Kobe Bryant died on January 26th

WHENEVER HE WAS asked why his whole life had been spent playing basketball, Kobe Bryant’s narrow eyes searched upwards, and his mouth trembled. The answer was simple, yet so complicated. It began with the orange ball, the smell of it, the feel of the pebbled leather grains and the perfect grooves under his hands; and its bounce, and the way it sounded different on concrete or polished hardwood. Then came the net, the shot slithering right through it with that triumphant springing whoosh, while he howled with joy. Then every movement of the game, the strategies, the dodging and feints, the squeal of sneakers on the court. Whatever had thrilled him as a child (watching his father, also a pro player, on TV, wearing his own little 76ers outfit, running and jumping along with him) still thrilled him when in 2016 he retired from the game. “Dear Basketball”, he wrote,

From the moment
I started rolling my Dad’s tube socks
And shooting imaginary
Game-winning shots...
I knew one thing was real:
A love so deep I gave you my all.