Mamba out
Sunday night went exactly as I planned it: two birthday parties filled with singing, laughter, friendship and food. The first was for Andrew Fernando, our Judge Turpin in the recent run of “Sweeney Todd.” His friends threw him a fete to celebrate his 50th birthday. It wasn’t anything extravagant; just members of his family, colleagues, friends and students, all of whom obviously adore him. One by one, they came up to the front of the room to pay Andrew tribute in song, whether from the jazz, OPM or musical theater worlds. It was such a sweet evening, and I’m so glad I went.
The next birthday belonged to Nyoy Volante (no, I didn’t ask him how old he was turning). Once you enter the front door, you are instantly met by musicians jamming whatever song, whether Carole King, Disney or Stevie Wonder, all impeccably sung by either a bandmate of Nyoy’s, a theater actor—of which there were not just a few—or Nyoy’s daughter, Sophie. For the record, she sang “Zombie” by The Cranberries, and the place was rocking out.
After the ebullience of Sunday evening, I stayed up as I normally do, chatting with friends until the wee hours of the morning when a status update from one of them sent shock waves through me: “Holy cow. Please don’t let this news about Kobe Bryant be true.”We hung on, still optimistic that perhaps the news outlet got it wrong. That it was a case of mistaken identity. That it wasn’t him. And then, one by one, the Los Angeles Times, Sports Illustrated and Variety, among others, delivered one of the most heartbreaking headlines of this year so far: Kobe Bryant was killed in a helicopter crash.
Already this sent fans reeling, as Kobe was an absolute superstar in the 20 years that he played for the Los Angeles Lakers. His reputation on the court is one of tenacity, discipline, speed and competitiveness, earning him the moniker “Black Mamba.”
Off the court, he has been marred by controversy early in his career, being accused of rape (he settled out of court in a civil suit filed by his accuser).
Not long after, even more heartbreaking news arrived, that Kobe’s 13-year-old daughter Gianna was killed along with him. She is almost exactly the same age as my little girl, so this news sucker-punched me hard.
Gianna wasn’t just his daughter, but was also a basketball player. Numerous videos online show just how gifted she was. How she seemed to carry the same tenacity and drive that marked her father’s career, not to mention unreal shooting ability at such a young age (she was referred to as “Mambacita”).
Given her talent, there was no doubt that she would enjoy a magnificent college career, after which she would head right into the WNBA, carrying on her father’s storied legacy.
All over social media, fans, friends and former NBA players paid tribute to the man that cemented quite a legacy, inspiring so many others to follow the work ethic he applied to basketball into their own lives.
But perhaps the more painful part of this nightmare is that his daughter, the one being looked to as the carrier of that legacy, will no longer be able to fulfill it. Father and daughter shared a passion for the sport.
In the numerous photos and videos of them together on the court, he would break down the game for her. Coach her team from the sidelines. Upload a video of an amazing shot she’d make. And just be a proud dad.
Every single parent hugged their little ones more tightly in the last couple of days, knowing full well how fragile and unpredictable life can be. The Bryants left behind Vanessa (wife of Kobe and mother of Gianna), and Gianna’s three sisters Natalia, Bianka and Capri. We express our sincerest condolences to them.
To you all, I ask you to love fully. We only get one shot at this; let’s live life well.
