When you’re young, athletes are gods. They exist in an untouchable realm of Nike Logos and Sportscenter highlight reels. They move with ease around the court, the field, the ice. They seem to have it all figured out as the world watches their every move with rapt attention. In elementary and middle school, I remember climbing out of my bed and tip-toeing downstairs early in the morning to watch Scott Van Pelt and Neil Everett run through the sports world in their lively and often hilarious manner. This was how I first came to know my childhood sports idols; I remember being mesmerized by them. How could I not be? I watched them become superstars right in front of my eyes.
I remember watching LeBron burst onto the scene in 2007 with his Game 5 performance against the Pistons. I remember watching Roger Federer, a fresh-faced 23-year-old, float around the pristine grass of the All England Club. As he flicked his wrist and torched backhands across Center Court, I was glued to the television. I couldn’t help but idolize this man, this anomaly. How could a normal human being dispose of his competition with such ease, and hardly so much as have a hair come loose from his immaculate white headband?
How did Kobe Bryant step out onto the court each and every night with that indomitable Black Mamba swagger? Where did it come from? Surely it was heaven sent. A basketball prophet sent to bring light to the darkness of the NBA. Sportscenter segments were dedicated solely to Kobe, much the same way that LeBron garners attention today. Kobe Bryant embodied perfection in 2006-2007 season, in which he averaged 35.4 PPG and shot 45.0 percent from field. He was untouchable.
As a sports-obsessed pre-teen I would love to boot up my Mac Desktop and watch highlights of my favorite players. YouTube became a guidebook of types. I tried copying my favorite player’s moves in the driveway on our cracked wooden backboard. Everything went in. I felt like I had superpowers, I was channeling the greatness of Kobe, Lebron. It wasn’t limited to the driveway either, I loved hitting backhands just like Federer and celebrating a big shot with a signature Tiger Woods fist pump.
While my favorite athletes seemed so invincible at the time, I think I’ve always known that superheroes aren’t made to last forever. Even Tony Stark’s armor gets rusty after a while. I was very young, but I have a faint memory of watching Michael Jordan play for the Wizards in his short stint with the team. I was eight at the time of the game, Jordan’s last season ever. My mom made a comment as we left the game, a bad Wizard loss, about how she felt sad for M.J. I was confused. Why be sad for the greatest basketball player of all time? He was creaky, she said, looked sad, like he wanted to go home. She spoke as if the blinding lights of the NBA had become too bright for a 40-year-old Michael Jordan. I didn’t realize it then, but this would be the first of many athletes who I would witness hobble out of the sport they once dominated.
More recently, I was reminded of athletes’ mortality when I saw news headlines being popping up on my iPhone proclaiming: “Kobe’s Season Cut Short with Shoulder Injury.” “Federer Bounced in 3rd Round of Australian Open.” I heard things from commentators about “father time” finally catching up to the bodies of my favorite players, my idols. It’s a melancholy affair watching the careers of once-so-dominant players peter out with depressing news headlines and somber grimaces from the sidelines.
Harder to watch still are the moments when you glimpse the former greatness once contained within a white Nike polo shirt or a shiny gold number 24 Lakers jersey. When Kobe man-handled the Nets’ Kris Humphries at the rim in 2013, I saw a glimpse of that ‘05-06 Kobe. The raw power, the competitive fire, the invincibility. When Federer battled his way to the Wimbledon Final in 2014 I swore that he would find a way, just like he always used to, against Novak Djokovic. He lost in a five-set nail-biter. More importantly to me, though, were the tantalizing moments in that final which made it seem like 2004 again. A time when Federer was king of the tennis world, challengers left sniffing the air, trying to catch a scent of his hair trigger backhand.
It’s pretty pathetic that watching men, whom I’ve never met in my life, lose in a game affects me emotionally. But it does. I think it’s because it reminds me of my own weakness, my own faults. I can no longer go out into the driveway and channel the spirit of Kobe, because the magic from his once-bewildering game is gone. Sports offer an escape in which we can believe in perfection, in beauty. It allows us to believe in people that hold the power both to make people hold their breath in deafening silence, and make them release it the very next moment, expressing the deepest human joy from their bodies.
It’s sad to see this idea of an invincible superhero crumble to the ground. I know there will always be greatness within the sports world for years to come, but it’s bittersweet. Stephen Curry, Anthony Davis, Andrew Luck are all players set to become household names within the next few years, and that’s great. Maybe they’ll be able to capture a sliver of the magic contained in the palms of Kobe or right wrist of Roger Federer. I continue to be dubious of up and coming talent, as it seems we are constantly dubbing some 16-year-old phenom “up next.” However, as I write this, there are young athletes all over the world toiling in high school gyms, shaking salt into their shoes, and dreaming of putting up 81 like Kobe did in 2006. Dreaming of holding the attention of a nation as they glide around the court.
That’s part of the excitement about sports I suppose. They are cyclical, and just as fast as megastars burst into the national conversation; they are closing the door quietly behind themselves, leaving in the night, as not to cause a disturbance. Perhaps the best I can wish for is to have kids one day that appreciate the magic of a transcendent athlete conducting a symphony in the cathedrals of our modern-day sports world. I hope Madison Square Garden, The Staples Center, and the All-England Club come alive for them, just as they did for me. Coming alive and reminding me that, even if only for a moment, true perfection did exist in the world.