The Black Mamba
Three seconds on the clock.
Game on the line.
Tube socks rolled up.
Tube socks?
Two.
Pull up.
One.
The flick of the wrist.
The ball is out—
Swish!
The crowd goes wild!!
Wait—something’s missing.
Something crucial.
The jump shot anthem.
Let’s run it back.
Three seconds on the clock.
Game on the line.
Tube socks rolled up.
Tube socks.
Two.
Pull-up.
One.
The flick of the wrist—
“KOBE!”
Hold it
Swish!
Dagger delivered.
From the court to the page, everything he did was met with tenacity.
Foundations on lock.
No detail skipped.
Kill lists. Musecages.
Refined obsession.
He didn’t just play games.
He rewrote standards.
And he lives on.
In every trashcan swish.
Every crumpled paper arc.
Every quiet whisper of “Kobe” when no one’s watching.
I still say it in my head—
Wipe down the bench
Paper towel in hand
Crumple.
Trashcan on lock
“KOBE”
Oof, I guess I’ll go and pick that up.
To many, he was more than a player. He was an obsession. He was a movement and many of us got caught in that movement, intentionally or not.
I was in the unintentional group, picking up on it anytime I threw something at a target. Crumpled paper, basketballs, throwing footballs at my friends—it didn’t matter. All I knew is that if I tossed up a shot and it hit, it was only noteworthy if “KOBE!” preceded it.
After researching him, I finally understand the obsession behind the Black Mamba.
While I recognize the game he played off the court, it’s his unfinished journey that caught my eye the most. Kobe is synonymous with basketball, not storytelling—yet, that was some of his most spellbinding work.
In high school a seed was planted, but it wasn’t the only one in the crop. It was the seed growing in the background while all of us were focused on the towering beanstalk that was his basketball career.
Reflecting, it’s evident that those were two of his greatest loves, even if one grew in the shadows.
It might seem like the growth began after his career ended — but the growth was happening steadily. Quietly cultivated. Constantly pruned. Tended from the start.
A craft patiently grown in the shadows — with care, precision, and a quiet love that lit his eyes every time he spoke about it.
That light—the force that freed it from the shadows.
Life and basketball aren’t so different.
At birth, the game starts.
The clock runs and there’s no stopping it.
An hourglass with only the bottom half visible.
Every moment matters but all anybody else will see are the posters.
The game winners.
The turnovers.
You’ll see the morning practices with your dad in Italy.
Home.
You’ll see the move.
You’ll speak the game.
They’ll see the draft.
You’ll see the film.
Over
And over
And over again.
They’ll see your game winning jumper.
You’ll feel the hate.
The embarrassment.
The uncertainty.
The fear.
They’ll meet the Black Mamba.
You’ll see your writing.
Your crafting.
Your creativity.
Your love.
They’ll see an advertisement.
You’ll see the impact.
The leadership.
The dedication to your team.
They’ll see the rings.
You’ll feel the pain of loving the game.
The early mornings.
The late nights.
The stiff knees.
They’ll call it retirement.
You’ll know it was rebirth.
The joy.
The light.
The impact.
They’ll see the Oscar.
You’ll see the details.
The color of the shirt.
The necessary symphony.
They’ll see your art.
You’ll see the passion.
The self-belief.
The purpose.
Until the last buzzer.
We’ll see the legacy.
The passion.
The drive.
The love.
