if the companies were satisfied with Jordan’s performance in all the top 25 markets, so they wanted to know how he’d go over in the flesh somewhere between Tupelo, Mississippi, and Talladega, Alabama. It was one thing to see Jordan go to McDonald’s inhis commercials, but it was quite another to see him there at 3:00 A.M. , ordering fries on his way to Orlando, Jacksonville, and Greenville, North Carolina.
Extended travel is one of the great tests of any relationship, especially the trips in which the 5-hour mark means that you’re only halfway there. Jordan had been used to traveling on private jets and chartered flights, but he enjoyed the bus hours because that was the time when he could not be reached. He could let his guard down and not worry about being the guy America knew from 48-minute games and 60-second jingles. Sometimes that meant going to the back of the bus and playing dominoes with the kids, and at times it was edging toward the front and listening in on the conversations of the coaches, who were all close to his age. They saw the things that made him one of the guys, like how he ate where they ate and stayed where they stayed. They also saw flashes of his former life, flashes of how he reached the point where people just said Michael and you knew who they meant.
Forget about the great start he was able to have at the plate, hitting .330 in late April. He did have a background in basketball, right? The coaches were reminded of that one day on the bus when they mentioned a pickup game they planned to play in Birmingham. Jordan wasn’t listening to their conversation. At least, he wasn’t in the beginning. But the more they talked about playing, the more he rubbed those huge palms of his together. After a while, it became clear that inviting him to play was moot. He was going to play when they got back to Birmingham whether they wanted him to or not.
The game was a treat for anyone who happened to be walking near the public court where some locals, some Barons, Francona, and Jordan were playing. Word spread quickly that Michael Jordan— the Michael Jordan—was playing ball at the park. The onlything that distinguished him at first was his height. He was playing an understated game, getting everyone else involved, and graciously passing the ball even though anyone playing or watching knew what he was capable of doing. One of the young locals, tall and ripped, a twentyish athlete, didn’t seem convinced. There’s always someone who wants to show a superstar that they don’t believe everything they see on TV.
Birmingham had that someone, aggressively talking trash to Jordan.
Francona was nervous. He didn’t like that a large crowd had gathered, and he wasn’t comfortable with the tone of the game. It had started out small, but now they had a block party, an audience split between admirers and instigators. What kind of explanation would he have for Reinsdorf and general manager Ron Schueler if he had to tell them that Jordan had been hurt during a basketball game? What would they say in Chicago: Jordan can’t play for the Bulls, but he can find time to school some wannabe in a public park?
The manager didn’t have to worry long. For 30 seconds, the public court became Chicago Stadium or Madison Square Garden, and the young mouth became another in a line of kids who needed to be taught a lesson the hard and high way. Jordan made sure the defending kid was close enough to be taken for a harsh ride. The journey began just inside the free-throw line and it ended in a rapid and angry blur: the kid jumped, Jordan jumped higher, the ball was slammed through the rim hard enough to instantly bend it, and the kid was on the ground with Jordan standing over him.
“Don’t ever talk shit to me on my court,” he shouted.
Game over, and a public court in Birmingham claimed as his own.
His teammates and coaches probably saw the most complete portrait of Jordan in 1994. They saw the public figure, just
Extended travel is one of the great tests of any relationship, especially the trips in which the 5-hour mark means that you’re only halfway there. Jordan had been used to traveling on private jets and chartered flights, but he enjoyed the bus hours because that was the time when he could not be reached. He could let his guard down and not worry about being the guy America knew from 48-minute games and 60-second jingles. Sometimes that meant going to the back of the bus and playing dominoes with the kids, and at times it was edging toward the front and listening in on the conversations of the coaches, who were all close to his age. They saw the things that made him one of the guys, like how he ate where they ate and stayed where they stayed. They also saw flashes of his former life, flashes of how he reached the point where people just said Michael and you knew who they meant.
Forget about the great start he was able to have at the plate, hitting .330 in late April. He did have a background in basketball, right? The coaches were reminded of that one day on the bus when they mentioned a pickup game they planned to play in Birmingham. Jordan wasn’t listening to their conversation. At least, he wasn’t in the beginning. But the more they talked about playing, the more he rubbed those huge palms of his together. After a while, it became clear that inviting him to play was moot. He was going to play when they got back to Birmingham whether they wanted him to or not.
The game was a treat for anyone who happened to be walking near the public court where some locals, some Barons, Francona, and Jordan were playing. Word spread quickly that Michael Jordan— the Michael Jordan—was playing ball at the park. The onlything that distinguished him at first was his height. He was playing an understated game, getting everyone else involved, and graciously passing the ball even though anyone playing or watching knew what he was capable of doing. One of the young locals, tall and ripped, a twentyish athlete, didn’t seem convinced. There’s always someone who wants to show a superstar that they don’t believe everything they see on TV.
Birmingham had that someone, aggressively talking trash to Jordan.
Francona was nervous. He didn’t like that a large crowd had gathered, and he wasn’t comfortable with the tone of the game. It had started out small, but now they had a block party, an audience split between admirers and instigators. What kind of explanation would he have for Reinsdorf and general manager Ron Schueler if he had to tell them that Jordan had been hurt during a basketball game? What would they say in Chicago: Jordan can’t play for the Bulls, but he can find time to school some wannabe in a public park?
The manager didn’t have to worry long. For 30 seconds, the public court became Chicago Stadium or Madison Square Garden, and the young mouth became another in a line of kids who needed to be taught a lesson the hard and high way. Jordan made sure the defending kid was close enough to be taken for a harsh ride. The journey began just inside the free-throw line and it ended in a rapid and angry blur: the kid jumped, Jordan jumped higher, the ball was slammed through the rim hard enough to instantly bend it, and the kid was on the ground with Jordan standing over him.
“Don’t ever talk shit to me on my court,” he shouted.
Game over, and a public court in Birmingham claimed as his own.
His teammates and coaches probably saw the most complete portrait of Jordan in 1994. They saw the public figure, just
Similar Books
