The Afterword: The Kobe Effect: On fame, death and a nation’s heartbreak

It’s noon on Sunday, Jan. 26, and I’m watching Twitter’s trending section. I refresh in disbelief as news of basketball legend Kobe Bryant’s death floods the internet. The word is spreading like a wildfire and the digital stages of grief are quickly set into motion. My shock and denial are followed by anger and pain. 

Before his death, my column had nothing to do with Bryant. Nevertheless, sitting here in front of my laptop, it feels trivial to write about anything else. What unfolded before my eyes sent shockwaves through entire communities and will likely challenge our conceptions of fame, death and the way these concepts interact in the public eye.

Bryant, 41, and his 13-year-old daughter Gianna, were among nine people killed in a helicopter crash that morning. 

Only 17 when drafted to the Lakers, the youngest player in the league’s history at the time, Bryant quickly grew to become a legend. In his lifetime he won five NBA titles with the Lakers, two NBA Finals MVP awards and was an 18-time All-Star eligible for the Basketball Hall of Fame. 

His influence was just as tangible off the court. He was a cultural icon, as evidenced by Chief Keef’s “Kobe” and other shoutouts by prolific hip-hop stars, his multiple TV and film cameos and Oscar-winning short “Dear Basketball.” 

His fans saw him on posters in their bedrooms, on their living room televisions and mentioned him in their dinner-table conversations. Behind the tough-love “Mamba Mentality,” Bryant never cut corners, never made excuses. And he did everything in his power to use that mindset to strengthen and elevate young people across the globe. It is clear that this loss is already being felt in a big way: Producer and singer Pharell Williams expressed that the “world lost a giant today” and Leonardo Dicaprio declared “L.A. will never be the same.” 

But I’m not writing this article to tell you what happened — by the time it runs, you will have likely read every detail, a dozen times over. I’m writing this to ask a question that even I don’t have the answer to: At a time when public figures can reach an unprecedented level of global influence, what are the cultural ramifications when someone so embedded in the heart of the nation passes?

Thanks to improved technology and communication, we have the luxury of experiencing celebrities at unforeseen levels. We can follow their digital trail as they move through the world, creating a sense of intimacy that is counterintuitive to their untouchable nature. 

We immortalize their image and their legacy at every turn, and we thus come to see them as much more infallible than they are. Then, on a day like Sunday, we are forced to face the chilling reality that death waits for no man — and it’s terrifying.

It was felt in the accidental overdoses of hip-hop stars Mac Miller and Juice WLRD. It was felt in the unexpected murder of Nipsey Hussle, who was shot outside his Los Angeles store last March. Now, it is felt in the loss of Bryant, and the damage will span far and wide. He lived not vertically, but horizontally; he was not just a household name in basketball — he was a household name, period, his influence cutting across industries and generations.

I believe deaths like Bryant’s, deaths of those we see as invulnerable, challenge our conceptions of humanity in a big way. It is no surprise that shock and incredulity will permeate the circumstances surrounding his death. The communities he touched will not process their loss hastily. On a quiet Sunday morning in Calabasas, a helicopter went down, and Bryant, one of the greatest of all time, went down with it. 

I’m watching tweet after tweet saying, “this can’t be real” and “I can’t believe this.” Certainly, these reactions are appropriate, even expected. But I think we are scared, scared that even with legacy and prowess in your grasp, you can still die without warning.  

As Horace once said, “Pale death beats equally at the poor man’s gate and at the palaces of kings.”

 Although my sentiment is grim, as we experience these public figures more closely and personally than ever before, the way we experience their deaths is different, too. I believe this is a culturally defining moment, one that challenges our perceptions of fame and infallibility, and reflects on our interconnectedness. This is a piece of history that, like Bryant himself, will cut horizontally across the social fabric of a nation. 

Before I sign off, I want to share a thought: When you take a shot you think you’ll never make, you yell, “Kobe!” His trademark was making the impossible possible, and while death waits for no man, I’d like to believe legends never really die. 

Rachel McKenzie is a junior  writing about pop culture. Her column, “The Afterword,” runs every other Tuesday