emerge about that day; that Kobe and his daughter had gone to 7 AM mass before boarding the helicopter to go to their basketball game and that several other players and parents were on board the helicopter and also lost their lives. I literally wailed at the top of my lungs at the TV and fell to my knees in prayer and sobs. Learning that the world lost a sport's hero is one thing, but hearing that a youth basketball team lost parents, coaches and players en route to a game hit the bull's eye of my heart. How many times had I driven three, four, even six other players and parents to youth sports games that I had coached with my own children? What happened to Kobe could happen to any of us as parents on our way to games.
I am still numb. My adult children have asked me how to make sense of this emotion and where to put it in their lives and hearts. How do you process someone so famous, an icon we never met, yet an athlete and a dad that we feel like we know personally? If I knew, I would tell my family. But I am struggling like so many around the world. I am full of unanswered questions such as these. I have no words. All I can do is pray.
Living six years with leukemia reminds me every day of how precious, miraculous, and cherished each and every breath is! Losing Kobe is a reminder that not one of us is promised tomorrow, not even our heroes. One day, after we all properly grieve, we will be able to put the shock and sadness we feel now toward the back of our hearts, and let the joy that Kobe Bryant brought to so many move itself back into the forefront of our memories and minds. One day we will have the privilege and responsibility to tell future generations about the legend of Kobe Bryant and the Mamba mentality. We get to tell them about how he played the game, and how he died too soon. But most importantly, we get to tell about how he lived and the impact he had on so many lives.
Rest in peace Kobe, his daughter Gigi, and all the lives lost in the helicopter crash. Our prayers are for the souls of the departed, and for the lives yet to be lived by the families that must endure such an unthinkable loss.
Amen. And Amen.