I take my ball under my arm and navigate my pink and white bike, a going-away present from my grandparents, to the basketball court at the edge of our apartment complex. The goals were missing their nets more often than they weren’t and the court was made only of packed down dirt that was dotted with wayward patches of grass and embedded rocks that could cause you to lose your dribble if you weren’t paying attention.
I practiced lay-ups and foul shots for hours a day. It was an escape from the turbulence that often took place inside our small apartment. I wasn’t particularly skilled, but I was tough and didn’t balk when the older kids told me to fetch the ball out of the woods.
I was seven. I was sad. I was lonely. Basketball was a saving grace.
My granddad was a bookie and I grew up in a sports bar, but the only favorite teams we had were the ones that covered the spread. Until I found the L.A. Lakers.
This was during the beginning of Michael Jordan’s storied and meteorically popular career. However, it was all Showtime for me. I adorned my plain white bedroom walls with the gold and purple clad Magic Johnson, James Worthy and Kareem Abdul-Jabaar. My wardrobe was made up almost entirely of Lakers shirts. I cried when Magic Johnson announced that he was HIV positive and although my fandom waned as I got older, I have still followed the Lakers to some degree all of my life.
I was aghast the night I inexplicably landed free tickets to watch the Kobe Bryant led Lakers against the then-Charlotte Bobcats and my husband had absolutely no interest in going to see them.
“We may never get a chance to see the Black Mamba play again, honey!”
He told me to go without him. I scrambled to find someone on such short notice and finally had a taker with the new woman in my office. She had basketball bobble heads and was tall. Therefore, I was certain that she was way into basketball.
She wasn’t, but she was down for a new adventure. That woman is now the very best friend I have ever had.
When the news of Kobe Bryant’s tragic and untimely death first happened, she texted me to see if I had seen the news. I replied that I had and reminded that going to see Kobe play was our “first date”. I also told her that his death made me feel like I had been punched directly in the chest – and, this was before I knew about his daughter and the other souls aboard that ill-fated helicopter.
I called her and said that for me in death, just as in life, Kobe was a personality that drew conflicting emotions. I admired him…his skill, his work ethic. He seemed to love his children in a big, open way and from what the public could see at least he had made such an effort to rebuild his marriage.
However, it is why he had to rebuild his marriage that is the rub in my love for him. Could I love him on one hand and absolutely hate what he did on the other?
Over the past week, I’ve cried during the heartfelt tributes for him and my heart has ached for his wife and daughters. I have also tried to thoughtfully consider the people who want us to remember that Kobe sexually attacked a young woman at the height of his career.
I have decided that I can. I know what it is like to deeply love flawed, golden people. It is not easy. These people, those who do wrong, don’t always deserve our love and admiration. They hurt us and drain us. Yet, we remain…willinging them to be better.
That is my hope for Kobe, that all those who loved him so dearly were able to will him to be better.
And, more importantly, I hope that he and his daughter are resting peacefully together.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
