Standing ground / Biding time.
I can’t really figure out when it was. Somewhere I went away from believing in it. I think it’s because of the timing of when it happened. It’s that the final chapter of his legend happened to intersect with a unique and more personal love of mine.
I always watched in awe, as we all did, but when it came to that series in 1998, I was tired of hearing about it. About the time the aura around him became truly legendary, the old phrase from Machiavelli came into play, the whole notion of “It’s is better to be feared than to be loved.” When talking about a leader, this was about that. There were moments in the first two triumphs that were full of joyous moments. Then came the third, and you knew that he was once in a generation.
When he stepped away for reasons that did not have bearing to what we knew of him, it was unimaginable. Was it because the will was finally gone from him? Was it because of the loss of a father? Was it because he felt those who loved him turning on him because he stood so high, so alone, and no one was close to him?
I’ll go back a bit to my personal timeline. Like many of people my age and in that time as well, it was a matter of whether you saw a glory to speed or a glory to seeing it done the old way.
It was about watching whether the cavalry and infantry was now good enough to beat the front line of the artillery. Whether there was suddenly a wondrous new way to it all, if there was a magic that could overcome the war lords, if a field general could triumph over the final battle line of a war chief, if a small town bumpkin turned big city savior could work the edges of a battlefield and defeat the center after all these years.
It was about new school vs. old school. And it was far beyond the comprehension of the average, or in my case, the youthful not understanding the depth of this.
So like so many others I attached to him. It wasn’t just the feats. It wasn’t just the sight of it all. It was the way he did it. It wasn’t that he was accomplishing things we all dreamed of. It was that he did it with such glee, in those early years, I remember the smiles and I remember the awe that sounded in every voice that covered him. There was a joy to it because we were watching something we never thought possible.
Think of it. In his most famous moment he started right and in the middle, in the moment when everything seemed like it could only go one way and we all knew what was happening, he pulled off something that would forever define his career. He took what was a known perception, something we not only thought, but believed this change was simply the only way - it was his.
In mid-flight, he went from the right to the left, and did so, so perfectly and so gracefully that it’s still hard to believe that he even did it at all. I still can’t even fathom that he didn't miss. A million tries I could have, and maybe 100 times could I get close to it. He did it once, and in that singular time with an air about him that seems like mere whimsy, did it without hesitation and to perfection. He knew that he was at someplace far above where we would ever be.
Even today it still seems like he could have failed. Watching it again, there is still the amazement because you still ponder, what if it didn’t fall like he wanted it to.
But we learned then what we know now. It transpired because he wanted it to, and because he knew he, and only he, could do it. The tongue wagging used to be a taunt, a playful gesture to say, ever so slightly, that he knew he had something more in him than you did in you. The way it hung out when he knew what he was doing, as if to tease you to stop what was coming next. It wasn’t a tip off to let you try and stop him, it was get out of the way before you get forever sunk in his wake. Even in his “final” moment, it’s not the tongue of the old we remember, it’s the triumphant hand.
From this point on, it was if he didn’t even have to say anything.
I go back once again, because this moment hadn’t happened yet, and even though so many people like me loved him, we knew it was incomplete until he finalized it for the first time. I remember watching over and over his version of growing up. He had two testaments.
The first one merely asked us to come along. To join him on the flight. It wasn’t a cocky statement, it was one of pure joy about living the dream. Doing what you wanted and having the time of your life doing it.
The second one took us a little bit closer, it showed us his playground, his growth. At the center of it was failure. It wasn’t just the closing thoughts about that the journey had yet to come to the end of the road. It was that he too failed when it came to his first chance. He didn’t make it, and it haunted him until the next year. This man, who was seemed to be born of a different species, had failed when the path seemed to be his as his birthright.
And when he left for the first time, it was among the saddest days of my childhood. I can remember being twelve and just not wanting to do anything that day. It was as painful as a death, and maybe even more so, because it wasn’t that he was no longer to be there, it was that we were pained by the fact that we knew he still could. He didn’t have to leave, and yet we weren’t given the real reason behind the reasoning, left for an eternity to ask, simply: why?
There was a joy that so many had just by seeing him. It wasn’t just about watching, it was that so many of us had grown with him through the early years when he rewrote the world, we felt part of the trip.
