On the twenty-sixth of January, in 2020, Kobe Bean Bryant died. He died in a helicopter crash in the foggy hills of Calabasas, California. Nine people were on the copter — a pilot and eight passengers.
Kobe’s thirteen-year-old daughter Gianna Maria Onore Bryant was one of the passengers onboard the helicopter.
Kobe Bryant was a proud father. And had he survived the fatal accident he would have lived only to die in a different way. He would have had to live with the fact that his second born child was gone forever. That pain would have killed him every day.
No parent should ever have to bury their child. No parent should ever have to place flowers on the grave of the person they promised to protect for as long as they lived. It is not natural. It is out of order. It is not the way it is supposed to be.
I cannot relate to the Kobe Bryant, the Los Angeles Laker. I cannot fathom winning NBA Championships and earning Olympic gold medals. But I wholeheartedly can relate to Kobe Bryant the father. The man who loved and dedicated his life to his children. He was my favorite version of Kobe.
Your parents give you a name when you are born. But then there is a moment in life when a new name presents itself as a gift — this time by your child. Some say baba, pops, daddy, or dad, but it all…
