Thank You, Mr. Bryant

It was back in 1999 when I was young and still kind of cute and the Spurs - still one of the most formidable championship rosters in recent memory - downed the Lakers in the Western Conference Finals that I first noticed the kid wearing No. 8. At the time, I really had no business watching basketball. I had just moved from Korea and was supposed to be learning English. But I saw my brother turn the channel to NBC, heard that wonderful adrenaline-pumping melody, realized from the opening highlights that men in the United States can dunk the basketball, and immediately I was hooked. My brother was a Laker fan, which meant I was a Laker fan.

Initially I didn't have a clue what the announcers were saying and I didn't care. I began learning the numbers and names on the back of the jerseys, though. I'll admit, I was intrigued by No. 34. But it was never a serious, long-term relationship. My curiosity was merely aroused by this behemoth of a man that insisted on using only one of his God-given hands to shoot the basketball. But No. 8, he was different from the moment I lay my eyes on him. For one thing, I really liked his afro. People in Korea don't have afros.

I also noticed he did some things on the basketball court that no one else did. He took some of the craziest shots I had ever seen. He would storm into the paint and finding himself surrounded by a pack of defenders, throw up a rainbow teardrop anyway. Or he would be isolated on the wing and with the defender draped all over him, post up and shoot a contested fadeaway. Back then, these weren't even turnaround jumpers. He would simply dribble to his favorite spots with his back toward the defender and rise up to shoot. I didn't need to understand English to know these were terrible shots. But some of them would go in. And when they didn't, he kept shooting. Some things don't change, do they?

You know that inexplicable tenderness that sweeps over you when you look into the eyes of a newborn baby? Well, me neither. But I imagine it's something akin to my feelings for Kobe at the early stages of his career. You see, I knew Kobe was destined for greatness. Well, maybe I can't say I knew, but I wanted to believe it badly, and nowadays that seems to fetch just as many brownie points. I believed in Kobe because for all that he lacked on the basketball court, he made up for it in his desire to win. And that's what Kobe Bryant is, and always has been. He's 6 feet 6 inches, 200 pounds of pure will. That’s all I needed to know to become a fan of Kobe Bryant. So when he caught Reggie Miller backpedaling with that yo-yo dribble and drained a double-pump jumper in the overtime of Game 4 of the 2000 Finals, I adopted him as my proverbial son. I would be there with him at every step of his career. And no matter how tough times got, I would not give up on him.

If raising a baby is as rewarding as watching Kobe develop as a basketball player, I am willing to apply for fatherhood at the DMV (that’s how you get babies, right?) I couldn't tell you the exact point in his career when he acquired that destructive jab step and marvelous combination of head fake and pivot in the post, or when he became crafty enough to use that trademark swing-through of the arms to draw fouls 30 feet from the basket. What I can tell you is that until about two years ago, Kobe had been getting better every season. Regardless of the season's outcome, he returned from each summer a more complete player, having added new moves and shots to his repertoire while maintaining the superb conditioning that has allowed him to register more than 1000 games in his 14-year career.

In the heydays of his first championship runs with Shaq, there was no one quicker and more dangerous in transition. He picked apart defenses simply because a single defender could not keep him from the paint, and opponents could not afford to double-team anyone not named Shaquille O'Neal for too long. Then Kobe began hitting the gym to bulk up, got some cool tattoos for his new guns, and soon he was dropping bombs from all over the court. He used his upper body strength to finish those three-point plays after contact and to square up against big bad small forwards on the other end. Sometime around 2005, Kobe became one of the most dangerous offensive players to ever play the game. He could score wherever, whenever, however he wanted. No one could defend him from the perimeter because he simply elevated over anyone who guarded him. And because no one could afford to give him any space in the perimeter, he began to use his Paul Bunyan first step to get to the rim. Absolutely unstoppable. About two years ago, Kobe's explosiveness began to tail off. And with injuries, he’s been hard-pressed to get the separation on the shots he needs, and he can no longer finish plays near the basket at the rate he used to. So he now makes a living in the post, using guile and footwork to ward off Shane Battiers and Tony Allens. It turns out he is also pretty decent in moments that matter the most.

As incredibly good Kobe has been throughout his decorated career, however, our relationship has not been without its rocky times. My biggest regret for Kobe as a basketball player is that he never achieved his full potential as a defender. When he wanted and cared, Kobe was an absolute lockdown defender. He fought through screens, used his quick hands to poke away at the dribble, and contested shots without fouling. He had such impeccable timing on his blocks that Andrei Kirilenko once passed up on a 1 on 1 fastbreak with Kobe the lone man back. But despite his selections to the NBA All Defensive Team, Kobe did not consistently commit himself at the defensive end. My guess is that he wanted to save his energy for the offensive workload. Thank you basketball god, for sending us Rajon Rondo.

