Mansfield: Kobe's legacy is about far more than rings. Just visit a gym in Charleston

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he entire gym fell silent.

A pickup game of mismatched middle-aged men came to an abrupt halt. A group of teenagers shooting hoops on a nearby court stopped to gather around a phone. A few younger kids — young enough that the entirety of their body weight was required to heave a ball anywhere near a 10-foot rim — they all looked over to see what happened.

“Oh my God,” I finally let out. “Kobe?”

I was playing basketball when news broke of Kobe Bryant’s death. Of course I was.

The heartbreak spread quickly. The balls in the gym stopped bouncing. Everything lay quiet for a bit in some sort of unplanned moment of silence. Everyone inside the gym seemed to be struggling to process their thoughts. The grown men, the teenagers, the children; the tragedy resonated with all of them.

I could have said nothing. It’s unlikely many would have been bothered had a community newspaper some 2,500 miles away from Los Angeles not mentioned the untimely passing of the former Lakers star.

I’m the only sports writer my age in this area. Dead in the middle of two generations. Little brother and big brother all at once. It’s a unique perspective. I connect with the adults the same way I do with the kids. I felt obligated because of that point of view, because of the voice I’ve been afforded in this sports community, to say something. Kobe’s death transcends location, generation, any and all of it. I had to at least say something.

Everybody has felt like Kobe. Anytime you’ve chased something, that incessant pursuit — those overtime hours in the office, those few extras reps in the weight room, one more swing in the batting cage — that’s Kobe. Anytime you carried yourself through, refusing to succumb to whatever physical or mental hurdle, even if you had to limp to the free-throw line on a torn Achilles, that was Kobe. The five-time NBA champion had an insatiable spirit to win. It was unmatched by even the elite. Though any common man shooting a wadded up piece of paper into a trash can could imitate. Kobe.

My generation grew up with Kobe. I’ll never be able to count how many nights I spent outside shooting under the street light that barely lit the outdoor court on Isle of Palms, pretending to be the high-flying star that shined under the stage lighting in the Staples Center. There was always five seconds left on the clock. There was always a jab step at an imaginary opponent. Maybe a quick move. A sharp release. Wrist folded. Chest out. Let the arm hang. Splash. Kobe.

Oh, it didn’t go in? Go again. And again. In anything you were doing. Kobe has in some weird way coached me my whole life.

Growing up without a father, I idolized my sports heroes. I've never been a Lakers fan. Somehow, my gold No. 8 jersey is still hanging in my closet. Kobe was the ultimate hero for me. I have at least 10 pairs of basketball shoes. I don’t play in any of them as often as I do the Kobe 9s and Kobe 11s. I’m a grown man and I genuinely feel different playing in Kobe's signature shoe. I’ve convinced my best friend to buy a couple pairs. He loves Kobe too. Even calls him Kobs. Who gives a nickname to someone he’s never even met? He's not a Lakers fan either. Just a Kobe fan. That’s the connection you felt. Kobe was a winner. Kobe was your guy. 

I mimicked everything about guys like Kobe, for better or worse. He wasn't an angel. Neither was I. There was something about the unapologetically brash teenager that I latched onto. I think I loved Kobe’s focus the most though. It was that tunnel vision, the way he blocked out everything else in his pursuit. That Mamba mentality. Challengers, teammates, noise, praise. None of it mattered. None of it does. That kind of obsessive behavior will inevitably create social strain. I probably do too much of that in my professional life. I'm probably too competitive. I'm sure it turns people off. I defend it by assuring myself it’s a different sort of drive that not everyone will understand. There was a Nike commercial that ran years ago featuring Kobe working out and imploring listeners to hate him for his game, hate him for his drive and reminding them that he’s loved for the exact same reasons. Kobe convinced me this lifestyle is worth it. No matter what you thought of the personal wars he waged, any competitor —whether it be business, politics, sports, whatever — had to respect his triumph because you had to respect his hustle. That's enough for me because that was enough for him. 

I’ve matured alongside him. For all that he accomplished on the court, I think I’d begun to admire him more for who was becoming off of it. He attacked fatherhood the same way he did the game. He had four children, four girls. Consider the irony that the ultimate alpha male raise four girls for children. Don’t dare assume it’s some sort of disadvantage to his legacy though. Fatherhood, the fatherhood of four girls, lately seemed like a new sort of challenge he was embracing.

Most of my life that I assumed that I wanted a boy. I’d pattern him after myself, I figured. Then six months ago, we had our first child, a little girl, Lillian. I guess because of society's misguided outlook, I felt that presumed disadvantage. I was unsure initially of what a guy like me could offer a baby girl. Kobe's relationship with his daughters encouraged me. He was their father, yes. He was still a mentor. He was still their coach. I wanted the same thing with Lillian, the same way I used to want Kobe's jump shot. Gianna Bryant — a beautiful 13-year-old blossoming basketball player, among many other wonderful qualities, I’m sure — was killed in the same helicopter accident that took her father. They were on their way to her basketball game. Kobe had established an entire league for girls. There was exceptional grace in his maturation.

I was at home when news of Gigi's death broke. I was laying with my back against the floor, holding Lillian upright by the hips so that she could land a few unbalanced stomps on my chest. Tears welled in my eyes as I watched a video montage of Kobe and his daughter on television. Lillian mashed her hands around my face, releasing the tears to stream down my cheeks. I couldn't imagine not having a girl.

Many have described Kobe as the Michael Jordan of this generation, especially now posthumously. The debate of Jordan vs. Kobe has long been a spirited topic of barbershop discussion. Kobe was the first legitimate challenger to Jordan's greatness. The older generation felt threatened by the idea that a hero of a younger era might supplant their own luminary. It felt uncomfortable because there was some undeniable possibility to the notion. That debate doesn't matter anymore. If anything, it's taught us to do a better job of appreciating things for what they are while we have them. 

Jordan is celebrated for his worldwide impact on the game. Consider Kobe’s global presence. He was a rock star in Asia. Every professional team at all levels of the Italian Basketball Federation will begin games with a moment of silence in Kobe’s honor for the next week. Consider that a community basketball gym in Mount Pleasant, with patrons ranging from probably 60 years old to 6, was stopped silent by the news of his passing. I counted at least six different pairs of Kobe sneakers in the gym that afternoon. 

Kobe was maybe overly conscious of his legacy. He became obsessed with chasing championships to fortify it. His actual impact, though, may be better felt in the lasting effect he had on those who admired him, many of which never even met him, and even those who just casually observed him. 

I was playing basketball when I first heard of Kobe's death. Wearing Kobes. Of course I was. Nobody seemed to be able to find the right words. There's plenty that can be said though. And much more undoubtedly will be as he's inducted into halls of fame and enshrined among statues of the most legendary athletes. 

For now, a simple thank you will suffice. Thank you, Kobe, the Hollywood hoops superstar who inspired that kid from the beach and so many countless millions of others so many years ago. And thank you Kobe, the husband, father and coach who so many years later inspired that nervous first-time dad. Kobe was always giving out free game. May we try to appreciate things like that more while they're being offered from now on.