So much has been swirling around and through the Kobe Bryant tragedy.
The sheer awfulness of it for families and friends of all nine victims.
The veritable religious shrines and assembled crowds and profound eulogies lamenting Bryant’s passing in particular.
The careful inclusion by more sensitive and attuned observers of the eight other victims, whose lives were also lost, in an equal, if not more awful sense, especially given that three of them were mere teenagers, their whole lives still ahead of them, snuffed before so much more experience of joy and discovery—and even sorrows—could inject themselves into the lives that they were still forming.
The deep communal grief so freely expressed by those who knew him (and those who didn’t, but in this era of mass, ubiquitous, unrelenting media, thought they surely did).
Teammates, opponents, executives, coaches, grown men all, weeping in this era of the ...
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