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Figueroa King

When I lived in L.A., whenever I was having a bad day or needed to clear my head, I’d run. I’d push open the shitty gate we had that didn’t really do much, take a left around the school and run up side streets parallel to Vermont Avenue, which was a pretty big street. I’d pass the ice cream trucks, caged roosters kept for cockfighting – smell the carne asada and weed that was coming from homes where people were playing dominoes in the garage. I’d cross under the bridge, the traffic and helicopters drowning out whatever I was listening to from my headphones. I’d hook a right on Washington, then left on Figueroa  until I was at the Staples Center. That was Kobe’s house. When he was playing it was the heartbeat of that city. Every person in those streets, on every block, loved Kobe because of who he was and what he represented – a champion who transcended race, demanded excellence, and stood taller than any movie star – he was Los Angeles. He represented the best of what everyone wanted to see in themselves – relentless drive and a mentality to win at any cost. #81

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