Kobe Bryant's Hyperfocus Shot 4 Air Balls and Never Felt Shame

At 18, Kobe Bryant shot four consecutive air balls in a playoff elimination game while millions watched, yet kept shooting without hesitation. His hyperfocused mind was so locked onto the mechanics of basketball that the social humiliation most people would feel simply didn't register. This neurological wiring built a championship legacy but came at the cost of human connection.

All documents, transcripts, and sources are available at nbn.fm/neurodivergent/ep33.

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Neurodivergent is a stylized character study of iconic builders, artists, and outliers through a neurodivergent lens. Using AI, we examine how neurodivergent wiring shaped their success.

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Transcript

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This is Neurodivergence, an original series from the Neural Broadcast Network.

You hear the stories, the legends, right? The 4: 0:33

00am workouts. Yeah. And people talk about them now like they were a branding exercise. Like a marketing hashtag designed to sell shoes. Exactly. Like it was this carefully curated public relations strategy for the modern athlete. A way to build a mythos. But the documented reality of the subject we are looking at is completely different. Vastly different. Those early morning sessions in an empty echoing gym, they weren't branding. They were a neurological compulsion. Right. If he did not do the work, his mind simply would not settle. And the film study too. I mean, it wasn't just homework to prepare for a game. It was an absolute addiction to the minutiae of movement. A relentless need to decode the physics of the sport. Yeah, and then you have to consider the social aspect of that. The profound inability to connect with teammates, which is huge. We are talking about a locker room full of professionals who treated the game of basketball simply as a job. A very lucrative, high profile job, certainly, sure, but a job nonetheless. Rather than sharing his all consuming obsession, they viewed it as a profession. And the friction that disconnect caused. While it is central to understanding everything about him. Exactly. We are looking at the life of Kobe Bryant and we need to briefly frame him not just as a 20 year Lakers veteran or a basketball icon with five championships. Right. We need to look at him as a person whose mind was wired with an unrelenting, uncompromising hyperfocus. We are going to examine what that specific wiring built over two decades, and perhaps more importantly, what it cost him. It is a portrait of a mind that simply refused to accept the boundaries of normal human operation. It is the Western conference semifinals, Game 5, the Los Angeles Lakers against the Utah Jazz. The year is 1997 and the pressure in that arena in Salt Lake City is suffocating. Oh, absolutely. If you have never been in that specific environment, you have to understand the physical toll it takes on a body. The altitude is over 4,000ft. The air is visibly thin. Players who are not acclimated to it, they describe feeling this burrowing sensation in their lungs within the first few minutes of running the floor. And it is not just the physical environment. Right. The crowd in the Delta center is deafening. It is a hostile, enclosed bowl of noise pressing down on the court. And the Lakers are in an absolute crisis. Complete meltdown. The systems they usually rely on have completely broken down. It is late in the game. Byron Scott, the veteran presence who usually stabilizes the floor, is out with A sprained wrist. Right. Robert Hori, one of their key clutch players, has. Has been ejected for fighting, which. Think about the psychology of that. Yeah. A veteran losing his composure under the immense pressure of an elimination game. And then Shaquille o', Neal, the anchor of the entire franchise, the massive stabilizing force in the center. Well, he has fouled out with under two minutes remaining. The safety nets are entirely gone. The standard operating procedures of the team have vanished. They are stripped down to the absolute bare minimum. And they are forced to rely on an 18 year old rookie. An 18 year old who is suddenly handed the ball on the most unforgiving stage. Imaginal. Yeah. And what happens next is one of the most famous sequences of physical failure in sports history. It really is. Kobe Bryant shoots four air balls in crunch time. Not missed shots that rattle out of the rim. No, not shots that clang off the backboard. Air balls. The ball leaves his hand, arcs through the air and hits absolutely nothing. It is a profound visual failure. The mechanics of the failure are striking. He misses a game winning two point jump shot in the fourth quarter. Right. Then he misfires three three point field goals in overtime, including two tying shots. In the final minute, the buzzer sounds. The Lakers are eliminated from the playoffs 4 to 1. The season is over and the blame rests squarely on the shoulders of this teenager. Let's reflect on the underlying neurological pattern here, okay? Think about a typical 18 year old