Mamba Out

Los Angeles is a living city, always rushing and more alive than the day before. Nobody acknowledges the concept of a rest day, and 7/11 keeps those lights on into the sunrise. It’s a city where people come to jumpstart their dreams, and a city they get sucked into when those dreams never manifest. The hills hold our richest, and Skid Row holds our sickest. You never leave ‘The Land’, and we all leave an imprint on history itself. ‘To live and die in L.A.’ 
This is not a eulogy, I have no desire to make one of those. I cannot write anyone’s life story, that’s not the role I will fulfill. Instead, I’ll give you a memory of my own, and add it to the millions you to come. 
At 9 years old, I stood in 70 degree weather in Los Angeles while attending the parade for the winners of the 2010 NBA Championship: The Los Angeles Lakers. My grandfather put me in the smallest jersey he could find, with ‘BRYANT’ and #24 on the back. It still was too big for me, but I thought that it was stylish. Even at this age, I knew two things: I hated the cold—which was anything below 80 degrees, that still hasn’t changed now— and I hated parades, but I’d endure it if that meant I could see Kobe Bryant. There were people who smelled like a walking bar, and random crowds of purple and gold pushing into me like I was invisible since I was short. My grandfather grabbed me and put me onto his shoulders, and this did help. I was enjoying the festivities and hot dogs, and laughed when a man in a full Boston Celtics outfit had his hat thrown over a gate. That was probably rude, but my hot dog was good, so that was none of my concern.  
After hours of waiting and baking under the sun—Los Angeles weather will always leave you hot and cold at the same time—here they came. The double decker busses rolled down the street—don’t remember the street name, maybe Pico or Alameda—accompanied by cheers louder to my ears than my own voice. I watched Kobe Bryant, Pau Gasol, Metta World Peace (or whatever he prefers being called these days) and countless others waving at us, flaunting that purple and gold bus. Nothing else mattered at any moment, and my little brain was convinced that this was the best moment of my life, and  maybe there was truth to that. I was convinced I’d be the next Kobe Bryant, and that I’d be 6’6”. At the moment, I’m only 6’1”, so I’ll check back on that in a couple of years.
I don’t have any exact words to encompass my emotions for Orange Coast College coach John Altobelli as well as his wife and daughter, Keri Altobelli and Alyssa Altobelli (respectively); along with retired basketball player for the Los Angeles Lakers, Kobe Bryant and his 13-year-old daughter Gianna Bryant.any of the vibrant spirits lost. This isn’t my first time experiencing this emotion, Los Angeles has away of pulling at your heart. So, I’ll leave it to a wise woman who knew this feeling before, “‘If you feel like you are losing everything, remember that trees lose all of their leaves every year and still they stand tall and wait for better days to come.”