OverTime: So, Mourning My Villain.

Kobe Bryant, moments after clinching his fifth championship in 2010.

I never thought I'd have to write this. And there's not much I can even muster up to write. So, I'll keep it short. 

Kobe was never my idol. He was never my hero. 

Kobe Bryant was my villain.

That is how I watch and know NBA history. I will never own a #8 or #24 Lakers jersey. I'll own a Shaq jersey. I'll own an Iverson jersey. I'll own a Miller jersey. I will never own a Kobe jersey. I have never, and will never, love Kobe Bryant.

And that's because he did exactly what he said he would do. In the 2001 Finals, a fantastic playoff series that is so utterly painful to watch, Kobe returned to Philadelphia to face the Sixers, telling his hometown, "I will cut your heart out." And he did. He, Shaq, and the Lakers won in 5. Allen Iverson and Dikembe Mutombo never recovered. The Sixers fell apart. Neither of their two stars ever got a ring. Basketball has been an arduous journey for Philly fans in the nearly twenty years since.

Kobe, by every metric, cut out his hometown's heart. Because that's who he was.  

He was louder than most, cockier than most, and more competitive than any player to ever step foot on an NBA court. (His former teammates will attest, and his former opponents will swear by it.) He was a ball-hog. He was a rapist (or at the very least close to it). He was a five time champion, an 18 time All-Star, an MVP, and the messiah for the 21st century Lakers' cult.

I hated him for each of those reasons.

But... he was one of the best ten players to ever touch a basketball. And he was an astonishingly benevolent mentor. And he was, by all accounts, an amazing father.

And I respected the hell out of him for all of those reasons.

A few years ago, I had the privilege of visiting his old Philadelphia high school, Lower Merion. I stood on the basketball court where he first garnered fame. Alone, I turned and looked out at the bleachers and the banners and the plaque dedicating the gym to its one true superstar. And I have to say, in that moment, in a villain's lair, I understood.

I understood what Kobe Bryant meant to those who loved him. He was basketball's prodigal son. The man who would cut out the heart of the city that raised him, who would turn on everyone he ever knew, family, teammates, coaches, who would play through any injury, just to win. They don't hate him in his hometown because he broke their hearts. They love him because of why he did it: to win.

And that's when I understood what he meant to me. I understood the phrase "hate to love." I hate that he made basketball look like one man could transcend everybody. I hate that he could transform from a bad person into a respectable person. I hate that he would do anything to win, and it would work. I hated it because I loved it. It complicated my villain.

Kobe is still my villain, all these years after gracing his court. All the cheers I gave when he retired, all the tears I've cried for him, his family, and the families of the other seven on board that helicopter, none of that will change the fact that despite everything, he is my villain. No one, not even Kobe, can take that away from him. He was the greatest villain in my life as a basketball devotee.

Yesterday, for the only time in his short 41 years, he cut out our hearts and didn't win. And now we're stuck with the immeasurable weight of Kobe's loss.