brain. Picture yourself at 18, standing in front of thousands of screaming people with millions more watching on television. A nightmare. And you have just committed the most embarrassing professional failure possible. Right. In that specific scenario, the amygdala, the part of the brain that processes fear and emotional response, should be firing wildly. The fear of social and professional humiliation should be entirely paralyzing. It is the ultimate nightmare scenario. Most rookies, after the very first airball would hide. The physical sensation of shame, would dictate their next action. They would pass the ball. Yeah. They would defer to a veteran, any veteran, just to avoid the agonizing embarrassment of being the singular cause of a playoff elimination. But his wiring overrides that fear entirely. Shaquille o' Neal later commented on this exact moment. He said, and I quote, bryant was the only guy who had the guts at the time to take shots like that. Which sounds like the ultimate compliment from a superstar teammate. It does. It sounds like classic sports heroism. It does. But I want to push back on the word guts. Why is that? Because guts implies a conscious overcoming of terror. It implies bravery in the face of a recognized social threat. You see the danger, you feel the fear, and you choose to act anyway. Exactly. But was it bravery? Or are we looking at a mind so entirely hyper focused on the mechanics of the game, the geometry of the court, the angle of the release that the social consequence of failing simply did not register. Wait, you are suggesting he wasn't feeling the humiliation that we assume he should be feeling? Right? That the embarrassment simply wasn't there. The record shows that afterward he was not destroyed by the public mockery. He wasn't sitting in the locker room dwelling on the shame of the crowd laughing at him. No, he was fixated on the physical mechanics of why the ball fell short. He analyzed the data of the misses. He concluded his legs were too weak to sustain the lift required for his jump shot. After an 82 game season plus the playoffs, the humiliation did not compute. The mechanical failure did. It is a massive shift in perspective when you look at it that way. You go from feeling the agonizing stomach dropping failure of watching a kid shoot four airballs to the unsettling realization that he is unfazed by the public humiliation of it. He is driven instead by a cold, calculating analysis of the physical variables. The external noise meant nothing. The internal data was everything. And if a mind does not process failure and social humiliation in a typical way, it logically follows that it will not process locker room camaraderie or social bonding in a typical way either. Which brings us directly into the friction that data driven obsessive mindset caused. Yeah, we move into the early three peat years from 1999 to 2002. On paper, the Los Angeles Lakers are a dynasty. They're winning championships. The confetti is falling. The parades are rolling down Figueroa Street. The public sees the trophies. But underneath that shiny surface, the reality inside that locker room is fraught. The tension is boiling. He is essentially an alienated superstar. Sports writers meticulously documented that he was intensely difficult to play with. His approach to his teammates can basically be boiled down to give me the damn ball. And of course, there is the highly publicized feud with Shaquille o'. Neal. A clash of personalities that dominated the sports media landscape for years. It was framed as an ego war between two massive stars who couldn't share the spotlight. We need to reframe this friction through the neurodivergent lens. Okay. For Kobe Bryant, basketball is a singular, all consuming interest. It is not a sad segment of his life. It is the entirety of his operating framework. He looks around that locker room and he literally Cannot comprehend teammates who view it as just a profession. But I have to challenge that. Isn't that just extreme competitiveness? How so? Well, we see hyper competitive athletes all the time. Michael Jordan punched a teammate in practice. Tom Brady yells at his lineman. Extreme athletes demand extreme results. It's fundamentally different. Imagine you are at your office job. You have a co worker who is brilliant, but they demand you work 20 hours a day. That sounds exhausting. They do not understand the concept of a weekend. They do not understand small talk by the water cooler. They do not understand going home to see your family. Think of it like a specialized operating system trying to interface with standard hardware. Okay, let's unpack that analogy. A specialized high performance operating system requires. Requires specific continuous inputs and operates at a relentless, unyielding frequency. When you try to network that system with standard computers, players who are wildly talented, elite athletes, but neurologically typical in their approach to a work life balance, it causes constant systemic crashes. He expects everyone else's brain to mirror his hyperfocus. He expects them to watch film at three in the morning. He expects them to analyze the footwork of a backup