So what is most amazing of all current athletic events?
An unidentified flying object interrupting a heavyweight championship in Las Vagas? Hardly. Any city that embraces Wayne Newton and Siegfried and Roy can handle a paraglider.
The Bulls scoring 71 points in their home opener? No. It might happen again, and against an even lesser team than a powerhouse like Miami.
The Bears scoring 14 in any game, home or away, overtime or intrasquad? Close, because it probably won’t happen again. Save all ticket stubs.
No, the trend that boggles the mind is this strange urge to have Michael Jordan disappear. For our well-being, not his. He logged nine years here as history’s best basketball player and we thank him for the thrills and we wish that he lives happily ever after. By the way, don’t let the door hit you in the fanny on your way out, Michael.
Exactly where this movement got its legs is uncertain. Perhaps from the public or press or some combination thereof. But it’s there. Jordan should crawl under a rock, or climb into a sand trap. Or better yet, hide altogether. On some island, in the upper deck at Comiskey Park, or behind Jerry Krause, the round mound who must generally manage the Bulls out of this mess Michael created by leaving us to face a long, cold winter without him.
That’s probably the genesis right there. Anger. We will fawn over Jordan whenever he shows his face, such as during Saturday night’s ring ceremony at the Stadium. But deep down, we’re angry that he retired when he was ready instead of when we were ready.
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Fans who invested all that time and money do not take kindly to the fact that Michael became an annuity unto himself. People who thought they could rent Jordan forever are upset that their lease is up. He’s moving on, but so are they. Anybody want tickets to next year’s Sacramento game at the United Center?
Jealousy has declared itself, too. Michael had the world in his hand, and in this case, palming was legal. Yet, for all he did and with all he had, we shared vicariously. He was the consummate entertainer, but there’s no show without an audience, and that was us. Now we’ve got what’s left of the Bulls, and they’re laying bricks on the wrong side of Madison Street. No. 23 is going to Pinehurst No. 2 because it’s the American dream to do whatever you want at age 30. Meanwhile, we’re still going to work in the morning and taking out the garbage at night. Well, that’s just swell, Michael. Hope you make the fourth putt look easy.
Relax, we already convicted the media as guilty, too, and we haven’t forgotten. It is slightly annoying when Michael bangs us again and again for being too curious or too pushy or too many. But we can take it. We can also be hypocritical. Michael was as accessible a legend as ever existed. We used him and he used us, which is part of the deal.
So why do we knock him for assembly-line interviews with Oprah and Larry King and Bryant Gumbel when he says he wants peace and quiet? Michael is trying merely to hawk a book, and he’s doing a good job. “Rare Air” is fifth on the New York Times list. Didn’t he sell enough newspapers, TV-radio ads and tickets? Wherever he went, Michael filled pockets beyond his own.
Local economists have floated various sums concerning Jordan’s impact to the city. But more than millions or billions of dollars, he contributed mightily to a changed image for Chicago, its sports landscape, and by extension, us. Chicago wasn’t where Al Capone used to do his thing anymore. Chicago was the epicenter of basketball, the hottest game on the planet. We puffed our chests. Until Michael let the air out of them, as he warned us he would.
But he still should be welcomed here as are Walter Payton or Bobby Hull or Ernie Banks, or as Muhammad Ali is when he walks through an airport, anywhere. And after our wounded self-esteem heals, if Michael makes a comeback, well, you’ll want those Sacramento tickets back-if you were able to get rid of them.