To be honest, though, nothing has made me more conflicted about Kobe than his off-court baggage. We all hold romanticized visions of our favorite athletes as upright human beings, caring family members, and humble contributors to society. Then along comes a discomforting, if not shocking, revelation to mar everything. We can never look at the person the same. When Kobe went to trial facing accusations of rape, I was more than stunned. I was deeply ashamed. If he were found guilty, I could not cheer for him ever again. In fact, I would be sorry I ever cheered him on. Somehow it seems low of me to weigh the relative moral injuries inflicted by adultery and rape, and on the basis of this comparison, condone Kobe for committing the former, lesser offense. After all, Kobe may have committed rape. But that's exactly what I did. I waited for definitive evidence to surface in the trial, did not get any, so I forgave him. It’s part of parenthood.

There have been other minor unsavory details about Kobe’s character. It is well documented that he is not the most pleasant teammate to have around. He would blow his defensive assignment and then scream at someone else for not rotating quickly enough. He would dominate the ball for long stretches and take unnecessarily tough shots instead of creating easier opportunities for his teammates. The truth is that after Shaq left, Kobe simply didn’t trust his team. And when you surround someone who considers himself the best player in the league with Chris Mihm, Chucky Atkins, and Brian Grant, you are asking for trouble. He had enough and pretty much called out his teammates as losers by demanding a trade. It was arrogant and selfish of him. There, I said it.

But do understand something. Kobe Bryant the basketball player is one of the best to ever play the game. And he got there because he cares about the game of basketball. He cares about the rich history of champions who preceded him, and most of all, he cares about etching his name next to theirs. It all sounds simple and obvious - until you encounter players like LeBron James, Vince Carter, and Gilbert Arenas. Tremendously gifted athletes, to be sure, but why couldn't they care a little more about what they do for a living? Kobe is one of the very few players in our generation who gets it. He knows greatness is not measured by fantasy sports statistics, popularity among fans, or the amount of money earned from free agency contracts and endorsement deals. To him, basketball, and winning in basketball, is not a means to an end. It’s everything he’s got, and he is pretty good at it. So call him unfaithful, condescending, self-centered, hypocritical. But don't ever underestimate what he brought to the game. We are witnesses.

Strangers

Reading through some of the things I've written here, I've realized this blog is missing an important disclaimer, so here it is, 50 entries late. I am terribly clueless about how life, the world, and human interactions work. My opinions should be taken seriously only when they concern the game of basketball. Lakers are the world champions by the way. Secondly, everything I've written here is truthful and genuinely felt - up to the moment I pressed "Publish." I realize this is as meaningful as Bill Clinton telling Monica Lewinsky that he indeed loved her more than he loved Hillary that fateful night. To my credit, I have never been drunk or high when writing. Yes, my absurdity is all natural. And one last thing: I am not a womanizer.

A couple days ago, I took a late night subway ride from Harvard Square to my apartment in Longwood. I am usually a fan of subway rides. The stations are always brimming with that gently acrid air and furnished with old cobweb-covered fans that are supposed to make it more bearable and really don't. But the fans, like the rusty trashcans and the suspect benches, are props essential to the subway stage, and I will never tire of it because it's somehow never the same. The ebb and flow of the subway, too, however numbing, tickles the back of my mind. Here is a glimpse of the great Homo Sapiens living on planet Earth in year 2010 as stars far away revolve with stark disinterest. In a world so quiet and utterly unoccupied, the little bubble that encloses a single train is full of so much fucking noise.

Anyhow, I would not have taken the subway that night if the shuttle that goes directly from Harvard to Longwood hadn't stopped running. It was a little past 11 p.m., and the numerous anecdotes of bizarre late-night subway passengers I had gathered from friends were now very relevant. But as happens so often in life, a small pleasant surprise lay waiting for me at that precise intersection of time and space.

I think the reason I enjoy reading John Steinbeck so much is his veneration for mysteries of life. Like many good authors, his sensibilities are wonderfully attuned to the ticking of human beings but he also seems to understand that they cannot be always fully explicated. So rather than formulating a story that communicates definable insights into the human condition and interlacing its telling with commentary or contextual cues that point to these insights, he prefers to let veritable characters and experiences speak for themselves without accounting for their existence. The result is that readers can viscerally grasp the nature of mysteries at hand, but they eventually reach a layer of narrative that is impenetrable, at least with the tools provided within the story. I liken it to the impossibility of explaining why gravity exists. Except for the fact, of course, that absolute principles and predictable phenomena such as gravity are largely absent in the realm of human thoughts and behavior. Anyway, I've come to the conclusion that if Steinbeck does not fully understand humans, I have no chance. And since I am one of those humans, I have come to grudgingly accept the fact that I can't always explain why I feel and act the way I do.

One example that has been particularly bemusing is my apparent rapport with complete strangers. One night this past freshman year, I was walking back from the library at around 10 p.m. and saw a random girl struggling to carry heavy banners in front of my dorm's entrance. I offered to help carry them, even though I knew her destination was a good 15 minutes away by walking distance. I don't remember what I felt at the time, but I do remember being surprised by my eagerness to help. Somehow, my mouth had spoken without my volition. Another time, I ran into a group of students from Wellesley who were lost at an intersection looking for an upperclassman Harvard dorm. I ran into them because I was walking to Staples to buy a new ink cartridge for my printer. I asked them to wait on the sidewalk, went to Staples to buy the ink, came back, called my roommate to receive directions to the dorm, and led them myself. Unfortunately, I misunderstood the directions and got lost alongside those who needed my help, but after a few detours, helped them reach their destination.

