When I profiled him in 2007, the NBA star said something I’ve never forgotten.
Kobe Bryant spent the greater part of his adult lifetime in one of the most traffic-clogged areas of the country. He lived in Orange County and worked in Los Angeles—the Lakers’ practice facility is near the airport; the Staples Center is downtown.
Sitting in a classic Southern California traffic jam—it has taken me up to three hours to drive the 40-odd miles between Staples and Kobe’s neighborhood—I have often thought wistfully about taking a helicopter.
Kobe looked at life as a skill set to be mastered, a mountain to climb, a list of problems to solve. It makes no sense to waste your life in traffic if you can fly right over it.
Kobe actually took the helicopter.
The year I moved to Southern California, 1997, happened to intersect with Kobe’s first season in the NBA. As a husband and the father of a toddler, with quite a few career aspirations of my own, I had little time for personal diversions. The Lakers became my haven.
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And Kobe. You just couldn’t keep your eyes off of him.
Love him or hate him—from the beginning, fans’ attitudes about him were polarized—Kobe played with an intensity and a focus and a desire for mastery that rose to the level of art. Like a painter or a musician or a writer, he seemed to be in thrall to his creative spirit.