And in the (short) period that felt terribly long – somwehat to his absence, but mainly the lack of his presence only made us pain over his decision once again— we followed his opposite paths with a light interest, seemingly if he could prove himself somewhere else. But in the end even if he had won over more in another place, it wouldn’t have mattered.
It was equal parts about wanting him to come back; and wanting to know that we hadn’t chosen a false idol or someone whose legacy would have been. We just couldn’t see him diminish, both in our sight and in his talents, so that his memory would fade.
It may have been a mere eighteen months. But they say distance only makes the heart grow stronger.
And so it was told to us that our wait was over. In a mere two words from him, we knew. People can invoke faith, movies, books, art, or life to any comparison-and all could be applied in this comparison-- but there really is no simpler joy than knowing someone has come back. Because words can rarely match that feeling, it’s not about the genius of the action, it’s not about the pain endured or the moment of joy, and it’s more about the simple knowledge that something you adore hasn’t gone at all.
With any form of love, it’s simple: You just know.
While he returned in form, he tried for the shortest of periods to do it beneath another guise. He tried to make this time a bit different. And for a moment we went along. We wanted to care and know that everything was still due to his path.
There was that moment when he had a rare failure; he was called on the change. They said they old form would have done it. The new one wasn’t the same.
He knew he was the same as a person, but he realized too, the potency of his legacy. And as soon as he went back, it was for a moment that anyone who has ever found a lost one is waiting for. It’s a moment where they realize they were meant for this time and place. He wanted to prove himself on other levels. He wanted to show that it wasn’t just about living up to an image.
All the reasons to make the change may have been valid. We know he had his reasons. But the rules in a relationship are the same all over the world. If you leave for your own reasons, whether you go or we make you leave, when you come back you better still be the same or it’s not going to work.
Not only did he finally return to us, but 23 came back even better.
And so I go back to 98. My Pacers fell to a team that we could have beat. That 7 game series was one of the best to ever have been played in any sport, and I can only think of the 91 and 2001 World series, and the 2004 ALCS of battles of better quality. To this date I still think the Pacers were robbed. They had the game and the refs just gave the game to the Bulls. Why wouldn’t the league cheat a small market team to have the greatest player of all time have one last shot at canonization.
But I’d be lying. The refs were giving that game to the Bulls, and I still remember Craig Kilborn making this point when he was on the Daily Show.
The truth is that the Bulls had something we didn’t.
They had Michael Jordan.
I remember a Bob Costas call during the playoffs of this year. Jordan had the ball at the top of the key, and as he shot it Bob said: “Jordan wants a three.” It sank and he continued, “Jordan gets a three.” Even with his Mantle eulogy in the history books, Costas will be taken down a notch for this in history.
He tried to call the will of something that he had no right to. Costas is as good as a TV sports personality we will ever get.
But he can’t call rights to a Jordan moment. You can’t build hyperbole around a moment or person that needs no introduction. This wasn’t the Miracle on Ice with Al Michaels perfectly capturing what the moment was.
This was simply who and what Michael Jordan was about.
He was however right, because what Jordan wanted on the court, he got. He was far beyond anyone, and his will was so powerful that you couldn’t stop it, you just had to wait for it to be over.
Ask the Lakers.
Ask the Blazers
Ask the Suns
Ask the Sonics
Ask the Jazz.
Ask Ehlo.
I hated 23 in 98 because at that time I had started to grow up, I figured out who I was and who I was from. I am and always will be a Hoosier. I had all the bitterness ready because both paths had changed. I was ready to move to California, in love with the Pacers, and ready to begin my life and start my legacy. I hated him because the team that I was now growing with gave his team the hardest test of them all. We were that close and I hated him for denying me that joy. In his last triumph I hated him for what he was great at.
His will was to win. And in the end he did as much to finish.
After 98 I hated Jordan. I didn’t need him to come back. I didn’t need to see him prove anything. But it clearly wasn’t his view. He wanted one last shot.
It didn’t work.
And so it has been four years since.
And we are all human in the way we forget.
Until that second in the moment evokes what was now truly lost.
Only then do you really remember.
You see him in this link, and you know, that he knows. His wants were as same as the end goal. And you see him, smiling in the background, knowing, that this isn’t over.
Jumpman23.com : click in the middle. Go to the shoes button in the top left. Click and press watch. Or you go to the downloads.
