Like Mike
Bulls, Dollyworld, tie dye and bike shorts, yes please.
To my horror (and delight), the 90s have re-emerged. We’re all bucket hats and tie dye, mom jeans and biker shorts. While style always makes a comeback, sports stars don’t. Unless you’re Michael Jordan. Yes, that Mike.
I grew up in the suburbs of Chicago in the 90s. I spent my childhood imagining what it would be like to run through the tunnel with Benny the Bull to that glorious opening theme song, smacking hands with the players, and soaking up the sweet, sweet talent. Mike and the Bulls owned the 90s - sorry, it wasn’t slap bracelets, Tickle Me Elmo, or the Pistons.
-“Your Chicagooo Bulls!”-
Mike was a phenomenon to watch, a true competitor. He showed up, entertained, and won repeatedly. Everyone loved him and loved to hate him. He made his teammates better, he made his enemies better. Perhaps he sold his soul long ago, but everyone still wanted to Be Like Mike. Myself included.
Another heavy dose of 90s nostalgia came along with The Last Dance, an ESPN/Netflix documentary of the Bulls final winning season in 1998, sprinkled with footage of the 90s dynasty. The documentary effortlessly pivots timelines as we watch the drama unfold. The “flu” game, the gambling, the shit talking, Rodman, Barkley, Pip - all highly dramatic pieces in the masterpiece we call The Last Dance aka The Michael Jordan Documentary.
One of the most dramatic events in the miniseries comes with the death of Michael Jordan’s best friend and dad, James. I remember this as a kid, and I found it unimaginable. While Jordan defied human experience in so many ways, he experienced loss just like you and me. He was human, after all.
Jordan shocked the world when he announced his retirement after the death of his father. Sir Air Jordan walked away from the sport that dubbed him Air Jordan. Just like that, he quit.
-He can quit? But he’s not a quitter.-
Not only did he hang it up, he did so to pursue professional baseball. A decision that adults struggled to reconcile. Besides tears and eye-rolls, the decision led to suspicions that he was actually secretly suspended for his gambling habits. My young mind was delighted by the news, because this meant he was more like me - since I spent most of my youth playing in the dirt, trying to sneak one down the line and squeeze one over the corner for strike three.
It wasn’t until The Last Dance that I fully understood his sudden decision to pursue professional baseball.
In the documentary, Mike explains that his last conversation with his father was about playing baseball. That was their plan. Together they would conquer baseball like they had basketball. And then he lost his dad, his cohort, his number one fan, his best friend.
Truth is, I am like Mike. I lost my dad too - my best friend, my biggest fan. Not in the tragic way that Mike did, deprived of the chance to say goodbye - I held my dad’s hand as he went. Like Mike though, I felt robbed. And lost.
I remember those moments and weeks (months, years) after my dad passed.
-What the fuck do I do now? What’s next? How do I know? Fuuuuuck.-
Well Mike knew what to do. He was going to do exactly what he planned. He had an unwritten, heavenly contract to fulfill. He was going to play baseball, because that is what his dad would have “wanted him to do.”
I remember the day after my dad died, my remaining family and I went out for food. I wasn’t thinking about food, I didn’t care about eating. I was still thinking about the matte smoke-gray casket I had just picked out. The food arrived and I just looked at it. Then it hit me - my dad would never get to eat a cheeseburger again. How could I eat this or anything else without him?
-Fuuuuuuck.-
Then my sister looked at me and in her most golden, older sister moment ever, she said, “He would have wanted you to eat your food.”
-Damn, she right.-
That was just the beginning of the mindfuckery that comes with losing someone. My dad didn’t tell me what to do after he was gone. We didn’t sit down and plot my next move in between movies, puke sessions, and injections. I didn’t have a Dad plan, and boy did I achingly want one. If there was a plan, you bet your sweet ass that’s exactly what I would have been doing these past few years. Professional golfer, ice cream scooper, dog walker (pooper scooper) - sure thing Dad!
When you lose someone so special, it feels hopeless to pursue life without them. You seek life rafts, something, anything to hold on to. Looking for signs, grasping for some meaning in it all. Often coming up for air with nothing but anger and confusion. No one talks about what comes after, what kind of pain to expect after the dirt settles.
But Mike knew. He knew that walking into the United Center for another season without his dad by his side would break him. He knew the wound was too crisp and exposed. He knew he needed time to heal. Baseball was that for him.
Mike fully committed to the sport he often dreamt of over the years, but it didn’t take long for him to return to the sport that made him a superstar. I remember it like it was yesterday, two little words, “I’m back!”
While he was back, he wasn’t the same. A basketball-sized piece of his heart was missing. This was someone new stepping out of the tunnel. He hadn’t played basketball since his father passed. He hadn’t faced that stadium without him. Mike sure looked the part, minus that infamous jersey change. In another surprise move, he decided to wear his baseball number, 45, instead of the worshipped 23. Mike said he chose 45 because 23 wasn’t there anymore, and neither was his dad. Talk about self-aware.
Once you lose someone, you’re never the same. There’s pre-death and post-death. And in post-death you spend a lot of time trying to remember what pre-death was like. Who were you then? Is it possible to feel that way again? Mike didn’t feel like 23, so he didn’t dare bear the sacred number.
It took roughly two months on the court before Mike started to feel like old Mike. Before game two of the 1995 Eastern Conference Semifinals, he felt a shift. He says, matter-of-factly, that he “wanted to go back to a feeling, back to 23.” And just like that, he shed 45. Mike was healing - doing the thing that he knew so well. Even with the reemergence of 23, the Bulls fell short of a championship that year.
The following season the Bulls had a record setting year. They were back. The final game of the championship series in 1996 fell on Father’s Day. The weight of the day did not go unnoticed by Mike (or the media). When that final buzzer rang, Jordan fell to the ground clutching the basketball with tears streaming down his face. In his celebration, he thanked his family and said, “this is for Daddy.”
Well, this is for my Daddy. I hope to one day clutch a finished memoir in my hands and cry like a huge fucking baby. I want to ugly cry, snot and all. Hell, I’d even let a camera crew capture the moment - like Mike.
Life post-death is not as cool as it was pre-death, and without a Dad plan clearly laid out for me, I will honor him by doing what he’d want me to do. He’d want me to shed jersey 45, and step back into 23. He’d want me to make my comeback.
And I’ll do so in my tie dye and biker shorts. With determination on my face and a 6’3” sized hole in my heart.
-Someone really should have told Ron Harper that bucket hats were not his look. Duck Lebron.-