I first met Kobe Bryant when I was 14 years old. Like every kid in Philly with hoop dreams, I was attending a summer basketball camp in hopes of improving my game and strengthening my rep. On the first day, the games were getting competitive, with each of us doing our best to outplay the other.

Until Kobe walked in. 

Although he was the same age as us, it was immediately clear that Kobe was different. His confidence, his poise and, of course, his otherworldly skill set made it clear that he didn’t belong playing with anyone not old enough to drink. Kobe was special.

On the third day of camp, a recently drafted NBA player visited the camp to talk to the players. Toward the end of his talk, Kobe challenged him to a game of one-on-one. The rest of us sat in awe as Kobe gave this NCAA All-American all the work he wanted, freezing him with head fakes and shaking him with pro-level ball handling. As they approached game point, with the score tied up, the camp counselors stopped the game to let the player save face. It was too late. Everyone in the gym, including the NBA player, knew at that moment that Kobe was better. 

In summer 1996, Kobe decided to forgo college and declare himself eligible for the NBA draft. As one of the first players of his generation to go straight to the NBA, Kobe faced scrutiny and doubt for the first time. Instead of shrinking under the pressure of high expectations, not to mention the white-hot lights of Los Angeles, Kobe quickly emerged as the new face of the NBA and the heir apparent to Michael Jordan. 

Over the next two decades, Kobe would grow from cocky wunderkind to certified NBA legend. Along with Shaquille O’Neal, Kobe would lead Los Angeles to three straight NBA championships and begin his assault on the NBA record book. After a few stumbles, he would lead his own team to two more rings, placing himself alongside Jerry West, Magic Johnson and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar in the pantheon of Lakers greats. 

Kobe was not perfect. From messy disputes with teammates to angry trade demands to earth-shattering scandals, Kobe experienced the sting of both legitimate critique and unfair criticism. And unlike most humans who make mistakes or do harm, Kobe was forced to struggle, fail, grow and heal in full public view. The beauty and genius of Kobe, however, was his ability to own mistakes, hold himself accountable for missteps and learn from failures. While this ability made him an extraordinary athlete, it made him an even better person. 

Over the years, Kobe and I would stay in touch, mostly through text and social media. I would congratulate him when he and his wife gave birth to a new child, or when he closed out his career with a 60-point final game. He would send me his thoughts on my political debates, or tell me that he enjoyed the way I anchored Nipsey Hussle’s homegoing service last year.

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The last time that I saw Kobe in person was at the BET Experience in Los Angeles. He had just finished his Genius Talk with Jemele Hill, and we bumped into each other backstage. For the first time in 20 years, basketball wasn’t the center of our conversation. Instead, we talked about the joy of raising daughters, laughed at how serious we took ourselves as teenagers, and talked about what the next 30 or 40 years of life would look like. Kobe had yet to retire, but it was clear that he was beginning to look toward a life beyond hoops. 

A big reason for Kobe’s comfort with retirement was his profound love for his family. Whenever he talked about his wife and children, Kobe’s eyes lit up the same way they did when we talked hoops as teenagers. Although he was still passionate about the game, Kobe was much more interested in talking about his daughter Gigi’s growth as a player than discussing his own days of glory. The same energy he put into becoming a basketball god was now being poured into the people he loved. And it brought him joy. 

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Unlike most superstar athletes, Kobe Bryant showed no signs of restlessness or doubt about his retirement. Instead, he focused on the next phase of his life. He became committed to creative and entrepreneurial projects. He was a generous mentor to the next generation of NBA athletes. He remained a tireless supporter of the WNBA, offering a respect and solidarity rarely shown by other male athletes. He was a growing political voice, challenging the misdeeds of the powerful and echoing calls of Black resistance. He was growing. He was in process. 

And now he’s gone. 

I can’t make sense of Kobe’s death. Like Kobe would often say after a bad loss, there are no moral victories or philosophical insights to be gained from this. As his wife, Vanessa, prepares to bury her husband and 13-year-old daughter, I have nothing to offer but endless tears and a firm conviction that life is sometimes cruel and unfair. This will never not hurt.

With Kobe’s death, we lost more than a legendary athlete. We lost a father and husband. We lost a friend and mentor. We lost someone who was growing into newer, better and healthier versions of himself with the same intensity that he used to slay basketball giants. We lost someone whose best work, and best self, remained on the horizon. 

This is not how the story was supposed to end.