Kobe was bigger than just basketball

From time to time, I close my eyes and imagine the 8-year-old kid who used to run up and down a shadow-filled court under the stars with a basket barely lit up by the radiant moon and a flickering light. He stood with the ball in a triple-threat position at the top of the 3-point line with an imaginary defender in front of him and a dwindling shot clock in the back of his head. He put his head down, took a couple dribbles and rose up over the outstretched arms of the make-believe player while fading away. A follow-through and silent buzzer-like sound later, a hissing swish echoed throughout the outdoor arena.

The voice of his dad then emerged in the background. “It’s time to go,” he said, but the boy didn’t want to leave. “One more shot.” As his shot went up and the ball continually rotated in an imperfect revolution towards the rim, the lights went out — the price he paid for wanting to be like Kobe. The lights would eventually turn back on, but the boy’s father was gone … So he decided to keep shooting, with nothing present but the vision of his idol, and he wouldn’t stop until sunrise. That young boy was me, dreaming of becoming someone who I would never become. Someone who inspired not only me, but also a league, a city and the world to always and only strive for greatness. Anything less was a failure. That’s why I hated Kobe “Bean” Bryant, but also why I loved him.

Words cannot begin to describe what Kobe meant to that young boy, and that admiration has not gone anywhere over a decade later. Growing up, there’s no one I looked up to more than number eight turned 24. When I realized I wasn’t going to be him on the court, I aspired to instead emulate his grit, work ethic and competitive mentality.

Growing up without a dad, it was Kobe who played the role of a father figure in my life, even if he didn’t know it. He taught me how to grind, how to trust, how to demand perfection and that the only thing standing in the way of me and getting to the basket of anything in life was myself. I absolutely wouldn’t be where I am today without Kobe, and I’m forever grateful for that.

All I can say Kobe, is thank you: For five Lakers championships, for giving me the courage to attempt to jump over moving cars (there’s video proof), for giving me strength in the face of adversity and for allowing me to fall so deeply in love with you. It was only fitting that the shirt on my back while watching your final minutes on the floor was inscribed with that magical four-letter word — love.

I still recall when I, an 8-year-old kid, first watched you show off that silky fadeaway jumper of yours — true greatness in the making. It was love at first sight.

Why did I always bite down on my jersey? I wanted to be like Kobe. Why did I get up after falling down? I wanted to be like Kobe. Why did I always strive to be the first one to wake up and the last one to go to sleep? I wanted to be like Kobe. I desired to be like him so desperately that I would forget he was also human, though he didn’t play like one sometimes.

Like anyone else, he also had his dark side. He inflicted on me stress, frustration and even disappointment, but my love for Kobe and his love for the game kept me coming back to him every single time.

That’s why after going on and off for 20 years, Wednesday night felt like heartbreak. Standing just a few rows away, tears streamed down my cheeks because it felt like this time was finally the last. It had to be, even if I still don’t think I’m quite ready to let go just yet.

My heart hurt seeing Kobe walking off that court for the last time, but it’s OK. My heart can take the pounding, as long as this is what he wants. That’s the least I can do because he gave me so much.

And while Kobe might have very well hung ’em up for the last time, I will never stop loving him. Just like the championship banners that hang in perpetuity in the rafters, the lessons and memories he has given me will keep my heart beating forever.

Darian Nourian is a senior majoring in print and digital journalism. His column, “Persian Persuasion,” runs Thursdays.