In loving memory of Kobe and Gigi, rest in paradise. #GB2KB24
August 24, 2020, Recruiting Season
I smile and shake his hand at eight-oh-something in the morning. It’s way too early for my groggy eyes to recognize the time, let alone be awake for a job interview.
My interviewer snaps open his laptop and begins clacking away on his keyboard. Without making eye contact, he asks, “So, why don’t you start off by telling me about yourself?”
Phew. Interview prep 101. I recite an answer as if I were articulately rapping my favourite Eminem song in the shower.
My interviewer periodically nods and continues clacking. Okay, things seem to be going well.
“Alright, next question: what motivates you?”
Palms are sweaty, knees weak arms are heavy. Is mom’s spaghetti on my sweater already?
I can feel his gaze rise from his computer screen and latch onto me, waiting for an answer. I defensively look up at the ceiling, scrambling in silence. “Uh. Could I get 30 seconds to think?”
“Yes, of course.”
Spring 2012, High School
In the movies I watched growing up, there would be the jocks who couldn’t pass a test. Complementing them was the nerd the jock overpaid to complete their assignments. It was entertaining. Jocks are jocks, nerds are nerds.
In school, it felt like I was watching the same movie. Jocks were still jocks; nerds were still nerds. Why can’t the jock ace academics? Why can’t the nerd flourish in sports? It seemed like everyone placed themselves in pre-made boxes poorly taped up by Hollywood norms.
Growing up, my parents also joked: “no grades, then no dinner.” As a kid whose first cracked egg landed on the floor, I took this seriously. However, the “no dinner” metaphor extended beyond the dining table. Having playing sports my whole life, not bringing home those elusive straight A’s would be my demise. I remember thinking, “Well, I gotta eat dinner. Running in (half) circles is oddly fun. So, I guess I need to memorize every fact about basic ecology in this Science 10 textbook.” Overtime though, it became fun to see how many norms I could break; how many of these taped-up boxes I could kick down.
February 2018, Competition Season
“It was the best feeling in the world.
When I stepped onto the podium, the crowd cheered thunderously. I stood there for a moment, but time seemed to have stopped. When the gold medal was hung on my neck at the 2012 B.C. High School Championships, it not only represented victory, but also symbolized my love for track and field…”
That is a snippet from one of my university application essays.
I was obsessed with all things winning: the thunderous crowd, being frozen in time, the cold, gold medal beaming on my chest. 6 years later, my obsession chased me across the country to the frigid London, Ontario.
Another day, another snowfall. I find myself banging my boots splattered with a fresh coat of snow against the wall. While lost in my solo mission of removing snow, faint noises resembling jovial giggles start seeping through my earbuds. Is it that time of year already?
A quick glance at the noise source confirms my suspicions: a sea of purple folks littered on the track. Accompanying them are big white posters being slapped onto the floor. Some have barely taken off their winter gear, but they’re too busy wrestling paint brushes trapped in plastic and battling one another for the last drops of purple paint.
I check my watch: 02–15 — about a week before the Ontario University Athletics Championships. Each year before the event, all competing athletes paint their name on a poster, allowing everyone to write motivational comments. Something like this:
“You have a great work ethic!” or some permutation of that phrase, plus or minus some extra adjectives or smiley faces, are common notes on my poster.
In reality though, I had no other option but to work hard.
2015 Onwards, The Hard Knock Life
The university application essay goes on:
“…The sensation I felt at the high school championships was irreplaceable. … My victories, however, were short-lived. As my career continued, I found that chasing these victories only got more difficult.”
Initially, lingering injuries were my main hurdles in recapturing winning’s unmatched euphoria. But even as I persevered and took care of my body, a new set of challenges appeared: my ordinariness.
As it turns out, running world-class times often requires world-class talent. And at 5’9” with the leg length of someone who is 5’5”, I am quite average. Actually, I’m just below: the average height of Canadian men is 5’10”. In the countless races I’ve taken part in, I am the dwarf tree nestled amongst a forest of giants.
Shawn Anchor, a New York Times best-selling author, once said:
“If we study merely what is average, we will remain merely average.” — Shawn Anchor
For me, grinding at practice was the bare minimum; I had to get creative, looking for any advantages I could find. When the crosswalk “walk” sign appeared, I was the first to step onto the road, practicing my reaction time. I spent countless hours studying race film, analyzing every angle, step, and body position in class. With free chunks of time, I biked across the city to get extra weightlifting sessions in. I researched how to optimize my diet, sleep recovery, plyometrics. I even ensured I was “breathing correctly” in the first 10 metres of my race.
I was an average learner too. You know when you’re in class and the teacher explains something? There was always the nonchalant kid who said, “Yep. Makes sense.” I was the kid who furrowed their eyebrows, tilted their head, and racked their brain for an answer.
I spent endless hours on Khan Academy, needing to hear someone explain the most basic concepts in 5-year-old terms. Once I exhausted all textbook problems, I scoured the web to find every variation of the problems I was studying. And when I completed those? I did them all again because I knew there were always flaws in my understanding.
To have any hope of being above average (and eating dinner), I had no choice but to work my tail off.
January 26, 2020
Dear Kobe,
When TMZ broke the news, I didn’t believe it. First, it was TMZ. Second — you’re Kobe. You dropped 81 points on my beloved Raptors. You achieved every possible NBA accolade. In your final game, to quote the eloquent Shaquille O’Neal:
“I challenged him to get 50 and the mother****er got 60!” — Shaq
Trash can in the corner, garbage in hand, the whole world hollers “Kobe!” as we shoot imaginary buzzer beaters. You’re a real-life superhero. A global icon. A king. Kings aren’t supposed to die.
