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Kobe is My GOAT — Don’t @ Me
Dear Kobe,
I was only seven years old when I first heard of you.
The date was June 26th, 1996, a Wednesday evening in Rutherford, New Jersey. You and an assortment of other prospects were gathered in your best suits, waiting for David Stern to read your names. You know how it went. “With the 13th pick in the 1996 NBA Draft, the Charlotte Hornets select Kobe Bryant, from Lower Merion High School…” The applause almost drowned out the second half of his statement, hugs were exchanged all around, and you made your way to the stage to shake his hand — a moment, a dream, that I’m sure you knew you’d undoubtedly achieve. And, we all know what happened next. Charlotte passed on your talents, or perhaps Jerry West swindled them out of what would have been the crowning achievement of their franchise. Either way it didn’t matter. Their traded asset went on to become the greatest Laker that ever lived.
I was just seven then and obsessed with Michael Jordan. I had the shoes, the Chicago Bulls leather jacket, M.J. videos and memorabilia were always at the top of my Christmas list, and I even got the Bulls logo designed on the back of my head. My barber, impressed with his work, offered to dye it red “to make it come alive.” I declined. Instead, I had my mom take me to the mall to get my ear pierced. “Just one ear, like M.J.,” I said to the nice lady before…
