Memories on the run

I am an average runner at best.

I make a point to run at least one mile every time I go to the gym, and on a treadmill, I can maintain a pace of seven miles per hour with ease. On a typical day, I can conquer the first mile in just under seven minutes before slowing myself to a walking pace. On my best days, I can push myself to my absolute limit of a three-mile run before slowing down. Most days, my run serves merely as a complement to a lengthier workout.

On the afternoon of Sunday, January 26, I was stuck in place.

"I just got a news notification that Kobe passed away in a helicopter crash."

Wait.

"Checking news sources. I'm not bullshitting."

---

It was never supposed to end this way. Kobe Bryant was a man of legend, his mythical existence backed by countless anecdotes of a life lived beyond that of the average Joe. His famous "6x6" workout program, a grueling six-month grind of six-hour workouts, six days per week. His on-court tenacity, highlighted by the long walk he took to the locker room under his own power after tearing an Achilles tendon and sinking two free throws. His well-documented helicopter commutes to and from games and all around Southern California.

That Sunday afternoon felt separated from time itself. For nine hours, I sat transfixed on the onslaught of coverage of the deaths of Kobe, his daughter Gianna and seven others. For nine hours, I tried to convince myself the news was nothing more than a cruel joke taken too far.

In the month since that frozen Sunday afternoon, the numbers added up. Eight- and twenty-four-second violations in NBA games for days on end. Kobe's number 24 and Gianna's number 2 draped over courtside seats in Staples Center the night the Los Angeles Lakers played their first game since their beloved icon's passing. 33,643 red roses flanking the stage at Monday's celebration of Bryant's life, one for every point he scored in 20 years in the NBA. Nine hours spent trying to convince myself it was all fiction.

I wrote about Kobe Bryant nearly four years ago as an homage to the end of his illustrious playing career. His retirement from the court was a moment in time, and my tribute was merely a fraction of a sliver of that moment. Countless words were written, memorials were held and his impact was spoken about at length. Five NBA championships, two Olympic gold medals, 33,643 points, on and on and on his list of accomplishments went. And then...

"Mamba out."

Kobe went on to bigger and better things. Bigger and better seemed almost impossible after the two-decade masterpiece left in his wake, but Kobe was known to outdo himself. "Dear Basketball" won an Oscar for best animated short film. "The Punies" launched as an original podcast for kids. Not one, but two more Bryant daughters were born. The sequel was shaping up to be better than the original, a fitting fate for one of Hollywood's greatest dramatists. And then...

That Sunday afternoon in January was nothing short of a cruel nightmare, but Kobe was nothing if not a dreamer. His passing has hung in the collective consciousness like a purple and gold cloud, grim in its finality, yet bold in its symbolism and its message. Countless words have been written, memorials have been held and Kobe's impact has been spoken about at length. This life is not everlasting.

The words I wrote about Kobe Bryant nearly four years ago were not my best. Looking back, the tribute reads like a nostalgic letter to a childhood idol, thrown together in haste by a college freshman not yet well-versed in the nuances of his craft. That childhood idol never stood for excuses, though.

I am an average runner at best. The day after Kobe and Gianna Bryant passed on from this world with seven others, I went to the gym, put my head down and covered 2.4 miles at a pace of eight miles per hour, a tribute to a man who's memory will never stop running.

Cover photo from Scott Halleran