Like most other kids I knew, I wanted to be a professional athlete when I grew up. I guess my parents didn't see anything terribly wrong with this, even playing enablers to some extent by satisfying my desire to wear whatever Dr. J or Magic was wearing on their feet. I always did all of my school work first, so I guess they figured that I had my priorities in the right place. Besides, they were educators and anything short of that wouldn't have been acceptable. Unlike most of my friends, however, I refused to utter this aloud after about the age of 12. A very confident child, I fashioned myself on being more rational and complete in my thinking, realizing that I would indeed need a “real” profession to hang my hat on in addition to that pipe dream.
I wanted to dribble like Isiah dribbled, run like Edwin Moses ran, and say “Hi, Mom!” at the appropriate time when the camera panned over to me on the sideline. The walls of my bedroom were covered with posters of Doc, Magic, Kareem, and even Bird. I played all the sports, so Dwight Gooden and Joe Montana also had their place as well. About the time I started to replace some of these with a picture of Ola Ray, or Janet Jackson that I clipped out of Right On or Jayne Kennedy out of Ebony, along came a guy named Mike. He changed everything.
That guy was must see TV. This was back when Sportscenter was only on late at night, and only for those that had cable. The rest of us would have to check for his highlights during the sports news on channel 2, then 5, then channel 7 and channel 4. (You had to memorize the order to make sure that you didn't miss anything amazing that he did). He came to town only once per season and even though he was on a bad team, the tickets would still sell out. Luckily for me, my hometown Golden State Warriors weren't any good so with some planning it was pretty easy to be one of those in the stadium when Jordan and the Bulls came to town. At $15 per ticket for GOOD seats, my parents didn't mind taking me either. During one spring break while visiting an aunt in Chicago, I got to see him score 61 points in old Chicago Stadium. They were playing the Hawks and Dominique Wilkins had 34 points and the game winner. Losing a game like that was typical of the Bulls during those years.
Off the court, anything he touched turned to gold. He could make you buy burgers at McDonald's. He made Gatorade a drink that you actually wanted and not just when the doctor suggested that your mom get it for you to keep your fluids up after a bout with the flu. But where he really cemented his iconic status was in the sneaker game with Nike and the creation of his Air Jordan brand. For fifteen years straight, my wardrobe contained at least one article of clothing donning this winged logo. I finally came to my senses around 2000 when it occurred to me that paying $185 for a pair of sneakers was absolutely absurd. At 28 years old, already having reached my basketball mountaintop, I had come to the realization that they would not make me jump any higher and that I was only putting more money into his already very full pockets. I haven't bought any of his stuff since. This was about the time when he decided that he wanted to be a Washington Wizard. Even he wasn't magical enough to make that situation a winner. In fact, the only unbelievable thing that he did in that uniform was to fail to be unbelievable, showing that even Superman loses a step and gets old.
I really wish he would've stayed retired after that famous shot against B-Russ and the Jazz in the 1998 NBA Finals. It doesn't get any better than that. All of us, in all of our driveways as kids, made that shot as we counted down the imaginary clock audibly, falling out of bounds, jumping over the bushes and falling on to the lawn as we made the buzzer sound and the ensuing artificial crowd noise. You make that shot and you go in the house. Game over. His coming back with Washington was like me missing my next 5 shots after the out-of-bounds, over-the-bushes shot and then going in the house and you KNOW that's against the rules.
Add a bitter and downright pompous acceptance speech to the Basketball Hall of Fame last Friday night to that list of things that I wish he hadn't done. Keep in mind that in addition to that Wizards washout, this man also had a very lackluster stint with the Birmingham Barons of the Chicago White Sox farm system. He was grieving the loss of his father and had just won his 3rd championship in a row, so I gave him a pass for this. Besides, dropping 55 on the Knicks at the Garden about a week after his return to basketball made for good theater and forever cemented his legend, or so I thought. Following inspiring and impassioned speeches by fellow greats John Stockton and David Robinson and legendary coaches Vivian Stringer and Jerry Sloan, Michael Jeffrey Jordan once again left me looking at my television screen in utter disbelief when he took the podium. This time, however, that was not a good thing. Where they were gracious and humbled by the honor, he was arrogant and bitter. All that preceded him had something complimentary to say to or about their mentors or coaches that may have challenged them and forced them to overcome adversity. Michael all but chastised the high school coach that cut him from the varsity team as a sophomore, saying “I wanted to make sure you understood. You made a mistake dude.” Not that it's 30 years later and you're a 46 year old man or anything, Michael. Whereas John Stockton thanked his wife and kids, saying something nice about them and highlighting what made each of them special to him, His Air-ness could only muster “I wouldn't want to be you guys” to his.
I've seen my share of retirement speeches and been to countless awards dinners in my short time on this earth. Michael's remarks will not be in the conversation of “greatest ever” speeches that I've ever heard, as would be fitting a legend of his stature. Unfortunately, his will more likely be stored along with the regrettable ramblings of drunken best men and maids of honor, slurring embarrassing and unintelligible gibberish to the masses during the slot on the program alotted for tributes to the bride and groom.
We all knew you were the greatest, Michael, and since you have not yet stepped in the ring as a professional heavyweight boxer, there is no need for you to alert us to that fact. I was embarrassed for you up there. I wished that somebody would laugh with you when you attempted to be humorous, but then I realized that humor was not your intent. I daresay that the outspoken Muhammad Ali would've been infinitely more humble than you were. But then again, he is truly the Greatest.