point guard on an opposing team with the same intensity he does. And when they don't, because they can't. When they don't, he doesn't just get angry. He perceives it as a fundamental betrayal of the system. He views their typical human behavior, resting, relaxing, joking around, as a conscious sabotage of the work. So the friction isn't just a massive ego trip. It isn't just arrogance. No, it is a fundamental disconnect in processing the world. He operates at an intensity that others find deeply abrasive. He is demanding an output that their hardware isn't built to sustain. And because he cannot modulate his intensity to meet them halfway, because his brain does not allow him to just turn it off and go grab a beer with the guys, it creates a profound isolation. He is surrounded by a team, surrounded by adulation from the city of Los Angeles, but entirely alone in his processing of the environment. It is a stark, quiet reality. You have the dizzying high of winning three consecutive championships, raising banners to the rafters, standing on top of the world. And yet he is in a state of profound social alienation within his own locker room. He is at the absolute pinnacle of his profession. And he is essentially on an island. An island he built because he could not translate his internal language to anyone else. The isolation wasn't always a given, though. It was nurtured. It was funded. Lets look at the moment that internal language was first validated by someone in position of supreme power. The year is 1996. It is a pre draft workout in Los Angeles. KOBE Bryant is 17 years old. He is fresh from Lower Marion High School in Pennsylvania. A teenager stepping into a professional adult arena. He is stepping onto a court to scrimmage against grown men, former Lakers players Larry Drew and Michael Cooper. Yeah, and we need to emphasize who Michael Cooper is. He is not just a former player. No, he is considered one of the premier perimeter defenders in the history of the sport. He is a seasoned veteran who knows every physical trick, every defensive angle. These are seasoned professionals tasked with testing a high school kid and evaluating this workout is Lakers general manager Jerry West. West himself is an icon. A man so synonymous with the sport that his silhouette is literally the logo of the league. West watches this 17 year old K, and what he sees is astonishing. The physical reality of the scrimmage is entirely lopsided. According to west, this teenager marched over these people. The physical dominance was apparent, but what west really saw was the wiring. The absolute unblinking certainty of the kid. The lack of typical social deference a teenager should show to a veteran like Michael Cooper. West is so convinced by what he witnesses that he immediately orchestrates a massive franchise shift. He trades the Lakers starting center, Vlad Divak, a proven, highly productive professional, to the Charlotte Hornets. He trades him just to free up salary cap space and secure the 13th overall pick to draft this high schooler. We need to complicate this narrative. Yeah, because the mythology usually stops right here. The story is usually told as Jerry west was a genius scout who found a diamond in the rough. But west didn't just draft a highly skilled player. He recognized and crucially validated that obsessive wiring. West had his own history of intense, uncompromising obsession with winning. He recognized his own reflection in a 17 year old. Exactly. He saw the hyperfocus. He saw the complete disregard for social norms on the court. And he rewarded it. He handed the keys to one of the most storied franchises in sports to a teenager. By doing that, the Lakers created an environment where that unrelenting hyper focus was suddenly formally weaponized and heavily funded. They told him implicitly, your way of seeing the world is correct. We are going to build a multimillion dollar corporate enterprise around your obsession. But wait, I have to play devil's advocate here. Sure, from a purely athletic standpoint, it was a genius scouting move. It resulted in two decades of relevance and five championship parades. You can't argue with the empirical results. You can't Argue with the banners? No, but we have to ask a deeper question about the human cost. Okay. Think about the danger of validating a neurodivergent hyper hyper focus to that extreme degree by removing the natural boundaries. By telling an obsessed, socially isolated teenager that his abrasive, uncompromising way is not only right, but worth millions of dollars, did the believer inadvertently set the stage for the intense isolation that would inevitably follow? When you validate the obsession so completely at a formative age, you ensure that the person will never learn how to interface with the standard hardware. That is a critical shift in the timeline he crosses from being a high school anomaly, a kid who famously takes a popular R and B singer to the prom, but spends all his free time meticulously studying game film, right into a world where his specific intense wiring is not just accepted, it is the absolute cornerstone of the franchise. The world that usually rejects or medicates that level of singular obsession decides to pay him a fortune for it instead. What happens when that funded obsession reaches its absolute peak? We enter the era of what became known as the Mamba mentality. We are looking at the years 2005 to 2007. This is the peak of his statistical dominance. This is the era where the obsession is entirely unchained from any restraining system. Shaquille o' Neal has been traded to Miami. The roster is depleted. The team is entirely his to command. The sheer volume of his output during this period defies logic. Let's look at January 22, 2006. He scores an 81 point game against the Toronto Raiders Raptors. It is a number that seems like a typographical error on a box score. 