Instead of immediately leaving to meet friends for drinks last Saturday night, I hung around my place to watch the second half of Game 7 between the Suns and Lakers. What had been a thrilling series (especially for the NBA’s first round) was in the balance. No way I was going to miss either (a) Kobe Bryant leading a startling second-half comeback or (b) Steve Nash continuing to keep his foot on the throttle and flatten the Mamba.

(With all respect to “Major League 2” this was Black Thunder/White Lightning. Oh, and full disclosure: I was cheering for the latter, not because I’m a Suns fan, but because, among many other reasons, Bryant calls himself Mamba.)

As we now know, what transpired was disturbing, shocking, and immensely enjoyable. Mamba slithered into his pit. He showed the heart of the Tin Man. He gave up on his teammates and fans. He quit. In doing so, he secured Michael Jordan’s legacy: “MJ never would have quit”; “Can you imagine Michael losing a series when he was up 3-1?”; “Jordan would have cut Raja Bell’s heart out and sacrificed it to the basketball gods, scored 50, and willed his team to victory in Game 7,” were some of the points made by my friends.    

Well, they’re right. Kobe has been exposed. Maybe he can recover, though I doubt it. Once the curtain is pulled back…

It’s easy to be the bully, to show you have Dog in you, when the real bully – the one with all the bite – is behind you, stands 7-foot-1, weighs 340 pounds, and answers to The Daddy. Kobe made his rep off Shaq’s scraps, like Penny Hardaway before him (remember, before injuries and Shaq’s trade, Penny was Kobe). Nobody knew this better than Kobe. That’s why Shaq had to go.

These playoffs were Kobe’s first chance to show his mettle without Shaq. Adding to the plot, Kobe and Nash were two favorites for MVP, and entered with supporting casts relatively equal in talent (especially with Kurt Thomas injured).

Two men enter, one man leaves.

Too bad for Kobe, because now he looks like nothing more than a tall-man’s Allen Iverson. He doesn’t make his teammates better. He’s an assassin. A Jordan, before Jordan was Jordan.

It’s been obvious to anyone paying attention to the NBA over the past 20 years that Kobe came into the league intent on being the next Jordan. Never eager to break the mold, he chose instead to cast himself inside Jordan’s outline. He had the skills, the body, the photogenic smile, and the scripted interview answers designed to ensure maximum marketability. But there is one problem. Kobe Bryant is stuck with the personality of Kobe Bryant. And that guy sucks.

Ironically, Kobe’s career arch is the exact opposite of Jordan’s. The young Jordan was a singular talent that critics said couldn’t make his teammates better and didn’t play defense. What followed made Jordan a mythical figure: championship banners, scoring titles, all-league defensive honors, MVP trophies and general acceptance as the greatest player and competitor the game has ever seen.

Kobe was a champion before he achieved individual greatness. He wasn’t the best player on his team, and Kobe, being Kobe, knew he had to blow up a dynasty so he could chase scoring records, chase titles, chase Jordan. Congrats, Kobe, you have your scoring title. Now we are hearing the same things said of Kobe that we heard of young-Jordan. It must be music to Kobe’s ears.

What’s left is for Lakers’ management to put the right pieces around him so he can attempt to match Jordan’s career achievements. Hopefully this doesn’t happen.

Because rewarding petulance, awarding arrogance and conceit and selfishness, has never been what sports is about. Kobe could still have Shaq; he would now be the dominant player as Shaq eases into retirement (hey, Dwyane Wade). It’s what Magic did with Kareem. It’s what Barkley did with Dr. J. But winning was less important than matching (or, being) Jordan. Kobe’s obsession is reminiscent of a kid growing up in a famous parent’s shadow, choosing the same career and doing everything to one-up the old man.

Rest assured though that Kobe will never be Jordan’s equal.

That judgment is based off the end of Game 5. Yes, Game 7 was bad enough, where we saw Kobe stand around the perimeter like Trajon Langdon in a YMCA summer league, when we saw him as The Quitter. But in Game 5 we saw Kobe as The Thespian.

With the Suns cruising to a victory, Raja Bell (who?) suddenly went O.K. Corral on Kobe, cattle-steering him to the ground as he drove to the basket. (No doubt millions cheered.) Instead of doing something decidedly Jordan, like trying to strangle Bell or screaming at him while being pulled back by his teammates – something, anything, to demonstrate Alpha-male status – Kobe dusted dirt off his shoulder. (How would we not know he was mimicking Jay Z?) Then boos came down and he stole Dikembe “Cookie Monster” Mutumbo’s Finger Waive salute. The crowd booed louder, but laughter was more appropriate.

Both gestures were unoriginal. Both a stage-act. Both lacked any semblance of competitive fire.

Kobe wasn’t about to fight for a ring, let alone a ticket out of the first round. Kobe was not going to intimidate Bell, growl at the Suns, and possibly galvanize his teammates. Nope. He was too busy preening to the audience. That game, that series, his career, is nothing more than a show; he is the game’s top showman, and he had to do something showy.

That is Kobe. All style, no substance. Certainly there’s no Jordanesque fire. When someone spends all their energy trying to be someone else, they lose authenticity. That goes for his game, the personality he shows to the media and definitely his supposed desire to win at all costs.

Jordan’s competitive streak is something Kobe has worked hard to emulate. But copying Jordan’s fade-away is easier than mimicking his win-at-all-costs drive. (Or, go back to Game 4 when Kobe stole Jordan’s stoic fist-clinch-pose – circa the first Utah Jazz series – when he beat the Suns at the buzzer.) A desire to be recognized as the best, which Kobe has in bulk, is different than wanting to crush your opponent, break their will, destroy their spirit. That was Jordan. In extension of that fire – to vanquish all those around him – Jordan was bestowed the title of The Greatest.

Now we know better – the Suns series was the disrobing of a boy-king. The emperor has no clothes.

Kobe, at 27, with three championships and 10 years in the league, is still struggling to find his identity. He’s still trying to be Jordan.

It’s a joke. It’s sad. It’s Kobe being Kobe.

Nathan Carlile is a columnist for Atomic Sports Media. Additionally, he is a reporter for Legal Times and a freelance writer. He received his master's degree from Syracuse University and resides in Washington D.C. Nathan can be reached at nate.carlile@atomicsportsmedia.com.