“Aww, he suck…”
My anxiety ridden father watches as Kobe Bryant and the Lakers do what they are notoriously known for; dropping play in the third, only to mount some incredible comeback in the fourth.
“He’s too young. He should have go to college.” He disappointedly yells at the television.
This is how every Laker game is called by my father. Win or lose. High or low. Dad thinks the Lakers, especially Kobe, could’ve done better. And after each game, he’d head off to bed muttering some frustrated jibber jabber to wear off his stress.
If you watch a game with him, you’d actually think he hated the Lakers. But the Lakers has been his team since he moved to Los Angeles in 1979. He, along with my grandmother, who immigrated to Los Angeles from Vietnam and watched basketball games to help with her English, have watched every single game during every major Laker era, from Showtime to Nick and Eddie to #8 Kobe to #24 Kobe.
In our household, these basketball games helped unmask deep-rooted, traditional roles between parent and child that my parents have held onto since Vietnam. During games, my father wasn’t Dad anymore. He was a fan, like me, and we were unknowingly experiencing moments that would create a bond that we would revisit and find joy in later in life. In retrospect, these games were 48 minutes of armistice that connected an otherwise cold family regime, consisting of school, study, dinner and sleep.
The Lakers were a part of our family. When Kobe arrived to the team, it was like Dad became a father again to a son he’d never met. I remember how fast Dad was quick to assess Kobe’s game and his goals in the league during his first steps on an NBA court. He had set very high expectations but with a low tolerance on how that talent would grow. Usually a recipe for a toxic relationship, but for some reason that only a sports fan or the child of an asian parent knows, or in this case both; it was a relationship that worked.
This is how Dad showed his love. Every positive comment was contingent on something critical that you could do better. And to him, shortcomings or losses were predictable examples of not working hard enough. And accomplishment or wins were awarded with silent expectation that preceded some sort of comparison to how someone else was doing it better.
I see how Dad’s relationship with Kobe was like my relationship with him. And watching Dad parent Kobe helped me understand him as a father. I always understood how he would use fear as a motivation tactic, but seeing it come full circle at the mourning of a basketball legend, I now understand why he did. I actually think this was my dad’s own ironic interpretation of the Mamba Mentality. To expect excellence wasn’t criticism. It was a gift. And I am blessed to receive it.
I never knew how much my dad loved me until I saw him love Kobe Bryant. And through his life and death, I’ve finally been able to translate the real depth of my father’s love language. And so it makes sense that the only time I heard that my Dad cried would come on the day of Kobe’s passing. And on this day, we shared the loss of a family member, a hero and a legend… together.