He's still there. Waiting for us to catch up with him
Happy birthday MJ, 2-17.
I always watched in awe, as we all did, but when it came to that series in 1998, I was tired of hearing about it. About the time the aura around him became truly legendary, the old phrase from Machiavelli came into play, the whole notion of “It’s is better to be feared than to be loved.” When talking about a leader, this was about that. There were moments in the first two triumphs that were full of joyous moments. Then came the third, and you knew that he was once in a generation.
When he stepped away for reasons that did not have bearing to what we knew of him, it was unimaginable. Was it because the will was finally gone from him? Was it because of the loss of a father? Was it because he felt those who loved him turning on him because he stood so high, so alone, and no one was close to him?
I’ll go back a bit to my personal timeline. Like many of people my age and in that time as well, it was a matter of whether you saw a glory to speed or a glory to seeing it done the old way.
It was about watching whether the cavalry and infantry was now good enough to beat the front line of the artillery. Whether there was suddenly a wondrous new way to it all, if there was a magic that could overcome the war lords, if a field general could triumph over the final battle line of a war chief, if a small town bumpkin turned big city savior could work the edges of a battlefield and defeat the center after all these years.
It was about new school vs. old school. And it was far beyond the comprehension of the average, or in my case, the youthful not understanding the depth of this.
So like so many others I attached to him. It wasn’t just the feats. It wasn’t just the sight of it all. It was the way he did it. It wasn’t that he was accomplishing things we all dreamed of. It was that he did it with such glee, in those early years, I remember the smiles and I remember the awe that sounded in every voice that covered him. There was a joy to it because we were watching something we never thought possible.
Think of it. In his most famous moment he started right and in the middle, in the moment when everything seemed like it could only go one way and we all knew what was happening, he pulled off something that would forever define his career. He took what was a known perception, something we not only thought, but believed this change was simply the only way - it was his.
In mid-flight, he went from the right to the left, and did so, so perfectly and so gracefully that it’s still hard to believe that he even did it at all. I still can’t even fathom that he didn't miss. A million tries I could have, and maybe 100 times could I get close to it. He did it once, and in that singular time with an air about him that seems like mere whimsy, did it without hesitation and to perfection. He knew that he was at someplace far above where we would ever be.
Even today it still seems like he could have failed. Watching it again, there is still the amazement because you still ponder, what if it didn’t fall like he wanted it to.
But we learned then what we know now. It transpired because he wanted it to, and because he knew he, and only he, could do it. The tongue wagging used to be a taunt, a playful gesture to say, ever so slightly, that he knew he had something more in him than you did in you. The way it hung out when he knew what he was doing, as if to tease you to stop what was coming next. It wasn’t a tip off to let you try and stop him, it was get out of the way before you get forever sunk in his wake. Even in his “final” moment, it’s not the tongue of the old we remember, it’s the triumphant hand.
From this point on, it was if he didn’t even have to say anything.
I go back once again, because this moment hadn’t happened yet, and even though so many people like me loved him, we knew it was incomplete until he finalized it for the first time. I remember watching over and over his version of growing up. He had two testaments.
The first one merely asked us to come along. To join him on the flight. It wasn’t a cocky statement, it was one of pure joy about living the dream. Doing what you wanted and having the time of your life doing it.
The second one took us a little bit closer, it showed us his playground, his growth. At the center of it was failure. It wasn’t just the closing thoughts about that the journey had yet to come to the end of the road. It was that he too failed when it came to his first chance. He didn’t make it, and it haunted him until the next year. This man, who was seemed to be born of a different species, had failed when the path seemed to be his as his birthright.
And when he left for the first time, it was among the saddest days of my childhood. I can remember being twelve and just not wanting to do anything that day. It was as painful as a death, and maybe even more so, because it wasn’t that he was no longer to be there, it was that we were pained by the fact that we knew he still could. He didn’t have to leave, and yet we weren’t given the real reason behind the reasoning, left for an eternity to ask, simply: why?
There was a joy that so many had just by seeing him. It wasn’t just about watching, it was that so many of us had grown with him through the early years when he rewrote the world, we felt part of the trip.
And in the (short) period that felt terribly long – somwehat to his absence, but mainly the lack of his presence only made us pain over his decision once again— we followed his opposite paths with a light interest, seemingly if he could prove himself somewhere else. But in the end even if he had won over more in another place, it wouldn’t have mattered.
