“So, Shaq said Kobe’s not passing the ball. I said, ‘I’ll talk to him.’ I went to Kobe and told him, ‘There’s no “I” in team.’ He looked at me and said, ‘I know—but there’s an “M-E” in that motherfucker.’ I went back and told Rick and Big Shot Bob, ‘Just get the rebound—he’s not passing.’”

That attitude came back to haunt us—literally. It even happened in Phoenix my first year. We were playing, and he kept posting up. Every time, they fouled him—so he kept going to the free-throw line. Then he’d throw the ball out to me. I’m like, ‘I’m not throwing that shit back in there!’ So I just started shooting them right then and there.

We called a timeout. He came over, all excited: ‘Hey, hey—hey! I’m open!’ Okay. We go back in—and it’s the same thing. ‘Hey, hey—I’m open!’ Okay… You go. He comes back again: ‘Did you get the pass?’ I said, ‘Man, fuck that. Get off the rebound—if I miss, bro.’ He told them that himself—first year, eighteen years old.

My other nephew came in crying, holding up his phone. I snapped at him: ‘Get that out of my face—just get it away from me!’ You live in a world where anything can be photoshopped. I didn’t want to believe it—and I haven’t felt pain that sharp in a while.

You asked, ‘Who’s the greatest Miami player ever?’ And I said, ‘What about Michael and Kobe?’ You replied, ‘So you’re just gonna pass Kobe up?’ I said, ‘Yeah—I’m passing Kobe up. I’m looking at Michael. I’m looking at the *it*. I’m looking at the *it*—control America. Control America.’

Then you asked, ‘Would you be mad at me if I just walked out of here?’ And I said, ‘Hey—’

‘Who do you think is similar to Kobe now?’ ‘Nobody. Stop it.’ ‘Well… you got Bri and Daphne…’ ‘Nobody. Stop it.’ ‘I mean—obviously not *that* kind of similarity…’ ‘No one’s even close. No one. Yeah—Kobe? No one.’

And honestly? I don’t think today’s players *want* to be compared to Kobe. They’re trying to make their own mark. But yeah—it might take years before we truly see how rare he was.

Maybe only later will we fully grasp it: The quiet kindness in someone’s eyes beside you. A vow sworn on Xi’an’s ancient city wall. The idea that love isn’t real until you’ve made it to Dali. The promise of breaking free—not just as a butterfly, but as something wholly new.

‘I’m not gonna be able to say “hi”—I got five.’ ‘You got four.’ ‘The fact that I won’t be able to say it *together*… because we had ten… those moments are being carried back—made so much sweeter, because I knew you had four… and I had five.’