Jordan’s Petty Goodbye

On Friday, September 11th, as they had so many times in the past, basketball fans from all walks of life, casual and hardcore alike, made plans to catch a supposed last glimpse of greatness from Michael Jordan.  The Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame beautifully set the stage, shifting sites to the more accommodating Symphony Hall to allow more fans to witness the event in person.  Organizers scheduled the ceremony to rise to a crescendo for ‘his Airness.’  One-by-one, the 2009 inductees demonstrated class, humility, and eloquence, but above all, graciousness.  Now it was Jordan’s turn.  As he slinked to the podium in a sharp suit, the basketball world tuned in one last time to see perhaps its greatest talent rise to his final occasion.  But unlike the countless big moments Jordan encountered throughout his career, something bizarre happened.

He didn’t deliver.

For a man so revered for his seemingly innate ability to come through in the clutch, Jordan’s final curtain call seemed equivalent to a buzzer-beater clanking off the back of the rim.  While the speeches of his fellow classmates subtly underscored their stellar careers, Jordan’s diatribe against those he deemed to have wronged him magnified an unhealthy amount of insecurity for a man who once sat upon the throne as the king of the sports world.

But maybe that’s the problem.  Perhaps Jordan simply has no mechanism for dealing with irrelevance.  While his brand of shoes are still adorned by thousands-upon-thousands of would-be hoops stars and his status as the game’s greatest player seems cemented, one foe that Jordan cannot defeat no matter how hard he works will always haunt him:  time.

Jordan is six years removed from suiting up for a professional basketball team, eleven since winning an NBA title.  The man can have everyone refer to him as the greatest ever to play, but that will not get his face on the cover of any more newspapers.  Nor will that earn him highlights on SportsCenter.  No, instead, he must watch purported lesser players such as Kobe Bryant and LeBron James fill those voids.  And judging from his words during the hall’s induction ceremony, that must eat him up inside.

Rather than taking the time to thank friends, family, and colleagues who most certainly helped him on his steady rise to the top, Jordan took the opportunity to take to task those who slighted—and thus, as he repeatedly made clear, motivated—him during his career. 

His reserved his sharpest words for Jerry Krause, the general manager for the Bulls that Jordan butted heads with time and again during the team’s title runs.

“I don’t know who’d invite (Jerry),” said Jordan, “I didn’t.   I hope he understands it goes a long way. He’s a very competitive person. I was a very competitive person.  He said, ‘organizations win championships,” said Jordan, paraphrasing a remark from Krause, only to self-servingly counter—over a decade later, mind you—that, “I didn’t see organizations playing with the flu in Utah,” a reference to his legendary performance in game five of the 1997 NBA Finals.

Despite Krause’s absence, camera shots of the crowd offered a hint of uneasiness.  Perhaps they were curious as to why the celebration of this man’s brilliance had devolved into a volley of insults that felt more at home on the playground.  The tension only increased as Jordan began honing in on those in attendance, directing his attention to hall members Isiah Thomas and George Gervin, and the supposed ‘freeze-out’ of Jordan the two organized during the 1985 NBA All-Star festivities.

“You guys gave me the motivation to say, ‘You know what? Evidently I haven’t proved enough to these guys. I’ve got to prove to these guys that I deserve what I got at this level,’” said Jordan, putting Thomas and Gervin in the awkward position of smiling through the shock as ESPN’s cameras closed up on their faces.

But Jordan did not stop at skewering former archrivals.  He saved some barbs for opposing role players, men that should be tiniest of blips on such an esteemed person’s radar, because they had the audacity to challenge his greatness.  Jordan described a run-in with former Utah Jazz player Bryon Russell while the two visited some Bulls players during the off-season in 1994.

“Bryon Russell came over to me and said, ‘Why’d you quit? You know I could guard you. If I ever see you in a pair of shorts… When I did come back in 1995 and we played Utah … Russell is standing next to me. I said, ‘You remember the [comments] you made in 1994 about, ‘I think I can guard you, I can shut you down, I would love to play against you?’ Well, you’re about to get your chance,” said Jordan.

Remember, Russell’s greatest claim to fame will always be that of the defensive goat for the Jazz in the 1998 Finals, as he fell for the crossover (or push-off, depending on your rooting interest) that led to the iconic, title-clinching jump-shot from Jordan.  For this reason alone, he had not deserved a mention at this ceremony.  But, always the competitor, Jordan could not let this anecdote die. 

He also could not hold his tongue when it pertained to those closest to him.  He attempted to playfully reprimand Dean Smith for sticking to his policy of not glorifying freshman when Jordan received the chance to appear on a cover of Sports Illustrated for that year’s NCAA basketball preview issue.  His arrogance even allowed him to mock his children.

“I wouldn’t want to be you guys,” teased Jordan.

The entire speech played off as someone desperately trying to remind the world how many obstacles he had overcome and how great he ultimately became.  He actually invited his high school basketball coach and the man that beat him out for the last spot of the varsity team during his sophomore year.  Maybe he just wanted the world to know that all of those tales that attested to Jordan’s competitive fire were not exaggerated.  Perhaps that is the catch 22 (or, catch 23, if you will).  Michael Jordan could not have been the Michael Jordan unless he used even the slightest misunderstandings to fuel his self-motivation.

Quite possibly, Jordan, whose body language indicated that at least he thought his barbs were humorous, felt as if he had offered the world a privileged look into his psyche, what made him so great.  Maybe the person standing on that stage is the real Michael Jordan.  Basketball fans have grown accustomed to the stoic, coy Jordan that appears in Hanes and Nike commercials; so much so, that we assumed real-life Michael and television Michael shared the same persona.  Perhaps it is our fault for placing Jordan on too high of a pedestal, rendering anything but the absolute perfect speech as a let-down.  I suppose it is possible, but, in all honesty, a tad disingenuous.

Though by no means is Michael Jordan the only culprit of such trickery, we have had indications all along that the Michael Jordan we had grown accustomed to in the commercials had little in common with the actual person.  When contacted by Democratic North Carolina senatorial candidate Harvey Gantt to endorse his candidacy, Jordan famously replied, “Republicans buy sneakers, too.”  It seems unfair to criticize a man for his political beliefs, but when you consider that Gantt, an African-American representing the lower-to-middle class section of North Carolina—where Jordan hails from—had competed against a wealthy white man, you have a strong case that Michael Jordan sold out his roots for a fat paycheck.

What does all of this mean?  That, though no one can deny his basketball prowess, some of his selfish behavior, culminating with his acceptance speech, offers exhibit A for the dangers of hero-worshipping an athlete when we know next-to-nothing about his or her personal life.

I’ll be the first to admit it:  I drank the Michael Jordan Kool-Aid.  I had the number 23 jersey, the trading cards, the figures, you name it.  Quite simply, I wanted to ‘Be Like Mike.’  But after watching Jordan’s speech, hoping like everyone else to be in awe of his greatness one last time, I felt disappointed.  But then I came to the conclusion that Michael Jordan is human after all, and none of us are perfect.  Still, one thought lingered in the back of my mind:

When I find myself on the basketball court, I most definitely want to ‘Be Like Mike,’ but off of it?  Maybe I want to ‘Be Like’ someone else.