It was equal parts about wanting him to come back; and wanting to know that we hadn’t chosen a false idol or someone whose legacy would have been. We just couldn’t see him diminish, both in our sight and in his talents, so that his memory would fade.
It may have been a mere eighteen months. But they say distance only makes the heart grow stronger.
And so it was told to us that our wait was over. In a mere two words from him, we knew. People can invoke faith, movies, books, art, or life to any comparison-and all could be applied in this comparison-- but there really is no simpler joy than knowing someone has come back. Because words can rarely match that feeling, it’s not about the genius of the action, it’s not about the pain endured or the moment of joy, and it’s more about the simple knowledge that something you adore hasn’t gone at all.
With any form of love, it’s simple: You just know.
While he returned in form, he tried for the shortest of periods to do it beneath another guise. He tried to make this time a bit different. And for a moment we went along. We wanted to care and know that everything was still due to his path.
There was that moment when he had a rare failure; he was called on the change. They said they old form would have done it. The new one wasn’t the same.
He knew he was the same as a person, but he realized too, the potency of his legacy. And as soon as he went back, it was for a moment that anyone who has ever found a lost one is waiting for. It’s a moment where they realize they were meant for this time and place. He wanted to prove himself on other levels. He wanted to show that it wasn’t just about living up to an image.
All the reasons to make the change may have been valid. We know he had his reasons. But the rules in a relationship are the same all over the world. If you leave for your own reasons, whether you go or we make you leave, when you come back you better still be the same or it’s not going to work.
Not only did he finally return to us, but 23 came back even better.
And so I go back to 98. My Pacers fell to a team that we could have beat. That 7 game series was one of the best to ever have been played in any sport, and I can only think of the 91 and 2001 World series, and the 2004 ALCS of battles of better quality. To this date I still think the Pacers were robbed. They had the game and the refs just gave the game to the Bulls. Why wouldn’t the league cheat a small market team to have the greatest player of all time have one last shot at canonization.
But I’d be lying. The refs were giving that game to the Bulls, and I still remember Craig Kilborn making this point when he was on the Daily Show.
The truth is that the Bulls had something we didn’t.
They had Michael Jordan.
I remember a Bob Costas call during the playoffs of this year. Jordan had the ball at the top of the key, and as he shot it Bob said: “Jordan wants a three.” It sank and he continued, “Jordan gets a three.” Even with his Mantle eulogy in the history books, Costas will be taken down a notch for this in history.
He tried to call the will of something that he had no right to. Costas is as good as a TV sports personality we will ever get.
But he can’t call rights to a Jordan moment. You can’t build hyperbole around a moment or person that needs no introduction. This wasn’t the Miracle on Ice with Al Michaels perfectly capturing what the moment was.
This was simply who and what Michael Jordan was about.
He was however right, because what Jordan wanted on the court, he got. He was far beyond anyone, and his will was so powerful that you couldn’t stop it, you just had to wait for it to be over.
Ask the Lakers.
Ask the Blazers
Ask the Suns
Ask the Sonics
Ask the Jazz.
Ask Ehlo.
I hated 23 in 98 because at that time I had started to grow up, I figured out who I was and who I was from. I am and always will be a Hoosier. I had all the bitterness ready because both paths had changed. I was ready to move to California, in love with the Pacers, and ready to begin my life and start my legacy. I hated him because the team that I was now growing with gave his team the hardest test of them all. We were that close and I hated him for denying me that joy. In his last triumph I hated him for what he was great at.
His will was to win. And in the end he did as much to finish.
After 98 I hated Jordan. I didn’t need him to come back. I didn’t need to see him prove anything. But it clearly wasn’t his view. He wanted one last shot.
It didn’t work.
And so it has been four years since.
And we are all human in the way we forget.
Until that second in the moment evokes what was now truly lost.
Only then do you really remember.
You see him in this link, and you know, that he knows. His wants were as same as the end goal. And you see him, smiling in the background, knowing, that this isn’t over.
Jumpman23.com : click in the middle. Go to the shoes button in the top left. Click and press watch. Or you go to the downloads.
He's still there. Waiting for us to catch up with him
Happy birthday MJ, 2-17.
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