81 points in a single professional basketball game. It is a total surpassed only by wilt Chamberlain's mythical 100 points and the 83 point game by Bam Adebaya. And it wasn't just an isolated night of getting lucky. No, he goes on a historic run of scoring 40 or more points in nine consecutive games. But it is not just the volume that matters. It is the mechanics. It is the deep physiological breakdown of how he built those points. Let's dive into the physical mechanics. Sports writers described a move that became his signature. The jab, step and pause. This isn't just moving your feet. It is a meticulous exploitation of human reflexes. The anatomy of the move involves holding the pivot foot perfectly still while jabbing the non pivot foot forward aggressively. The defender's brain registers the threat of a drive and their center of gravity naturally shifts backward to compensate. It Is kinesthetic manipulation, right? But instead of bringing the jab foot back to reset, as most players do, he leaves it extended. He pauses for a fraction of a second to let the defender's hips lock in that relaxed backward leaning position, and then pushes off that extended foot to drive past them. The defender's reflexes betray them. He sought out individual coaching from legendary center Hakeem Oliguan to learn these meticulous post moves, studying the precise angles of the hips and shoulders. And to fuel this on the court, he trained his mind off the court. He read constantly. He studied completely unrelated fields. He observed minute details in daily life. How a cheetah uses its tail for balance when changing direction at high speeds, and translating that to how he should use his non shooting arm for balance when pivoting. All of it was designed in his own words to prevent a wandering mind on the hardwood. Let's drill deeply into the neurodivergent reality of this process, okay? Head coach Phil Jackson, a man who observed him closer than almost anyone and often clashed with him, noted that when things weren't going his way, he would pound away relentlessly. There is a specific quote from Kobe Bryant himself that is the skeleton key to understanding his mind. He was asked about a player who had a terrible shooting night, missing shot after shot and eventually giving up. He responded, I would go 0 for 30 before I would go 0 for 9. 0 for 9 means you beat yourself. You psyched yourself out of the game. Now, to a typical observer, shooting 0 for 30 sounds like an unmitigated disaster. It sounds selfish. It sounds like you are actively destroying your team's chances to win. At 0 for 15, basic human self preservation has to kick in, right? To a neurotypical mind, yes, you stop shooting because the social pressure of missing, the groans of the crowd, the glaring stares of your teammates, the shame of failure, all of it tells you to stop. But look at his logic. Look at the algorithm running in his head. It is a neurological loop. The brain requires the completion of the action, regardless of the immediate external feedback. It is like a computer running a program. Exactly. Think of it as a while loop, encoding while the game is happening. Shoot the ball. 0 for 30 is simply data collection. 0 for 30 means the system is still running, attempting to correct the variables, adjusting the trajectory, recalibrating the force, the external outcome. The missed shot is irrelevant to the execution of the process. But 0 for 9. 0 for 9 means the system shut down entirely due to an emotional override. It means the fear of failure corrupted the algorithm. For his wiring, it is a compulsion to finish the process. The failure isn't missing the shot. The failure is breaking the loop. So you have this dizzying high of individual historical greatness. The scoring titles, the 81 point game. But when you look at the mechanisms driving it, it is a grueling, self destructive reality of an unyielding internal standard. The mind demands the shot be taken, even if the body is failing, even if the crowd is groaning, even if the team is losing. It is a machine operating at maximum RPMs, entirely ignoring all the warning lights flashing on the dashboard. And eventually, when a machine operates that way without a pressure release valve, the systems around it begin to fracture. Which brings us to the period where the carefully constructed public narrative and the chaotic private reality violently diverges. The reckoning. The moment the fortress is breached.

