DAI: Kobe’s Impact On Me

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They say legends never die.

In 2008, I spent the summer in Shanghai, China—my parents’ hometown. I was seven years old and cravingly awaited my August birthday celebration with about fifty members of my extended family. I had been to China once beforehand, but only as a toddler, without much memory of the experience. This time, I could feel that the humidity was a bit different from Seattle, my hometown. My dad absolutely despised it. I didn’t care as much, as I rarely went outside. 

At the time, I guess you could have called me an “indoor person.” I rarely went outside to play with my friends. While I could hear my neighbors laughing on their bicycles right outside of the window, I stayed inside, with both eyes glued to my nintendo. It is remarkable that I have never needed glasses.

“That looks fun, you should join them,” my mom would say.

“Mom, I am an indoor person,” I would always reply.

Sometimes, I would get up to play a few tunes on my piano. In the piano room, I would often look out the big window, which gave me a clear view of the outside world. I secretly wanted to join them. I secretly wanted to laugh just as hard as they did. I wanted to ride the bike I got for my seventh birthday, and dribble the basketball I got for my sixth. Both items stood still in the corner of our garage, covered in layers of dust. The kids all looked so happy—as if their inner wishes had come to life. Yet, as a shy little kid, nothing gave me that push to explore. Nothing provided me with the burst of energy to let my body speak. My mother’s advice did not mean much (at the time). Those were just words, and what I needed was much deeper than that. 

The country was buzzing. It was the year Beijing hosted the Summer Olympics, and everyone in the country could feel the roaring reverberations of an epic event taking place around the corner. I felt so welcome that summer, guided with heaps of warmth from grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins. “Is this my true home?” I thought. Despite having only lived in America, I often reflected on my ambivalent barometer of belonging in the country. After all, America is a land for exploration and experimentation, and I had closed myself off to all of it. I did not have many friends, and so I lacked a basic community beyond my family to grow up around.

On August 10, the USA men’s basketball team played China in a long-awaited—probably the most anticipated—event of the whole Olympics. Everyone around me was watching, so I joined them in the television activity, much preferred to any physical activity outdoors. I watched as USA Captain Kobe Bryant stepped onto the floor, and as the other players followed. I did not know any of the athletes at the time, but I recognized Bryant’s name from conversations in class. The camera repeatedly showed shots of him, and only him. Immediately, I noticed his laser focus. I saw in him a resolute desire to win that superseded anything else in that snapshot. Many of the players delivered spectacular performances that day, but it was Kobe’s larger-than-life tenacity and winning mentality that I suddenly wanted to emulate. Yao Ming may have been the tallest person on the court that day, but Kobe’s “mamba mentality” towered above everyone else. For the first time that I can remember, I said, out loud: “Wow, I am so proud to be an American.” My Chinese relatives smiled at me, and I smiled back. 

The U.S. defeated China in that game, and it was not close. I do not recall the score, nor do I recall any statistics. Yet, I do recall an immense feeling of pride in my American identity. It was, in fact, my first memory of feeling a true connection to the pounding patriotic passion my fellow Americans shared. It was that moment of indirect contact with a basketball icon that spoke to me. I have never met Kobe Bryant in-person, and it hurts me to know that I definitely never will. Yet, he gave me the push to explore. He provided me with the burst of energy to let my body speak. 

I remember being so erratically excited to tell my mom what I wanted for my birthday.

“Let me guess. You want the Xbox you’ve been begging for, don’t you?” my mom asked.

“Nope! I actually want two things.” I replied, laughing as I saw my mom shake her head. “I want two shirts actually. One Kobe Bryant shirt, and one shirt with the USA flag and letters on it!”

In the third grade, there were some weeks where I would simply cycle between wearing those two shirts. I have never felt so proud to share that part of my history. That year, I joined my school district’s basketball league. I have been playing on school and recreational basketball teams ever since. The next few years, I watched almost every Kobe Bryant Lakers game. As I watched him more and more, I started to take notes to see where I could improve my own game. That era was the peak of my aspirations in professional basketball, and soon reality would hit. However, Kobe’s impact on me, and millions of others, is, and always has been, much bigger than basketball. My path to Georgetown took me to pursuits in public speaking, politics, and finance. Through it all, Kobe’s message has stuck with me on this journey.

As a small kid, Kobe inspired me to dream big. I learned to approach everything with a strong and tenacious mindset, and to never blame others for your failures. He taught me to work hard in all arenas in life, and to be relentless and thick-skinned in all pursuits. As we have mourned his passing these past few days, I am reminded that Kobe was not only my teacher, but the teacher of millions.

As they say, legends never die. It’s true. Kobe once said that “The most important thing is to try and inspire people so that they can be great in whatever they do.” Through this, Kobe Bean Bryant’s mamba mentality lives on.

Henry Dai (SFS ’22) is a GUSA Senator, President of GUCR, and a Contributor.

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the official or personal position of the Editorial Board, Contributors, or Business Staff of The Georgetown Review.

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