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The Dartmouth
July 21, 2025 | Latest Issue
The Dartmouth

It's Never Been For the Money

OK, OK, OK. I have had about as much of this Jordan-bashing as I can take. You have no idea what it has been like to be a Chicagoan during this past week, quietly enduring the disastrous ruin of your beloved hometown team from halfway across the country with a bunch of Knicks and Celtics fans. Granted, their apathy is understandable when the only things they have to look forward to are either their team's annual lottery pick or Spike Lee's next courtside fashion faux-pas. But come now, besides the fact that he has hogged all the rings lately, there is absolutely no reason why anyone should not like Mike.

Let me first remind you that he is the greatest basketball player in the history of the game, and if not the greatest athlete in the history of sports, certainly the most influential. He has transcended not only basketball, but sports in general, becoming a universal symbol of victory, hard work, and decency whose legacy will far outlive his fadeaway jump shot. In Chicago, he provided for us a sense of unity in our unconscious belief that his success was somehow partly our own; a bond which ignored economic, racial, and political barriers and gave us all something to smile about. We talked about him with strangers in the checkout line. We slapped each other on the back when he smoked the latest eighteen year-old millionaire en route to the hoop. We endured and eventually even came to like the tattooed, technical-fouling, pro-wrestler/movie-star/sometimes rebounder sideshow that is Dennis Rodman, but only because Mike did. Mike was our vote of confidence, our absolute, and our b

lazing lighthouse in the otherwise stormy seas of Chicago professional sports. He made it all bearable; he made it all fun, and he wrapped us around that wagging tongue of his in the process.

Okay, so maybe not only us. Yes, the refs have been known to overlook that third step, and yes, corporate America will drool over him for years to come. But face it: why shouldn't they? He is, in plain English, a nice guy. In an age of Albert Belles and Allen Iversons, it's nice to have a sports star who smiles, who is pleasant to the media, and who manages to avoid drug charges and paternity suits. Yes, he makes a lot of money considering he is a grown man who puts a ball in a basket for a living, but in light of what he has done for the NBA, he deserves it. Since the mid-'80s, he has dutifully played poster boy for the league, accepting his position as role model off the court and churning out the highlights on the court. His appeal transcends the bonds of team loyalty; he is virtually the only NBA player who is cheered by visiting crowds on the road. He has brought the game of basketball from the court to the Air, trademarking the concept of hang-time and drastically upping

the excitement quotient. Perhaps we are most indebted to him for finally ousting those horrific '70s inspired basketball shorts and ushering in an age of uniforms that fit. Any way you look at it, he has left an indelible mark on basketball and on the American conscience.

One time he almost touched my hand. He was on his way out of the locker room, and he reached out to slap me five, but our fingers narrowly missed each other. Another time I was running down the stairs at the United Center to buy french fries and almost knocked over his mother. Ever since these two incidents I have felt a strange connection to him. When he steps out on the court, I feel like I'm watching an old bud. Roll your eyes (many do), but realize that this is what Michael Jordan has done for us. Made us a part of the action. Made us excited. The Japanese market may fall, the president may be having affairs, but all is well; the Bulls are on tonight. His face has this comfortable familiarity to it, not just for me but for anyone who has ever watched him save a game with a buzzer-beater or politely endure the regular slew of inane and repetitious questions that trap him in the locker room each night. Some say he manufactured his image, that he is an illusion rather than a p

erson. I say who cares. If he is an illusion, he's a darn good one and I don't mind the pretense. And maybe it's none of our business anyway. His job was to play basketball, and he did so masterfully. He owed us nothing else, and what he gave us off the court was only a postscript; only a bonus; and only helped us believe what we wanted to believe anyway: that the nice guy finishes first.

For Mike, basketball has never been about the money. In the past week he has more than proven that, walking away from a game he still clearly dominates and a mind-boggling contract that surely would have been waiting had he snapped his fingers. For Mike it was more than that, and herein lies his most basic appeal. As much as he wears his Fruit of the Loom, eats his Big Macs, drives his Chevys and drinks his Gatorade, when the ball went up at center court, Michael Jordan was always there to play. Always driven by that competitive fire that has often been dissected and written about but may never be equaled. Witness game five of the 1997 NBA finals, in which Mike showed up puffy-eyed and weak after spending the day sleeping on the training table with a nasty flu-bug. He scored 38 points that night and put on one of the most memorable displays of his career. Afterwards, exhausted and spent, he collapsed into Scottie Pippen's arms and had to be practically dragged off the court. It

was beyond inspiring. It was one of those moments that left you numb on the couch with your mouth hanging open. But then again, those are the sort of moments we came to expect from Mike, and those are the ones we'll miss when he's gone. I read a quote the other day from Mike's book, "Rare Air." "It's never been for the money, and it's never been for the cheers. If you don't believe me, then just watch. And take a good look, because one minute I'll be there and the next minute I'll be gone." I hope you all had your good look. He was great.