I wasn’t excited about The Last Dance. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to not get too excited about anything. If you don’t have big expectations, you won’t be disappointed. I think Better Call Saul’s Mike Ehrmantraut said that. He also said, “Everyone sounds like Meryl Streep with a gun to their head.” But when the documentary arrived, I got excited as hell. So excited, I felt the urge to share my MJ story.
It was the summer of ‘94 when Jordan was thinking about a return to the league. He started working out with his trainer, Tim Grover, at the Illinois Athletic Center in Chicago on Randolph and Stetson. Grover and I went to the same high school, played for the same coach and a friend of mine worked for him at the time. This friend would occasionally call me up and tip me off as to what day Jordan would be at the gym. Mostly, Tim and MJ would lift weights on the lower level so as not to attract a crowd. But there were a few days that summer when Jordan wanted to get in a run after they lifted.
I used to go to the gym at lunchtime and was lucky enough to be there on a handful of those MJ days. I vividly remember the first time it happened. I was playing in a regular pickup game when MJ, Tim and a bunch of other tall, super athletic looking guys walked into the gym. In an instant, the entire atmosphere changed. It was more than just a buzz. It was like someone flipped a switch. Guys started picking up in the backcourt. Cats who never played defense (like me!) started talking on defense. It was as if someone had stood up in the middle of our regular lunchtime run and shouted, ‘Winner gets a million.’ The level of intensity was insane because the truth was if you won, you got to stay on the floor and play against a team led by Michael Friggin’ Jordan. How much would that experience be worth?
MJ strolled into the gym and sat down, leaning against one of the walls behind the hoop, legs stretched near the baseline. I remember hoping against hope that a loose ball would go over in that direction so I could get a closer look. I also remember consciously trying not to stare and then – just like when a super-hot girl or a tiny person walks by you in a bar – staring damn near the entire time.
By the time our game ended, Jordan was standing and stretching, getting loose for the next one. He was wearing a pair of nondescript grey sweatpants, the kind you wear for a week in a row when you’re sick, a black Nike tank top adorned with an image of himself on the front and, most impressively, a pair of crisp, white official NBA socks. Truth be told, the socks really stick out in my mind. I had never seen anything like official NBA socks in my life. They were so thick, so plush, and so incredibly perfect, rising to just the right height barely above the ankle, I remember thinking, ‘Forget the jersey. NBA players should just throw their socks to adoring fans in the stands after the game.’ When you’re really rich, this is what your socks look like.
The other thing that stood out was his body. He stood about 6’6 which, throughout my high school and Division III career, was usually the size of our center. But unlike the lovable, semi-doughy centers I played with in high school and college, there was no body fat. None. If you’ve ever gotten close to an NBA player in real life, you know what I’m talking about. Their bodies aren’t like our bodies. Their bodies were manufactured in a lab and sent here from another planet. Gatorade famously said, ‘Be like Mike,’ but after standing next to him on that day, one could quickly see there was no way in hell a mere mortal could be anything like him.
From a physical standpoint, two features stood out. First, he was straight ripped. All humans are born with muscles but MJ’s muscles — in his arms and forearms — were so well defined, it was like an artist had hand drawn them individually so that students sitting in the back row of a human anatomy lecture could see exactly what God had in mind when he made man in his image.
The other thing that stood out were his calves. Ever since I started playing basketball, I’ve had this weird obsession with looking at other players’ calves. The calf is what allows some players to ‘jump out the gym’ while others spend their entire careers land locked. Whenever I played against someone that could really jump, I always made a point to get a good look at their calves to see what theirs looked like. I was like a secret calf detective. ‘If I could just get my calves to look like that,’ I figured, ‘then I could jump out of the gym too.’
Calves come in many different shapes and sizes. There’s Tennis Ball Calves, where a guy has a tight little knot of muscle that looks like he got a calf implant neatly tucked into that section of the leg. There’s Tow Truck Calves, where you can see what appears to be lines of steel running up and down the calf. And finally, there are Centaur Calves, which are so skinny and so powerful, they appear other worldly. MJ had Centaur Calves and I remember thinking that day that I would never see calves like that again, ever.
Despite the fact that we had won the previous game, Jordan wanted to switch up the teams so the matchups would be more even. On my team was NBA vet and Crane HS alum Ken Norman, Duke alum and Julian graduate Sean Dockery and an over-age, world class shit talker named Dennis Allen who couldn’t play a lick but was married to Chicago news anchor Robin Robinson and could talk his ass off.
The other team had MJ, three other players and Wisconsin alum Trent Jackson. As we were shooting for ball, Jordan turned to Jackson and said 12 words I will never forget.
“Don’t leave that goofy mother fucker in the glasses. He can shoot.”
If I’d died right at that moment, it would’ve been a good life. I made two shots that game. The first was off a long rebound that kicked out to me that I put back up in record time because a) I hadn’t taken a shot all game and b) no one was exactly looking for me. The other was on a screen roll with Norman where both Jordan and Jackson went to guard Norman and I was left all alone for a wing jumper. That one was legit.
But what I remember most about that game was the last play. Dennis had been talkin’ shit to MJ all game long. He was tireless. The Anderson Cooper of on court shit talk.
‘No wonder you retired early. I woulda’ retired too if my game was this shitty.’
‘What the fuck are you doing with that lil’ mustache MJ? C’mon man. You can’t be no global icon with that little fucking mustache.’
‘You out here lookin’ like a god damn minor league baseball player. Single A.’
As the game wore on, Jordan started to pick up his level of intensity. He wasn’t going full speed. Not even close. But he was trying to win. Our team had pulled to within one and Jordan decided he’d had enough. He walked the ball slowly up the floor, Dennis trying to pressure him.
‘You know I led the league in scoring 7 times right?’
Bounce bounce.
‘You know I’ve got 3 rings right? How many you got?’
Bounce bounce.
‘Dennis. Look at your fucking shoes, man. That’s me! I’m on your motha fuckin’ shoes.’
And with that, he crossed Dennis over near the top of the circle, got into the lane and exploded like I’ve never seen anyone explode before. In the blink of an eye, he elevated and dunked over Ken Norman so hard that the backboard and rim were scared.
The entire gym fell out.
Like everyone, we had an MJ story.
