My dad never had a son.
But that didn’t keep him from sharing his love of basketball.
As a kid, he’d quiz me on the names of some of the players past and present from his favorite team—the Lakers.
He’d say their first name, I’d respond enthusiastically with their last.
It was our own little comedy routine.
“AC” he’d say.
“Green!” I’d respond.
“Magic…?” he’d question.
“Johnson!” I’d scream, beaming from ear to ear.
“Kareem…” he’d continue.
“Abdul Jabar!” I’d squeal.
Down the list he’d go and I’d never miss a name—Vlade Divac, James Worthy, Kurt Rambis...you get the idea.
I don’t think I knew it then, but knowing their names made it easier to connect to the sport. It made the purple and gold flecks running across our Zenith TV screen a little more human.
When I was in middle school, my dad told me some kid joined the Lakers.
He was only 7 years older than me.
“He’s really good,” Dad explained.
He had a unique name from the start, but the life he led solidified the fact that it would never be forgotten.
I can’t ignore the fact that he was in the news for some not-so-good reasons, but I’d like to think that while he was busy defining a generation, he was also growing as a person, learning from his mistakes and pushing to be better—on and off the court. Because it was his drive to be better that made him so special—you could see it on the court, you could see it on his face, you could feel it from your couch at home. Sure there was natural talent, but his hard work was undeniable and contagious.
The retirement of his numbers two years ago—on my birthday no less—was bittersweet, but we knew he was so much more than 8 or 24.
We thought we had more time to root for his new endeavors.
We never could have imagined this...
On Sunday, January 26th when I found out he died in a helicopter crash with his daughter and 7 other people, my dad was the first person I texted.
All the memories rushed in:
Watching him together in the family room.
Texting back and forth during games while I was away in college.
Family gatherings when Laker superfans, Auntie Sherry and Grandpa Phil would join in—our fists clenched and our eyes glued to the screen—the room silent except for the sound of sneakers squeaking across a freshly waxed court.
He brought us together. Gave us something to believe in.
When it seemed like our team was losing, he’d somehow change the tides and give us hope.
With yesterdays’ news—he was ripped away from us.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this.
We were supposed to join him on the sidelines rooting for his daughter.
I was supposed to point to the old, wrinkled version of him on my TV screen and quiz my future son or daughter.
“Kobe…?” I’d ask.
“Bryant!” they’d respond.
But now I’ll have to find another way to make sure they remember his name.