I haven’t allowed myself to cry yet. The tears have welled up in my eyes but I’ve refused to let them fall. Just like I’ve refused to accept that Kobe Bryant is gone. I keep waiting for what’s never coming — some confirmation that this was all a big hoax, or a case of mistaken identity. Maybe I just need to let it all out, grab some tissue and watch the waterworks flow, so that I can move forward. But it’s been harder than expected.
Outside of family members or friends, I can’t think of a death that has hit me harder than this one. And I only knew Bryant on the most superficial levels. Perhaps because we were so close in age, and I realize that 41 is too young for a farewell. Perhaps because he was the first NBA superstar to take care of me with exclusive interviews, or my career covering the NBA has always included his presence.
Perhaps because my family recently bought a home near the high school where he had the audacity to declare, with…
