Kobe.

“Remembering Kobe Bryant.”

There’s a phrase that my eyes have seen, but my mind has yet to fully comprehend. There’s a disconnect between reading the reports, watching the tributes, seeing Kobe’s contemporaries and the players who looked up to him in emotional shells on courts across the NBA and actually grasping what happened on Sunday. The nerves fired to relay the message to my brain but understanding it is another beast entirely.

Remembering Kobe Bryant? Why? Why at this point in time? Shouldn’t we be looking back at his career as we near his inevitable induction into the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame? Or when the 30 for 30 on his greatest triumphs debuts? Why now? Are we saying this phrase because we’re going to forget him, because… he’s… gone?

The answer, of course, comes with a hollow thud, like a single bounce of a flat basketball on the hardwood of an empty, cavernous gymnasium.

We didn’t expect to have to say goodbye to Kobe so early. In fact, it felt, like he was saying hello to us every day. He had become somewhat of a meme machine on Twitter in his post-NBA life, whether it’s the gif of him shaking his head and calling someone “soft,” the video of him taking his family from courtside to exit Staples Center, and the now heavily circulating footage of him beginning to explain something to his daughter, Gianna, only to have her finish the thought for him.

But these three examples almost perfectly encapsulate the spirit of Kobe Bryant. The first speaks to his unquenchable desire to be the best on the court, any court—the famous Mamba Mentality. The second, though humorous both in and out of context, highlights the love he had for his family: his wife Vanessa and their four daughters. And finally, the video of him and Gigi—also tragically taken from this life in the accident—who in so many ways embodied the legacy Kobe was cementing… passing on his basketball prowess and wisdom to his child, sure, but also underlining his continued support for women’s sports but especially women’s basketball and the WNBA.

Apart from Kobe’s ubiquitous public profile having abruptly exited multiple streams of consciousness, why does the loss of Kobe the human feel so personal? Why does this loss of someone who, for most of us, is a complete and total stranger? Is it his celebrity? Is it because he’s a loving father, one we can relate with our own or the type we’ve always longed for or the one we are or the one we hope to be? Or is it merely because of his status as a bona fide NBA legend?

As a lifelong basketball fan, I can surely appreciate his on-court accolades: five-time NBA Champion, two-time Finals MVP, 18-time All-Star (including four MVP performances), two-time Olympic Gold medalist with USA Basketball… On and on we can go. Yes, I admire the records, personal or otherwise. But even though the sheer excellence and effort in his craft might be what initially drew us to Kobe, it’s not what kept us hanging around.

I think the reason why this feels so absolutely gutting is because it feels like Kobe was ours. For 90s kids like me, we got the latter half of Michael Jordan’s career, but we got the entirety of Kobe’s. And for as much as Kobe was compared to MJ—and the similarities in their style of play were rife—the two were starkly different in personal narrative. Whereas Michael’s legend so deeply navigated in myth and mystery, Kobe seemed to have so freely given himself to us. He did every TV interview, hopped on every podcast, provided commentary for NBA 2K, and openly rooted for today’s NBA players in ways Michael never did when he stepped away from the game. In other words, Kobe was there. He was always there.

Even in his early years in the spotlight, Kobe permeated American culture at nearly every juncture. Regular appearances on MTV to Nickelodeon and everything in between endeared him to a whole generation of basketball and pop culture fans alike. We grew up throwing paper balls into trash cans yelling “Kobe!” as we mimicked his signature fadeaway. He was the reason I obeyed my thirst and drank strictly Sprite for three years straight. Kobe was everywhere. He was in everything. Without our conscious realization, Kobe embedded himself into the very fabric of our culture and ultimately, our hearts.

The Kobe we knew—or felt we knew—never quit, never relented, never stopped until the final buzzer. With his sudden passing, it feels like we were robbed of him being able to play the rest of the game on his way to scoring 81. The man who ruptured his Achilles then went on to make and take a pair of free throws now doesn’t even get the chance to save the game one last time. He didn’t get to go out on his own terms, like he did when he scored 60 in his final game. It just seems so… unfair.

As I continue to wrap my mind around this, I think I’ve gathered that that’s what hurts the most. A man we thought to be indestructible—immortal, even—was taken from us entirely too soon, reminding us that, invincible as we may feel, human life is so very fragile. The finality of death in this life serves as a reminder that sometimes, there is no fourth quarter comeback. But just as his Lakers so often won in overwhelming fashion without him having to even play in the final period, we can and should and will always remember that Kobe Bryant played and lived and loved every minute to the fullest.

Rest in peace Mambacita. We’ll just as easily remember that brilliant smile as we will your blossoming jumpshot.

Rest in peace, Mamba—basketball player, philanthropist, curious mind, husband, father, legend. We will always remember you.

Mamba Out—but forever in our minds and hearts.