Only 24 months removed from teenage status, Kobe Bryant is basically your run-of-the-mill adolescent: equal parts exuberant and immature. Plus he dunks on Dikembe Mutombo in his spare time.
He's also the NBA equivalent of the high schooler who continuously, weekend after weekend, implores Mom and Dad to extend curfew by another 15 minutes and perpetually has his wish granted. Come senior year, the kid is cruising home at sunrise.
So America, is it any surprise that after four years of marveling at his midair elegance, swooning at his telegenic presence and fawning over his Jordanesque grace, Bryant is that spoiled brat rolling down Rodeo Drive in his Tahoe with little regard for anyone or anything save himself?
All it would have taken was a single person of power and influence to stand up and say no. Instead, we - coaches, media, businessmen and fans alike - showered the boy wonder with unfettered praise rather than sprinkling in a few life lessons along the way.
You reap what you sow, and we cultivated a regal brat.
In 1996, when Bryant bypassed college altogether to press his luck at the professional level, Charlotte tabbed the McDonald's All-American from Lower Merion High as the 13th overall pick.
Bryant told the Hornets to stick it. "Give me the Los Angeles Lakers, or give me death," he barked. The Hornets acquiesced and gave him the Lakers.
In 1997, when the Lakers needed clutch shooting to bump Utah out of the playoffs, Bryant shouted for the ball until his teammates went deaf or passed. They opted to keep their hearing. Bryant kept shooting blanks and a mere 24 hours later, the Lakers were playing their favorite summer golf course.
Last summer, the Dream Team (I've lost count of which one this is) went on its world evisceration tour. After bludgeoning Yugoslavia by two and shredding France by 10, it called on Bryant to sign up. He declined. He was getting married, and he wanted to focus on sizing up rings rather than opposing guards.
It was reasonable excuse, and one I have no gripe accepting. But Bryant then inexplicably postponed the marriage, meaning he opted for "Facts of Life" marathons and waterpark escapades over representing the grand ole U.S. of A. on a bigger stage than you'll ever find along the Hollywood strip.
Then the 2000-2001 season hits, and the temperamental tot takes it an extra mile: He usurps the reigns of a championship club from a stoic zen master (Phil Jackson) and Kazaam the rapping genie (Shaquille O'Neal) and attempts to defend the crown, playing hip-hop, Kobe-ball, or should I say KoME-ball.
One problem youngster: "The Daddy" got his feelings hurt and decided to give you a big piece of his mind. Now last June's potential dynasty might as well be shooting on the set of "The Young and the Restless" rather than at the Staples Center baskets.
Perhaps the moral of this drawn-out, four-year story is that for all his chirpings of "being the man," Bryant is in many ways still a boy, not because he's not capable of escaping his Huggies, but because our incessant pampering tells him he can do what he's always done and get away with it.
But Bryant isn't alone. The age of the babied athlete has been upon us for years, and by the examples set by prima donnas like Allen Iverson, Keshawn Johnson, ad nauseum, it doesn't look like we're going to see multi-million dollar icons "sharing the wealth" anytime soon.
That is unless someone besides an $88.5 million dollar center named Shaq resolves to say no.
Until then, Kobe will continue to say yes.
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