How to say goodbye to Michael. What a vexing conundrum.
Surely the greatest force of nature in our time will not be allowed, like MacArthur’s old soldier, to just fade away, which would seem to be the departure of choice for Big and Little Jerry.
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No fuss, no muss. Shall we all hug at the Grant Park bandshell one last time? A wave, a polite handshake and scatter the ashes.
It cannot be allowed to happen. If the end of Khomeini or of Stalin could incite agony among the masses, surely the passing of Jordan should be worth no less, since neither of those guys had a turnaround jumper.
Endings are forever, except for Bob Newhart sitcoms and golf.
Michael Jordan is 15 victories from leaving, pending a change of heart, which is not only allowed but encouraged, and all the world is alert for one final worship, save the odd Van Gundy here or there.
These next seven weeks shall be a loud and long farewell to Jordan, though not long enough, however they finish.
These are not the NBA playoffs coming but a sublime journey ending, made more urgent by the inevitability of the conclusion, for the end now is not some vague hour on some distant clock. Every game becomes one less measured memory.
Outsiders are publishing whole newspapers in tribute to Jordan. Magazines are plotting commemorative issues. Networks are jiggling and juggling and maximizing, readying more cameras and more correspondents than for the fall of Saigon.
Who gets the greater audience, the last Jordan or the last “Seinfeld”?
The world stopped to watch Pele play his last game for Brazil, a yawner over Yugoslavia, no one realizing Pele would last longer than his final opponent.
Muhammad Ali slumped sapped and beaten in a Nassau cinderblock shelter with young John Travolta sobbing at Ali’s feet. I know this to be true for I was there, my eyes wet on deadline.
How to say goodbye to Michael.
Someone give Elton John a call. That “Candle in the Wind” tune is very versatile. Full orchestra this time.
Joe DiMaggio didn’t get to leave after Game 7 of the World Series, but he did get Marilyn Monroe for a while. Jim Brown walked away to make a movie and never came back. Roberto Clemente took a plane.
Roger Staubach’s last pass was caught by one of his own linemen, Vince Lombardi lost the last game he ever coached, Manolete lost to the last bull he ever fought.
Endings have their own anatomy.
Ted Williams did it right. He hit a 420-foot home run off Baltimore’s Jack Fisher with his last swing of the bat, making the last memory last.
But Williams was not the best baseball player, not of all time, not of that moment. That is Jordan’s special virtue. He is about to be named MVP again. He has just won a record 10th scoring title. He is about to be responsible for a second three-peat. And he is about to leave.
Who has ever left on top? Rocky Marciano. Walter Cronkite. Bobby Jones. The Beatles.
And now Jordan, if he goes.
Jordan is entitled to leave on whatever terms he chooses. He can pick the time, the place, the context. He can stay. He does not have to say. What is the rush?
If we had world enough and time, this coyness, Michael, were no crime . . .
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There is no better basketball player than Jordan, no greater attraction in all of sports, no more compelling theater on any stage.
If Chicago’s sewage system can be declared a wonder of the world, as it once was, Chicago’s greatest treasure has to be beyond distinction.
How to say goodbye to Michael. They played “Nearer My God To Thee” as the Titanic sank. That sheet music must be around somewhere.