Now for all of you basketball "experts" out there, don't get me wrong - there's no denying that Michael Jordan is a great player who over the years has made certain self-improvements to his game (perimeter shooting, defense, 3-point shooting) and when surrounded by enough of a supporting cast was able to make it to and through the championship round several times. But the greatest ever? Says who? Corporate America and the NBA?
Over the years we've seen the dominance of the Celtics. We've seen Dr. J, Pistol Pete, and Wilt the Stilt. Then the image clouded with the ascendance of recreational drug usage among enough players to tarnish the NBA rep. Then along came Larry Bird and Magic Johnson to the rescue - twin building blocks who fought tooth and nail for a decade and brought their respective teams to respectability almost instantly while captivating a nation. They made not only their individual games better, not only their teammates better, but also the entire NBA better. The league took wing and became magical. Then the two bright stars began to dim. And something was needed to fill their illustrious sneakers. The parade of "would-bes" began.
Who would be the next Magic, the next Larry Legend? Not Isiah Thomas and his center court kisses. Not Charles Barkley and his full court kiss-offs. Thomas didn't have enough magic to be Magic. Barkley couldn't infuse his will to win into a subpar supporting cast. They didn't step up big enough for the big time.
Enter the poor man's Dr. J. A kid out of North Carolina who could finally do the Dr. Dunk with free throw line take-off. He captured enough imaginations with his dunks with his tongue hanging out. Then came the individual numbers as the "me first" scoring attitude of a George Gervin or Domonique Wilkins was added. The focus turned to MJ as his numbers went up, even as his team fell short to the fading Magic and Bird. Then the Bulls put enough talent, enough team, around Jordan to where they could catch a fading Thomas after his run. Add the run and gun offenses of the West not being able to make the change to half court playoff offense in the East/West Championship series and the Bulls are wearing rings.
And all the while, the hype escalated. Gatorade pounded us to "be like Mike". Jordan was suddenly credited with the non-mechanically assisted basketball flight as short memories relegated the good Doctor to the role of aging basketball ambassador. MJ created flight - not the Wright brothers with their planes and not God with His birds. Bird's back took him prematurely from us. And Magic could not behave and would be HIV infected. The Isiah wrist stiffened. The leftover Celtic and Laker squads became stiffs without their superstars. And Sir Charles shot his mouth off more than he was able to shoot a triumphant fist into the air at the end of a game. Michael kept his gambling and his mouth quiet and the starving sports writers and ad execs feasted. Jordan became greater than the game as he turned the Bulls into cash cows with the atomic explosion of hype. Any would be detractors would be shuffled off to the side or put with their noses in corners. Now, if you would believe it, Michael Jordan was - and to this day is - the NBA.
But when Michael's gambling could not be ignored after story after story appeared in the media, the NBA powers that be had to make at least some of the proper noises. The noises grew tiresome to Michael and he decided to take his ball and go home, then to try a different ball. Why not show the world that he could be a superstar in two sports with basketball and baseball? And later, he mused, he could make it three. Golf he could get into at any age. After all, he's Michael Jordan.
As the basketball man indulged in flights of fancy about being the baseball man instead of flights from the free throw line, the suits and scholars decided to hedge their bets and look through glorious stadiums and basketball shacks to find the next pot of gold for the NBA rainbow. When the Shaqmeister fell short of expectations for instant and total dominance, the NBA fell to fervent wishing that the prodigal would return with his propensity for productivity. And he did. His white sox smelled the same as hundreds of baseball minor leaguers', so he stuffed his perfumed basketball feet into yet another pair of Air Jordans. The 23 market became the 45 market and became the 23 market again. And the numbers added up big again for Nike and the NBA. And we, or most of us, bought it as sure as we, or enough of us, bought Bill Clinton. Jordan's feet of clay were never shown without the shoes that could transform mortals into Michaels while built in the sweatshops of foreign countries. But Mikey and Nike would prevail.
The NBA takes care of its superstars. Magic could palm the ball while dribbling. Jordan could take the extra step. For a while, you couldn't hack Shaq. And you sure couldn't molest Michael - you practically couldn't breathe on him without getting the foul called. But for one insane moment in the 1998 playoffs, reality turned inside out as Reggie Miller wasn't only allowed to touch Michael, but to push off of him to get the ball and the buzzerbeater to beat the Bulls. But sanity later prevailed and when things looked bleak, the refs came to the rescue in game 6 of the Finals. A game 7 in Utah? I don't think so. And the refs sure didn't think so. A Utah 3-pointer waved off when it beat the clock, and a Chicago 3-pointer not disallowed when it didn't beat the clock made a 6 point swing in what would prove to be the last game of the Finals - setting the stage for the steal and the shot. Especially after watching Malone and Rodman wrestling on the floor (and later in the ring), the question begs to be asked: who scripted the outcome of the playoffs? Was it Vince McMahon and Eric Bishoff? Or was it the Chicago Jerrys and the Commish? Or Jordan and his agent?
Did the NBA's Commish lean on the Jerrys a couple of years ago? Did he have a part in the capitulation as Jordan took basketball hostage, threatening to take his ball and go home again unless he would receive his tribute money and his chums would stay put? We all know about the one year Megacontract Tribute Payment. And of course Scotty (I'm not gonna play if I can't be THE MAN - when I'm not suffering from a Laimbeer inspired migraine that is) Pippen, Dennis (Bad as I wanna be - and hey, is the circus in town?) Rodman, and Phil (Shut up unless it's to shower me with praises - can't you see I'm trying to be mystical here?) Jackson all returned in tow.
Have the Jerrys chafed at the bit a little too much for their liking? Did they decide to become a two-man Jerry Jones and let "Coach Ego" walk - and all who would walk with him? Was enough enough? Did they decide to force Jordan's hand to see if he'd make good on his threats to leave again and look for new non-ref-protected challenges? And when will the Commish be forced to step in for the good of the game and the NBA's pocketbook? I don't know, but if I see either Mr. McMahon or Mr. Bishoff, I'm asking.
But to return to the initial question "the best of all time" . . . It's too bad Wilt didn't decide to stay and contribute another decade or more of dominance to the record books (Kareem who?). With the shape he stayed in whatwith competitive tennis and volleyball for years after his retirement, plus the decline at the center position, ten plus years added to his career is hardly inconceiveable. Philadelphia tried to bring him back, but - too bad for basketball - he declined. The 100 point game, the 50 point scoring averages for whole seasons, the rebounding titles, and even an assist title, place Wilt at the top of the heap. After the big man, you can fight it out for runner up out of a pool of The Big O, Magic, Larry Legend, Hondo, MJ, and others. A third tier would net you The Dr., The Pistol, and others.
In football, it was said of Earl Campbell that if he wasn't in a class by himself, it sure wouldn't take long to call roll. Well, Michael, you're not in a class by yourself, and it will take a little bit to call roll. The NBA will survive without you if they can get together to reach a good working agreement and not totally alienate the fans with 100 million dollar contracts and lackluster efforts on the court. If they can't, well, you wouldn't have made that much of a difference anyway. So take your ball and go home again - you'll end up missing us far more than we'll be missing you. Don't let the door hit you where the good Lord split you. Goodbye to an overhyped member of a crowd.
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