“It’s a shame you never got to see Jordan”
I was born in Chicago on July 8, 1993. Jurassic Park dominated theaters. The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and the Simpsons were primetime television. Midnight Marauders, In Utero and 36 Chambers shifted music and Bill Clinton was inaugurated as president. Despite all of these cultural events, none were larger than Michael Jordan. Two weeks prior he’d capture his third consecutive NBA championship, which capped off an incredible 9 year run. He was a seven time scoring champion, a two time Olympian and was widely considered as the greatest basketball player ever. His Airness was one of a kind. His perfected fundamentals, superhuman athleticism and psychotic will made him a God amongst men on the court, and a Holy figure in my city. I was born at the tail end of his career so I wasn’t conscious of he or his impact. Jordan was nothing more than a logo, an image in which I saw but didn’t understand. This movement that I missed left me with a longing in my heart to feel connected to a figure of my own. “It’s a shame you never got to see MJ, he was something else.”
During this time period, a skinny kid from Lower Merion High School was deciding whether or not to enter into the 1996 NBA Draft. He was one of the most electrifying high school talents in the nation. An ultra competitive shot taker, a highflyer; a showman with rock star confidence and a Texas sized chip on his shoulder. Nobody was surprised with his decision. “With the thirteenth pick in the NBA Draft..” David Stern proclaimed, “..The Charlotte Hornets select KOBE BRYANT.” He would be traded to the Los Angeles Lakers a couple of picks later, only adding fuel to a fire nobody saw. A storm was coming and it would affect an entire generation including, a three year old kid from Chicago.
I was introduced to basketball through my uncle. He was a die-hard Lakers fan and had memorabilia all around his home. I would gaze in awe at pictures of Magic Johnson throwing behind the back passes and Shaq throwing down monstrous dunks. He had plenty of jerseys and trading cards, but there was one item in particular that caught my eye. There was a figurine of a player with a funny name. He wore my favorite number, had an Afro just like me, and dunked in a pose that made him look like he was flying. The purple and gold uniform looked heroic. He became my favorite. This was the figure I was searching for.
From then on I’d watch his career unfold. By the time he was 23 he was a three-time NBA champion and a four time All Star. I’d try to stay up late to watch Stuart Scott narrate his acrobatic highlights. He and Shaq were like Batman and Superman, it was blockbuster. For an eight year old being introduced to the game of basketball, there was no better feeling. My favorite team was terrible (Tim Floyd era Bulls), But my favorite player was unstoppable. I knew I was witnessing my moment. “He’s better than Iverson and Carter, one day he’d be better than Jordan too!” I would proclaim. Nobody believed me. It didn’t phase me, I knew in my heart that he’d prove me right one day. He’d never let me down before.
July 8, 2003 I celebrated my 10th birthday. I was so excited to spend the day with my family and friends. Everyone came to our house for a cookout and like any kid, I was relishing the moment of being the topic of conversation. But there was a larger story brewing. A week before my hero had been charged with sexual assault. He was jailed and was scheduled for trial in the fall. I was devastated. My hero was flawed. The world saw him as a villain. I was conflicted and hurt. I was too immature to understand sexual abuse or infidelity. I just wanted to see him fly again. But at that time his wings were clipped. Accusations arose that he wasn’t a team player and that his couldn’t be coached. They called him selfish and arrogant. I couldn’t see it. The joy and passion I watched him play with couldn’t be tainted. Could it?
As the 2003-04 season progressed the Lakers would go back to the NBA Finals in where they would lose 4-1 to the Detroit Pistons. I was devastated. It was my first experience of sports heartbreak. Phil Jackson was fired, the Lakers roster was broken up and Shaq was sent to Miami to play with another dominant highflyer. My hero would play the next season battered and all alone. The Lakers would miss the NBA playoffs for the first time in my memory. My hero was indefensible. “Jordan never would’ve let that happen” the older generation would tell me. It angered me. I knew they were wrong. He’d be back.
As He faced his first real adversity, so did I. The Job and housing market crashed and my family lost everything they owned. I was depressed and looking for anything to believe in. Coming into your teens is hard enough, let alone going through an event like that. In 2005 my family would move into my grandparents home. I spent all of my time in the basement playing music and emulating the moves of my favorite hero. He was my saving grace and inspiration. He got his wings back that season. Phil Jackson would return as coach and he had one of the greatest seasons ever. Yes, THAT season. The 62 in three quarters against the Mavericks season. The 81 points against Toronto season. The he might get 50 so tune in season. He was electric. Every game was a movie. His performance that season distracted me from the perils of my own life. He would take the Lakers back to the playoffs. I watched with my brother on a Sunday afternoon as he’d hit the buzzer beater against Phoenix. He was back on top as the best in the league. He was robbed of MVP and Shaq would win a championship that year with Miami. It was bittersweet but I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. “He’s never gonna win without Shaq.” They were all wrong. He got his swagger back and he helped me find mine.
He changed his number after that season to 24. Right around that time I was entering high school. It was time for new chapters. After a bitter war with the Lakers front office and a couple trade demands later, he would finally get the help that he would need to get back to glory. He got Pau Gasol for Kwame Brown. It was highway robbery and I couldn’t be happier. The Lakers would finally make it back to the NBA Finals. They would eventually lose to the rival Boston Celtics, including by 39 in the closeout game. The rumblings started again. I knew he heard them. This time I wasn’t worried. I felt the motivation. I knew how close he was, he would stop there. That summer he helped the USA team reclaim gold and he would spend the next two years dominating the league. The Lakers would win back to back championships. There were no more rumblings. No more comparisons. Just gold. He was undeniable. He overcame all adversity to reclaim the glory that’d been snatched from him.
As I became an adult, my hero became mortal. After winning two straight championships, the Lakers would be eliminated from the playoffs the next three years. He would never see the finals again. After years of playing through injuries, his body finally betrayed him. He couldn’t fly anymore. He wasn’t as strong or quick as he’d used to be. He would spend the last years of his career banged up playing with marginal talent. His wings were clipped once more. As he entered the 2015-16 season he announced his retirement. A feeling overcame me. Not of sadness. I was happy. I reflected on my time watching him. Learning from his victories and his mistakes. Using him as a benchmark for dedication and excellence. The soaring dunks, high scoring games and game winning shots. I reflected on his 5 NBA championships and the joy it brought me to see him win them. I thought about all of the years he would be overlooked for MVP, all of the people who told him he didn’t measure up and all of the people who questioned his character. I thought about my life and what he meant to me. He gave me someone to root for and believe in. He’d been my hero for all of my life. For twenty years I watched this player give his all to the game, the good, the bad, the ugly and everything in between. He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t cookie cutter. He was extremely flawed and never hid from his faults. He embraced them and used them as fuel. He used them as motivation and he rose against every obstacle in his way. No matter what you thought of him you had to appreciate his will. You had to appreciate his passion. You had to respect his greatness. Thank you for inspiring a generation. As I prepare to say goodbye to you and watch you one last time, I see feel the same way I did when I first fell in love with the sport. You gave me a movement to be apart of, memories that will stand the test of time. You will forever be the greatest ever in my heart. I never needed to see Jordan play, I saw Kobe Bryant.
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