But game after game, the commemorating 24- and 8- second violations kept happening. The NBA community was grieving. With each person reminiscing about their favourite Kobe stories, my eyes swelled, and emotions ballooned. That’s when I accepted this horrific truth. I couldn’t stop crying.
In an interview talking about resilience and your Achilles injury, you joked about “sitting there, 70- 80-years-old, … wondering if you could’ve come back from this injury.”
Oh, we wish Kobe, we wish.
You were globally beloved for your unyielding generosity, sharing your winning “Mamba Mentality” mindset with us. In my view, your unselfishness stemmed from a fundamental love and care for the world; you were committed to helping everyone achieve their full potential. You wanted to ensure when we’re “sitting there, 70-, 80-years-old”, that we have no regrets.
You shared your winning mindset by example. We witnessed you airball big playoff shots as a rookie and bounce back. We watched you overcome so many injuries, so many tough losses. If the Great Kobe can fail, then we can fail too.
In another interview talking about scoring 0 points in a summer of basketball at age 11, you recounted your father saying “whether you score 0 or you score 60, I’m gonna love you no matter what.” Since then, this “security” gave you “all the confidence … to fail.” Similarly, your generosity gave us security — even if we fail, in some cosmical way, you would be nodding your head in approval, pushing us to keep going, keep fighting, keep working.
We all saw a bit of us in your NBA journey: an underdog outworking the competition to achieve greatness. It’s a humbling, rags-to-riches story the whole world can relate to. Then, you begin teaching the lessons from basketball through different mediums at the highest level: winning an Academy award with Dear Basketball, through a successful multi-media company, and interviews with countless high-profile individuals. You genuinely wanted us to be great.
Your generosity gave me a glimpse into what I could become. If I worked as maniacally as you, I could achieve even my wildest dreams. In a sense, you believed in me before I ever believed in myself. You gave me hope. For that alone, I’ll be forever grateful and indebted to you.
Thank you for giving an average kid the audacity to dream big and kick down boxes, on and off the track. Thank you for making hard work cool and giving me permission to fail. Whenever I lay dead on the track mid-workout, thank you for never letting me quit. Thank you for giving me the strength to get up, stumble to the start line for my final rep, and keep chasing my dreams (and teammates), time and time again. I would not be where I am today without you.
Love you always,
Matt
February 2020, The Ultimate Championship
One of my most gratifying moments was in my final year of university. I’m waiting for my physiotherapy appointment with one of the second-years: a young, unpolished, yet devastating talent — the perfect recipe for superstardom. He begins talking about how he loves being “low” in the “set” position for his block starts, expressing how explosive he feels.
I furrow my eyebrows, tilt my head, and rack my brain in confusion. I can’t help but interject. “I know what you’re saying. It feels like you can push off hard, and sometimes when you’re high in set, it feels like you have no power. But think about it like this: you know when we do quarter squats in practice and how you can squat a lot more than your regular squats?”
My teammate mimics me. Eyebrows furrowed, headed tilted, he questions, “Yes…?”
I continue. “When you’re higher in the set position, that’s like doing a quarter squat. Meaning you can be way more explosive if you changed your block starts.”
A euphoric wave of gratification washes over me as I see the lightbulb turn on in his head. His eyes widen and the largest smile spreads across his face. “OH! That makes so much sense!”
In a TEDTalk in Shanghai, Kobe summarizes it perfectly:
“It’s weird. My vision of what my goal is [has] changed drastically … As a kid, I said I want to be the best ever. … As you get older, you start understanding that those things are very superficial things. … Maybe the most important thing is learning how, as a team, we can grow. How do you help your teammates be better? That was the first change for me. Then, … it became more about ‘how are you inspiring others to find themselves?’. That is the ultimate championship.” — Kobe Bryant
August 24, 2020, 30 seconds later
I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants for good measure and clear my throat.
“Everything I do… I want to inspire others to be great. I want to show people if you work hard enough, you can be the best version of yourself. That hard work pays off. And above all, that you can always out work your potential.
I remember one track practice during high school. A close friend and I were talking about running world-class, Usain Bolt-esque times. I took the pessimistic, ‘realistic’ point of view and said some people are just born with talent. My friend, who had been breaking every national record that season, looked at me, almost angrily, and said, ‘why can’t I keep getting a little bit better every race?’
Why can’t we get a little bit better every day?
Outside of track, fixed mindsets are everywhere, and I want to help others break free. A science-y person can expand their creative wings. An all-star athlete can also be an all-star student. Many stereotypes are make-believe stories the world has told us, but there is no ceiling, no boundaries, to our potential. By working diligently toward my own goals, I want to inspire people to achieve their dreams in life, no matter how ‘preposterous’ or ‘frowned upon’ it may be. All you need is a bit of hard work.”
I take a deep breath. That was a long explanation. Maybe too long. But come on, he’s got to be impressed.
My interviewer keeps nodding and typing away. A sly smile sneaks across his face. Oh boy, why do I have a bad feeling about this?
“Alright, moving on: given an m x n board of letters and a list of words, return all words on the board.”
“Uh. Could I get 30 seconds to think?
Thank you to Jess for taking her precious time to make my mumbo jumbo somewhat legible.
