Joe “Jellybean” Bryant, the father of the late Basketball Hall of Famer Kobe Bryant, has died at the age of 69, La Salle University’s athletics department reported.
Citing La Salle men’s head basketball coach Fran Dunphy, The Philadelphia Inquirer wrote Joe had recently suffered a stoke. The exact cause of death hasn’t been confirmed yet.
La Salle University, where Joe played and coached, said in a statement that he “was a beloved member of the Explorer family and will be dearly missed.”
Just like his famous son, Joe was a renowned basketball player himself. Drafted by the Golden State Warriors as the 14th overall pick in the 1975 NBA draft, he played for the Philadelphia 76ers for four seasons, the then-San Diego Clippers for three seasons, and the Houston Rockets for one season. He also played in Europe.
The 76ers paid tribute to Joe, calling him “a local basketball icon, whose legacy on the court transcended his journey across Bartram High School, La Salle University, and his first four NBA seasons with the 76ers from 1975-79.”
Joe’s sudden passing comes four years after the tragic death of his son Kobe and his granddaughter Gianna, who were killed in a helicopter crash with seven other people.
Kobe’s widow, Vanessa Bryant, wrote on her Instagram story on Tuesday, “Sending our condolences upon hearing the news of my father-in-law’s passing.
“We hoped things would’ve been different. Although the times we spent together were few, he was always sweet and nice to be around. Kobe loved him very much.”
Former Kobe teammate Doug Young praised Joe as the ideal “role model.”
“Joe was our JV coach at Lower Merion and I could not have asked for a more positive mentor, teacher, and role model,” Young told ESPN. “It’s difficult to overstate how much he influenced me and my teammates. He made basketball fun and made us all want to be better; he believed in us. I’ll never forget his infectious smile, his bear hugs and the incredible bond he shared with Kobe. Growing up in Lower Merion, there was no family we loved and admired more than the Bryants, and that started with Joe.”
Arn Tellem, the vice chairman of the Pistons and formerly Kobe Bryant’s agent, expressed his sadness over the loss of Joe and joined the basketball community in mourning a true Philly hoops legend. “Our friendship opened the door for me to represent Kobe as he entered the NBA, a memory I’ll always cherish. Joe was a devoted husband, father and grandfather, whose warmth touched everyone he met.”
May he rest in peace.
I Allowed a Homeless Woman to Stay in My Garage—One Day I Walked in Unannounced and Was Shocked by What I Saw
I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
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