MJ50

His Royal Airness hits middle age, which for some of us, 
is a depressing day.

BY KENNY BRISTOW

Time is a weird thing.  And the older we get, the weirder it gets.  One minute you're a young person figuring out ways to split rent on a two bedroom apartment with five of your buddies, the next you're laying on a heating pad because your desk job is kicking your butt.  The quicker time goes by, the quicker it becomes an eternity.  Or something like that.

Anyway... I spent a lot of time tuned in to the NBA's All-Star festivities this past weekend.  The focus of this year's event seemed to center around the greatest basketball player to ever lace up his own brand of sneakers, Michael Jordan, turning 50 years old.  Big deal?  Yeah... kinda.  To me it is.  I'm 48 - damn near 49.  Listening to everyone with a microphone in their face, talk about Jordan and how great he was 25 years ago just made me depressed.  Like... what the heck have I accomplished in the past 25 years?  Thanks Mike!

I should have seen this coming.  I was living in the "windy city" when Jordan began his rise to prominence.  He was drafted by the Bulls in 1984, I moved to the city in 1986.  From what I remember, the Bulls were a mess of a team when they drafted Jordan number three in the lottery.  He broke his foot in his rookie year and missed most of the season which makes the following years of his career even more unreal.  By the time Mike was in his fifth year, he had a decent supporting cast, a business savvy front office and a coach who no one knew at the time would transform the professional game, in Phil Jackson.

Back then, I had never been to a professional basketball game - outside of watching the CBA's Evansville Thunder in Robert's Stadium in the late 70's, early 80's.  Long gone are the Thunder, and Robert's Stadium for that matter, but the point is, I had taken in my share of basketball games.  It's my right as a Hoosier.  Even my wife knows that.

My friends and I spent many hours consuming the Chicago Bulls in our tiny north side studios surrounded by several life-sized tongue-wagging Jordan images.  We were sports nuts.  My friends were natives and had grown up with the Bears, and the Cubs, and those horrible Bulls.  They would jeer and boo cynically at the slightest misplayed ball.  Me?  I was just happy to be in those surroundings.

So, you can imagine my state of mind the night we had tickets - and I don't know how we had them - to see - live - the Bulls versus the New York Knicks in Chicago Stadium.  This old brick gymnasium was air tight.  It was loud.  It was steamy.  The half melted snow and rain outside seemed to be seeping inside the cracks in her walls.  It was great.

We were seated halfway up, but at mid court, so the view was very good even though it seemed far away.  It turned out, I discovered, to be the only way to watch Jordan play basketball.  There was not, at the time, a camera that could catch this man.  As soon as you would see him take a pass at mid court, he was underneath the basket.  In three steps.  He stole the ball on one Knick possession, loped - yes, loped, with defenders charging after him and burst from the top of the key like a jaguar for a smooth as silk two handed dunk.  And when the the Bulls were on defense, Jordan showed one of his most underrated skills.  His arms, outstretched, were half the width of the court.  I'm not kidding.  Like Plastic Man.  He could smother you without coming near you.  When he decided to drive to the basket, his upper body dropped parallel with the floor, his shoulders would widen like an eagle about to take flight and he would go around a defender as though he were a cone on a driving course.

That night changed my mind on the NBA.  That very game changed what I thought I knew about basketball.  I had watched the battles between Larry Bird and Magic Johnson on television during those great battles between the Celtics and Lakers, and sure, maybe seeing one of those games live would have been the one to impact me the most.  But it will always be that game in Chicago Stadium watching Michael Jordan play before the world knew he was Michael Jordan.  Before he was Air Jordan.  Before he was brand.  A corporation.  A superstar beyond imagination.

Now, he's just a 50 year old guy like I will soon be.  Or at least it makes me feel better to say that.  I won't, however, be appearing on the cover of Sports Illustrated, and I don't have a tee time at Pebble Beach with Charles Barkley - another one turning 50.  Jeez!  I gotta go.  It takes the heating pad at least 10 minutes to warm up.