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    Column: I allowed myself to cry over Kobe's death. Plenty, vigorously

    May you rest in peace, Black Mamba
    Jan 27, 2020
    PHOTO: Jerome Ascano
    spin zone

    CHICAGO - Kobe Bryant had no business talking to me. But he did.

    And I will forever be grateful.

    When our diverse backgrounds collided last December 19, 2006 at the visitors' locker room of the United Center, he was already a three-time NBA champion, a shimmering superstar with the world on his hands.

    I, on the other hand, was just a small-time Cebu city newspaper columnist standing on two nervous feet.

    But the laughable gap between us didn't matter to Kobe. All he saw was my media credential and he respected it as the ticket that allowed me entry into the basketball universe that he dominated, welcoming me with a Hollywood smile and wide-open arms.


    After that meeting, our encounters progressed slowly from a knowing smile, to handshakes and fist bumps, and ultimately, to bro hugs.

    My NBA writing resume' now includes interviews with Larry Bird, Magic Johnson, Tim Duncan, LeBron James and just about every star who ever played in the NBA. Chats that wouldn't be possible without Kobe.

    Trying to talk to the alpha dog of an NBA locker room can be a terrifying experience. It's an environment crawling with seasoned and accomplished reporters from TV, radio, print, online and various other media platforms

    But on that Wednesday night 14 years ago, when Kobe gave me the confidence to believe that I belonged in that room, all the fears that used to follow me melted like a dying grudge.


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    In a way, Kobe peeled off the Mamba lurking inside me.

    Since then, I'd run into him at All-Star events, 18 of which he took part in during a decorated 20-year career. I spoke to him once at Staples Center in April 2015 and again at the Palace of Auburn Hills, Michigan later that year.

    And like many of life's other cycles that reach full circle, I spoke to Kobe for the last time in the very same place we first met - the United Center where he made his final arena visit on February 21, 2016.

    AND THEN THIS.

    Like so many of you, the news that Kobe Bryant and his 13-year old daughter Gianna had died in a helicopter crash in Calabasas, California engulfed me with shock waves of disbelief.

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      Unfortunately, through the loss of my father and my daughter a few years ago, deaths that have drilled giant holes in my soul, I have learned to better understand times like this.

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      Grief is an obstacle course filled with unanswerable questions, terrible longings and deep regrets. But it eventually ends. I can handle that.

      But I am unwilling to go through the pain again. It's ferocious, uncaring. unsympathetic.

      Although my relations with Kobe was neither familial nor personal, it was cordial enough to have left an imprint in my adult life. Wonderful thoughts that are now stained with suffering.

      And that was why, at around 2 p.m. today (Sunday, Chicago time), on an unseasonably sun-drenched winter afternoon, I allowed myself to cry. Plenty, vigorously.

      At age 51, old and tired, I am broken yet again.


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      As a husband, I feel incredibly awful for Vanessa. As a parent, I am devastated for the three other daughters that must now walk this cruel earth without the light of a father's guidance.

      History will mostly remember him for the numbers - 33.643 points, 18 All-Star nods, 5 NBA titles, two Olympic gold medals.

      But to me, and to the millions of others whose lives he touched, he will always be one Kobe Bryant.

      May you rest in peace, Black Mamba.

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      PHOTO: Jerome Ascano
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