Some of you may be suspicious by now. "Random girl" and "students from Wellesley" should rightfully set off alarms, given my history of uh, accosting Latina waitresses at sushi restaurants. Frankly, I was suspicious of my intentions, too. But as I said earlier, if there is anything I am sure about myself, I am not a womanizer. For one thing, I am not good enough to be even an amateur womanizer (why has ESPN not ordained womanizing as a sport yet, when NASCAR and poker are?) Secondly, I have spent too much time on Earth to be titillated by initial titillations. If I do notice a girl's physical beauty, it's with the cold objective eye of a museum curator. I say that in the least demeaning way possible. But here's one more case to dispel any remaining doubts: during Thanksgiving weekend, I took a Greyhound bus to New York to spend time with my cousins. I chatted it up with the guy sitting next to me, a student at the Berklee College of Music who actually grew up in Los Angeles. He was a fan of the Lakers, Dodgers, and legit Mexican food, which means we got right along. We got along so well, in fact, that we exchanged numbers before heading our separate ways. A few weeks ago, I attended a Dodger game that ended with a Matt Kemp walk-off home run in the 10th inning. When the game went into extra innings, I sent him a text. He texted back saying he was jealous.

My behavior has been bewildering in part because it seems out of character to me. I am not exactly shy but not gregarious or extroverted either. I seldom get excited about meeting new people, and I absolutely dread gatherings and receptions where that mysterious activity known as networking is encouraged. Yet there seem to be moments when a certain sensibility in me is switched on. Without being conscious of this inner stimulus, I let it take over. What is this sensibility, exactly? Do I want to prove to myself that I am capable of acting more spontaneously and confidently than I usually do? Do I harbor such deep respect for mankind that I treat strangers the way I treat my friends? Do I secretly believe in fate? Am I so weary of the routine in my life that I go out of my way to seek vicissitude? The best answer I could attempt is, a little bit of everything. And as life continues to unveil itself, the possibilities just keep growing.

It was my first time taking the subway to Longwood. Getting from Harvard Square to Longwood via subway requires a changeover from Red Line to Green Line at Park Street. The red line subway train is what you think of when you picture a subway train. It's a long slithery thing made of segments. The green line train is more like two trolley buses joined at the hip. Unfortunately, just as many people seem to use the Green Line as the Red Line. The trolley buses fill up quickly. When I got off at Park Street and got on one of these, there were still a few seats open and I took one. But a few stops later, the train was a fishing net full of sardines. It was tightly packed, Japanese style. Whether it was this or another reason, the train moved agonizingly slowly between the stops. The rhythmic pulse of the wheels riding the tracks was gone and replaced by murmurs of quiet conversations sprouting among familiar passengers. My line of vision, usually extending to the opposite windows where the comforting blackness darts through the tunnel, was now blocked by backs and legs of strangers.

I was weary, much wearier than usual. It was not the claustrophobia or the stuffiness in the train. My mind had set about centrifuging the pieces of my life, and the dregs were weighing down heavily on me. It wasn't anything in particular, really. We survive many of these moments throughout our lifetimes, though some, by consequence, are more dangerously potent. These shapeless thoughts shuffled nervously behind the curtains as I concentrated on the train speakers. Finally, Longwood was called. I rubbed my hands, shifted in my seat, wiggled my toes, and then began discerning the appropriate time to get up. Unfortunately, I had underestimated the difficulty of navigating a fishing net full of sardines. The immediate line of passengers in front of me had blocked from my view a very dense mass of bodies at the center of the train - almost like that unassailable vortex of the most eager grinders at dance parties. When the doors swung open, I had just begun to squeeze my way through the crowd. Strangely enough, I was the only one in the train getting off at Longwood. I was about six bodies away from reaching the door when a man's voice surprised me from the side.

"Are you getting off here?"

"Yeah."

"There's a guy getting off!" he shouted in the direction of the conductor.

Then just as I finally reached the threshold, the doors closed. They banged against my arms harmlessly and then slid open again. I had dismounted one foot off the train when a louder voice belonging to a different man called out from behind.

"Watch it, you are going to break the train!"

I froze, startled, and turned around to see a middle-aged man with a Red Sox cap grinning. The passengers around us laughed a good hearty laugh. I laughed, too, and then did something that, in retrospect, must have been incredibly strange to everyone watching.

I said, "Thanks, guys," and waved them a goodbye. It felt good like the ending of a good sad movie. The big bright trolley full of cheerful and sad human beings then closed its doors.

There is one last twist to the story, and it's that I got off at the wrong stop. It turns out there are two stations named Longwood, on two different tracks, and I had taken the wrong one. Unfamiliar with my surroundings, I had to grab a taxi somehow. Somebody must have known because there was a single surreal taxi cab waiting for me in an otherwise deserted side street.