As he approaches 40 and winds down toward yet another retirement, Michael Jordan takes his (likely) final bow at United Center Friday night.
The skill, swagger and last-minute magic he displayed over 15 seasons leads me to one conclusion: You never know how much you’ll miss someone until you’ve hated him.
At the risk of never again being able to ride the “L” or buy a deep dish pizza, I must confess a secret rarely revealed to anyone: I once despised the man.
Forgive the sacrilege. I’m not saying Jordan won’t be worthy of the serenade of cheers he’ll certainly receive shortly before Friday’s 7 p.m. tipoff. Chicago history will walk out of the United Center on size 23s.
Perhaps my meager two cents–an explanation for my antipathy–somehow will engender greater appreciation from those who call themselves fans.
I’m a native Virginian and former Floridian who didn’t grace this city’s borders until 1997, so it seemed natural to jeer Jordan.
In my eyes, the NBA’s Public Enemy No. 1 was born in 1991, when basketball’s favorite son, Magic Johnson, was sent packing from the NBA Finals in a 4-1 series. It was the genesis of Jordan’s legend and the beginning of the end for Magic.
Felony No. 2: Jordan orchestrated the first threepeat since Red Auerbach’s Celtics, and Jordan did it twice. It gave Chicagoans and fair-weather Bulls fans license to make the sports lives of “the rest of us” miserable.
Third strike: Jordan’s inhuman moves and clutch, throat-cutting shots all but ensured that every other icon of his time was shut out of the postseason’s ultimate prize: Ewing, Malone, Drexler. Mercifully, Drexler got his ring in Houston–during Jordan’s first retirement.
I furrowed my brow in disdain with every retirement and unretirement; balked and gesticulated wildly with every generous foul call and unfavorable non-call; bit my lower lip as I held out hope against the inevitable outcome.
Certainly 1998 was no different. I was visiting a friend in the nation’s capital and watched Game 6 against Utah with a bunch of Jordan’s future constituents, and watched, awestruck, as MJ gave Bryon Russell a little help getting out of the way to sink the winning jumper.
I had put my heart on the court, pitted it against the odds like every Red Sox fan during a Yankee World Series, and was beaten. Jordan beat me–again. He couldn’t retire again quickly enough.
I laughed at first with the younger crowd when MJ fell flat this last go-round. But now it’s different. He was a worthy adversary, once, and not deserving of ridicule. Others star now, but not even Shaq and Kobe put a lump in your throat with 30 seconds of regulation. Not like he did.
Iverson? McGrady? Not like he did.
LeBron James? C’mon.
I have a second confession: I’ve never seen Jordan play in person, and I regret it. The faithful in the House that MJ Built will have to settle for seeing him in statue form only.
I’ll miss the emotion he brought to the sport and to Chicago. I took him for granted, and come Saturday, all I will have are memories.
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plthompson@tribune.com
