MJ at 50

Michael Jordan turns 50 today.  As part of a generation that grew up while he was peaking in the NBA (and tormenting the Pacers), it's just another reminder of how old I am and the quiet but steady passage of time.  I have two very distinct MJ memories I'd like to share.

The first one came in June of 1991.  I was 9 1/2 years old and on summer break.  We had a basketball hoop in my driveway, so my sister and I were just starting to develop our legendary one-on-one games that culminated in screaming and, occasionally, punches and hair pulling.  The Chicago Bulls, meanwhile, had finally gotten past the road block that was the Detroit Pistons and were playing in the NBA Finals against Magic in his last hurrah. 
To say I was an MJ fan was an understatement.  I was not alone; any boy or girl who loved the game of basketball loved MJ.  That's just the way it was.  I didn't know any different.  He revolutionized the game while completely dominating it.  My grandfather - who owned a sporting goods store downtown - always made sure I had the latest Nike shoes and apparel.  I will always love him for that.  Included in that apparel was this jacket that reeked of badassery:

Anyway, the night the Bulls were to clinch their first title, I asked my parents to wake me up so I could watch, enjoy and share the revelry with MJ.  The game was in LA, so it was a late tip and a late finish.  Nevertheless, my parents did as I asked.  I staggered out to the living room, half-asleep and confused.  "What's going on?" I wondered.  "Why did they drag me out here?"  I could not make sense of the situation, even though they did exactly what I had asked them to do.  To this day I wish I had been more awake so I could have fully comprehended and appreciated the situation. 

Fast forward almost 12 years to April of 2003.  I'm a junior at Manchester College.  MJ had since retired twice and was on his third tour of duty terrorizing the NBA with his drive and will to win - even at 40.  His final NBA game was on April 16th, and I was writing a paper in my dorm room that night.  I was watching the game on my little 13" TV, which thankfully was next to my laptop, switching back and forth from the NBA to whatever paper I was writing at the time.  The minutes dwindled down, and opposing coach Larry Brown orchestrated it such that MJ could receive one final curtain call while exiting the game.  Washington's crowd gave him a standing ovation for a full three minutes.  I sat there, wide-eyed, staring at the screen.  Then, the tears started to flow.  I was choking up and could not control myself.  At the time, perhaps I didn't realize why I was so emotional, but now I realize that it was because it marked the end of my childhood.  My favorite basketball player of all-time - the guy I used to emulate in the driveway as the sun was going down - was never to play a game in the NBA again.  My adolescence had come and gone, and I was on my way to adulthood.

So as I sit here 10 years after bawling like a kid in Schwalm Hall, I revert back to what Trey Anastasio said on December 31st, 1995:  "The years just keep sliding by, don't they?"

Happy birthday, MJ.