We are looking at the 20:03 to 20: 19:48

04 period. Now, we must explicitly state for the listener that we are looking strictly at the documented record here. Right? We are remaining completely neutral, not taking sides on the legal outcomes or the public discourse surrounding them, but simply examining the systemic and psychological impact of these events on his life. Based entirely on the source material, we are analyzing the psychological fallout. In the summer of 2003, he is arrested in Eagle, Colorado, facing a sexual assault complaint from a 19 year old hotel employee. The legal process instantly becomes an immense global media spectacle. The pristine golden boy image that had been so carefully cultivated since he was a teenager shatters overnight. Eventually the criminal charges are dropped after the accuser declines to testify in the criminal trial. A civil suit is filed and eventually settled out of court, and he issues a public apology. In that documented apology, he admits to a sexual encounter that he maintained was consensual, but explicitly acknowledges that she did not view the encounter the same way. From a biographical and psychological standpoint, we are observing a life that has been completely, violently destabilized. The external structure has collapsed. The sheer logistical toll is staggering. He is literally flying between intense court appearances in Colorado and professional basketball games in Los Angeles on the exact same day. He is arriving at arenas moments before tip off. He loses massive corporate endorsement deals overnight. McDonald's, Nutella. The dissonance between the expected glamorous life of a global superstar and the grim reality of a man navigating a life altering legal crisis is absolute. We have to explore his psychological reaction to this extreme dissonance because it is the most extreme manifestation of his wiring. How does a mind that relies entirely on absolute control and meticulous data processing survive a situation where it has lost all control of the external narrative. How does the system handle a catastrophic external threat? It survives through intense, radical compartmentalization. In psychology, there is a concept called splitting or dissociation, where the mind protects itself from overwhelming trauma or stress by creating a separate mental space. To survive the extreme dissonance of his life, he adopts an alter ego. He begins calling himself the Black Mamba. Inspired by the deadly precision striking snake in the Quentin Tarantino film Kill Bill. He creates a firewall between the man and the player. Precisely. He creates a distinct, cold blooded Persona to separate his personal wreckage from his on court obsession. The Black Mamba doesn't have a fractured personal life. The Black Mamba isn't dealing with lawyers. The Black Mamba only executes basketball mechanics. He doubles down on the game because the geometric lines of the basketball court represent the only system left in his life that he can still dictate. The dimensions of the court never change. The height of the rim never changes. He relies on the one algorithm he knows works flawlessly. If he inputs the work, the ball goes through the hoop. It is a physical certainty in a life that has lost all certainty. But compartmentalization is a survival tactic, not a cure. The friction is still there, grinding away under the surface. He is surviving his own life by burying himself deeper and deeper into the obsession. And that kind of retreat comes with a severe price. We see the ultimate cost of that retreat a few years later. Compartmentalization leaves you entirely alone. We need to look at a single, vivid, documented scene from 2007. It is a moment that captures his absolute isolation in a way that no game film ever could. This is where the consequences of the wiring become undeniably clear. The setting is remarkably mundane. It is an ordinary parking lot at a retail mall in Newport Beach, California. It is broad daylight. He is at the absolute peak of his athletic prime, universally recognized. And he is caught on a raw amateur video by a couple of young fans who later call themselves the Kobe Video Guys. There are no public relations handlers present. There is no lighting crew. There is no polish. It is incredibly gritty, shot on early generation camera phones. What exactly is happening in this footage? He is standing in the sunlit parking lot, profanely venting his deepest professional frustrations to complete strangers. He is tearing down his own teammate, a young developing center named Andrew Bynum. He is complaining bitterly that the Lakers front office management won't trade Bynum to the New Jersey Nets to acquire veteran point guard Jason Kidd. He is visibly, audibly furious, airing the franchise's most Sensitive internal conflicts to random guys holding cell phones. We have to frame this as the ultimate cost of his wiring. Look at the reality of where he is and what he is doing. He is trapped. His internal standard is so uncompromising. And his frustration with a front office system that operates slower than his brain demands is so intense that he's become completely, utterly isolated. He has burned the bridges with Shaquille o'. Neal. He has alienated his current roster of teammates who cannot meet his demands. And now the most famous athlete in Los Angeles, a man with endless resources, is reduced to venting his systemic frustrations to random teenagers in a mall parking lot. The standard hardware cannot keep up with his operating system. The system is crashing and he is melting down in public. The isolation is total. There is no one inside his inner circle who understands his urgency. No one who speaks his language. So he is shouting it to anyone who will listen. Even strangers in a parking lot. We need to just sit in the uncomfortable reality of this scene for a moment. Picture the starkness of it. This isn't a triumphant sneaker commercial. This isn't