know it's been almost four days since Michael Jordan's Hall of Fame enshrinement speech, but people are still talking about it.
For most of his career, Jordan and whoever was handling him at the time (David Falk, Nike, the Chicago Bulls, Jerry Reinsdorf, Juanita Jordan) did an almost impeccable job of molding a likable public image. He not only said the right things at the right time, but didn't say the wrong things at the wrong time. He sold products we wanted to buy. He made commercials that almost always brought him to a new level of popularity. The only time Michael failed was when nobody was around, or on a golf course or baseball field.
He wasn't golfing last Friday night, so I can only conclude that Jordan's inner circle either wasn't there or failed him pretty badly when he prepared (or didn't prepare) his Hall of Fame enshrinement speech. Jordan took the opportunity — perhaps the last time the whole basketball world would be watching — to skewer those who had wittingly or unwittingly provided the kindling that lit the fire of the relentless competitiveness that made Jordan the best of his time, if not all time.
Some of his shots could pass as good-natured joshing—chiding his high school coach for cutting him from the Laney High School varsity in favor of Leroy Smith when Jordan was a sophomore (Jordan mentioned Smith in the story, but also invited him to the ceremony). And, I had never heard that Jordan was miffed about being left out of the 1981 Sports Illustrated cover shot with North Carolina's starters and coach Dean Smith (who left out Jordan because he was a freshman). But of the others he torched—Pat Riley, Jeff Van Gundy, Bryon Russell and especially Jerry Krause—came off as cringe-inducing examples that the pettiness and long memory we all had heard about Jordan were true.
It was bad simply because it make Michael less likable. Jordan almost always had a way of finessing his immense ego so that it rarely came across as overt boasting—instead of saying he was a one-man show, he referred to his teammates as "my supporting cast." He let others tell us how sick he was when he beat the Jazz in Utah. He never held out to be paid what he was worth. But that fine touch betrayed him at the Hall of Fame ceremony.
"I didn't see organizations playing with the flu in Utah," was not Michael being Michael. It was Michael being Terrell Owens—a significant drop in Q-score, I'm pretty sure. There's something unbecoming about anybody telling us how great they are. But especially someone who's had others doing it for him for so long.
What he should have done was thank the people who helped make him what he is today: from Leroy Smith and his high school coach for not putting him on the varsity, to Pat Riley, Jeff Van Gundy and all the the people who "put wood on the fire" to fuel his legendary competitiveness. And John Paxson, Steve Kerr, Horace Grant, Bobby Hansen and all the teammates who made the plays that helped clinch the championships that burnished the Jordan legend.
I don't buy the "Michael being Michael" argument. Jordan could be a feisty, petty ultra-competitor with a long memory one moment and a humble, thoughtful protector of his image the next. If he couldn't be both, he never would have been Michael Jordan. He'd have been a much, much better Charles Barkley.
Maybe Barkley and Pete Rose don't have it in them to be Mr. Wonderful. But Jordan obviously did. Stop making excuses for him.
His emotional open with David Thompson was strong and his finish was well-done (telling us to not be surprised to see him playing at 50: "Never say never, because "limits, like fears, are often an illusion.")
But in between was MJ with that rare missed dunk. On the court Michael had no problem being the hawk hunting the smallest fly. But at the Hall of Fame ceremony it was the wrong place and the wrong time for "Michael to be Michael." The surprise is that nobody told him that.
For most of his career, Jordan and whoever was handling him at the time (David Falk, Nike, the Chicago Bulls, Jerry Reinsdorf, Juanita Jordan) did an almost impeccable job of molding a likable public image. He not only said the right things at the right time, but didn't say the wrong things at the wrong time. He sold products we wanted to buy. He made commercials that almost always brought him to a new level of popularity. The only time Michael failed was when nobody was around, or on a golf course or baseball field.
He wasn't golfing last Friday night, so I can only conclude that Jordan's inner circle either wasn't there or failed him pretty badly when he prepared (or didn't prepare) his Hall of Fame enshrinement speech. Jordan took the opportunity — perhaps the last time the whole basketball world would be watching — to skewer those who had wittingly or unwittingly provided the kindling that lit the fire of the relentless competitiveness that made Jordan the best of his time, if not all time.
Some of his shots could pass as good-natured joshing—chiding his high school coach for cutting him from the Laney High School varsity in favor of Leroy Smith when Jordan was a sophomore (Jordan mentioned Smith in the story, but also invited him to the ceremony). And, I had never heard that Jordan was miffed about being left out of the 1981 Sports Illustrated cover shot with North Carolina's starters and coach Dean Smith (who left out Jordan because he was a freshman). But of the others he torched—Pat Riley, Jeff Van Gundy, Bryon Russell and especially Jerry Krause—came off as cringe-inducing examples that the pettiness and long memory we all had heard about Jordan were true.
It was bad simply because it make Michael less likable. Jordan almost always had a way of finessing his immense ego so that it rarely came across as overt boasting—instead of saying he was a one-man show, he referred to his teammates as "my supporting cast." He let others tell us how sick he was when he beat the Jazz in Utah. He never held out to be paid what he was worth. But that fine touch betrayed him at the Hall of Fame ceremony.
"I didn't see organizations playing with the flu in Utah," was not Michael being Michael. It was Michael being Terrell Owens—a significant drop in Q-score, I'm pretty sure. There's something unbecoming about anybody telling us how great they are. But especially someone who's had others doing it for him for so long.
What he should have done was thank the people who helped make him what he is today: from Leroy Smith and his high school coach for not putting him on the varsity, to Pat Riley, Jeff Van Gundy and all the the people who "put wood on the fire" to fuel his legendary competitiveness. And John Paxson, Steve Kerr, Horace Grant, Bobby Hansen and all the teammates who made the plays that helped clinch the championships that burnished the Jordan legend.
I don't buy the "Michael being Michael" argument. Jordan could be a feisty, petty ultra-competitor with a long memory one moment and a humble, thoughtful protector of his image the next. If he couldn't be both, he never would have been Michael Jordan. He'd have been a much, much better Charles Barkley.
Maybe Barkley and Pete Rose don't have it in them to be Mr. Wonderful. But Jordan obviously did. Stop making excuses for him.
His emotional open with David Thompson was strong and his finish was well-done (telling us to not be surprised to see him playing at 50: "Never say never, because "limits, like fears, are often an illusion.")
But in between was MJ with that rare missed dunk. On the court Michael had no problem being the hawk hunting the smallest fly. But at the Hall of Fame ceremony it was the wrong place and the wrong time for "Michael to be Michael." The surprise is that nobody told him that.
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