Kobe Bryant was his own physics. All significance and action, apparently gravity-defiant. Or maybe it is more accurate to say he was Mt. Kilimanjaro, unmoving and not easily subjugated. A various kinds of natural wonder. Or maybe that he was art–textural, operatic, forceful on devotion. But even those descriptions seem to fail the totality of his prayer and intricacy as canadian athletes, lad, papa, friend, and cultural totem. In his playing career, Bryant wore the hat of hero and rogue, living his life at a elegant magnitude. Of his most unequivocal logoes, it was his viper-intensity, his steely dedication and refusal to be made small-time by antagonists, that outlines him in the grandest of colors. Triumphing was all he are acceptable to. He submerged himself so intensely in the game that his drive to earn was often mistaken for pride. Which is not to say he wasn’t arrogant, because his early years were very much a theater of egomania, often to a fault, but then again how could he not be, how could we not expect him to be: He was a goddamn Emerson poem, lyrical and profound and full of difficult meaning.