a hero overcoming adversity. This is a man whose brilliant, history making mind has caused deep, lonely fractures in every professional relationship. He has. The brilliant output on the court and the lonely fractures off the court are entirely inseparable. You cannot have one without the other. He built a fortress of obsession to protect himself, and he successfully locked himself inside it. But the story doesn't end in the parking lot. The final act of his life involves the physical breaking point. A radical transition of his operating system, and then a sudden, tragic end. Let's look at April 2013. The body finally breaks under the weight of the mind. In a game against the Golden State Warriors. He tears his Achilles tendon. The biomechanics of this injury are devastating. The Achilles is the thickest, strongest tendon in the human body. It connects the calf muscles to the heel bone. When it ruptures, it sounds like a gunshot and it violently rolls up the back of the leg. The physical pain is agonizing. The biological imperative of the human body in that moment is to fall down and stop moving. But before he leaves the court, his compulsion, that neurological loop we talked about, forces an override. He refuses help, stands on a completely ruptured tendon, walks under his own power to the free throw line and sinks two free throws. The script in his head dictates that the play must be finished. The structural failure of his body is secondary to the completion of the task. The loop must close. It's the ultimate final manifestation of the physical wiring. But after that, catastrophic injury, because the body can no longer execute the algorithm, an evolution begins. We see the Farewell tour in 2016, culminating in an unbelievable 60 point game that defied all physiological logic. And then he retires. He transitions into a storyteller. He wins an Academy Award for his animated short film, Dear Basketball. Translating his obsession into a different medium. He embraces his role as a girl dad coaching his daughter Gianna's youth basketball team. He builds the Mamba Sports Academy. He writes a book detailing his methodology, breaking down the exact physics of the psychology he used. He finds a way to translate the obsession outward. The code is made open source. And then the abrupt ending. The tragic January 2020 helicopter crash in the foggy hills of Calabasas, California that killed him, his 13 year old daughter Gianna and seven other passengers. It is an event that literally stopped the world. Leading to spontaneous memorials across the globe and eventually the bronze statues immortalizing him and Gianna outside crypto.com arena the legacy left behind is incredibly complex. But what demands our attention is how the Mamba mentality transcended the sport of basketball entirely. It became a universal framework for survival. You see, it applied in wildly different, unexpected contexts. In a Psychology Today article, a medical doctor describes using the Mamba mentality. The rigorous attention to detail, the preparation, the absolute refusal to let the mind wander. As a structured clinical methodology for addiction recovery. Patients use his hyper focused framework to rebuild their lives. Or you look at Nooni Omt, a young Kenyan immigrant who faced immense systemic odds. He found inspiration not just in the basketball skills, but in the relentless work ethic, using that exact obsessive framework to survive his own struggles and eventually reach professional basketball. Which proves that the wiring wasn't just a quirk of a basketball player. It was a highly effective, transferable system of processing and overcoming severe adversity. But we have to ask the final question. What's that? Watching him in those final years, watching him coach his daughter and smile on the sidelines writing children's books, did he soften? Did the intense abrasive operating system that isolated him in his twenties finally shut down? I don't think he lost the obsession at all. You don't rewrite a fundamental neurological code like that. What happened was he finally found a way to translate it. Instead of demanding that everyone else's hardware run his specialized software, which caused the systemic crashes, the parking lot meltdowns and the friction, he became the architect. He started mentoring others, teaching them how to build their own systems. Rather than demanding, they began exactly like him. The mind that isolated him in his twenties became the very tool he used to deeply connect with the world. In his 40s, the resolution of the friction, the immense energy of the obsession, was finally directed outward to build others up rather than internalized as frustration. He learned to teach the obsession rather than just inflict it. Which leaves us with a provocative thought to mull over. As you go about your week, look at the people around you who are considered geniuses in their fields. The relentless artists, the demanding scientists, the obsessed founders. How many of them are simply operating on an unmedicated hyper focus that society happens to find incredibly valuable? And what unseen price are they paying for that validation? It is a profound question about what we demand from greatness. It brings us back to where we started. The image of the 18 year old in Utah. The thin air burning his lungs, the hostile crowd screaming, the four airballs hitting nothing but the floor. Standing there in the noise, shooting in the dark, entirely unfazed by the failure, driven entirely by the mechanics of the next shot, the next data point, the next iteration of the loop. He was a man whose mind demanded an impossible perfection. And in the relentless pursuit of it, he forged a legacy that outlasted the limits of his own body. This has been neurodivergent, an original series from the Neural Broadcast Network. All sources for this episode are available at NBN fm. Neurodivergent. Next time on Neurodivergent. Amy Winehouse.