Gianna Maria-Onore Bryant sits on the shoulders of her father, Kobe, as they attend a soccer match on April 10, 2014, in San Diego. The father and daughter were tragically killed with seven other people on Sunday when the helicopter they were in crashed. AP file photo/Lenny Ignelzi

Like millions of people around the world, I was glued to the television coverage Sunday afternoon and evening in the hours following the tragic death of Kobe Bryant in a helicopter crash. The news arrived in my Twitter feed a little after noon and it took my breath away.

At just 41 years of age and with so much more life to live, one of the greatest basketball players — not just of this generation, but of all-time — was gone. In the blink of an eye. Just … gone.

I’ll admit though, I somewhat quickly moved on to other things after the initial shock dissipated. I had wrestling stories to write, newspaper pages to design, a Christmas tree to take down (yes, folks, we still had our tree up and I give you permission to mock me relentlessly), and so Kobe’s passing moved to the periphery in our house.

But then the next wave of agonizing news broke — it wasn’t just Kobe who perished. Also on board was his 13-year-old daughter, Gianna Maria-Onore Bryant, as well as seven other beautiful souls who never got the chance to say goodbye to those that they love.

And that’s when it truly hit home.

As a lifelong sports fan who marveled from a distance at what Kobe could do with a basketball in his hands, I was saddened. As a 43-year-old father of two young girls who was once again smacked in the face with the realization of just how precious life is and how quickly it can all be taken away, I was left feeling numb.

Kobe was a sports giant, that’s what makes this an international story. Following his retirement from the Los Angeles Lakers and the NBA, he became successful while traveling down other avenues. There’s an Academy Award (aka an Oscar) somewhere in his house to prove that.

But Kobe was a dad — first, second, third and fourth. Four beautiful children, all daughters, and they were his everything. Go back and watch past interviews like I have done over the past day and listen to him speak about his children, and you’ll quickly realize that, in the grand scheme of things, they are what truly mattered to him.

Not the records. Not the championships. Not the fame. Not the fortune.

His girls. His family.

That’s why this story is so tragic. A father is lost, a little girl just at the beginning of her life is gone.

My two daughters, Taylor and Brooklyn, sat and watched much of the coverage with me on Sunday. They couldn’t understand why I clung to the news like it was a life raft and that was fine with me. I mean, how do I explain that what I was really thinking about was them? The cold reality is that there are things in this world that I cannot protect them from. As much as I want to shield them, as much as I want to wrap them in a blanket, lock the door and keep them safe forever, I know that’s simply not possible.

That’s the thing that hurts so much. Forget basketball, forget sports. Who cares. This is about life, the joys and, yes, the tragedies.

As Sunday afternoon turned into night, I couldn’t shake it. The scenario of what it must have been like in that helicopter in those final few moments ran through my head over and over. Did Kobe and Gianna know that the end was near? Did they get a chance to say goodbye? Did Kobe fight like hell to protect his little girl even in the face of a devastating reality?

We’ll never know. That’s probably a good thing.

This is morbid, I know, and I apologize for that. But this is simply a stream of consciousness coming out, not as a journalist, but as a father.

Kobe and Gianna, as well as the other passengers on that Sikorsky S-76B, were on their way to a youth basketball tournament. Kobe served as a coach for his daughter’s team, and by all reports she was a chip off the old block. She was going to do for the WNBA what her dad did for the NBA — that was her dream. That might have been Kobe’s dream too, but I’d bet all of the money in my bank account that just watching her compete, watching her play a game she loved, was more important to him.

My youngest daughter, Brooklyn, is a gymnast, as I’m sure many of you know if you follow my social media accounts. Weekend after weekend during the winter months, we travel throughout Iowa to watch her compete.

She’s good. That’s not me trying to brag I promise, but it leads me to a much more important point. The medals she brings home from her meets, those are great and she’s awfully proud of them. But here’s what I take away from watching her compete — her smile. That grin that goes from ear to ear when she sticks her landing, turns and salutes the judges, and walks off the stage. She’s fallen a few times too, but there that smile is anyway, still wide and still bright.

I don’t care if she wins, I honestly don’t. As a father, all I want is to see her happy.

I obviously didn’t know Kobe. But I’m guessing that’s all he wanted for his daughter as well.

In the coming days, weeks, months and years, we’ll continue to mourn the loss of greatness, perhaps the closest replica to Michael Jordan that we’ll ever see. His highlights, his accomplishments, they’ll be engrained in our minds for eternity.

If it’s OK with you, I’ll mourn the things that truly matter. I’ll pray Kobe’s wife, Vanessa, and his three surviving children — Natalia Diamante, Bianka Bella and Capri Kobe — can find peace and happiness again someday.

A wife lost her husband and daughter. Three girls lost their dad and sister.

No one is immune to tragedy, something we’ve all been reminded of once again.