WEEKLY WHINE

A short trip down the way

If you ever find yourself in Barstow, CA, perhaps you'll find the beginning of Interstate 40 East, where the distance to Wilmington, NC is marked at 2,800 miles or so. If you then continue along I-40, you'll travel through several states before you cross the Blue Ridge Mountains into North Carolina. From there, you'll go through a few important sites, such as Chapel Hill, Durham, and Raleigh. Then, you'll move on through Research Triangle Park. At some point, you'll come upon the sign, the same sign you'll encounter if you start in Wilmington and go to the beginning of Interstate 40 West.

It's a simple sign, really. The sign is brown with white text, italicized text in one of those upper class fonts on your computer, one of the ones you only use for multimedia presentations and whatever else you use fonts for. This Section of I-40 Dedicated to: Michael Jordan. Nothing more.

At first glance, you really don't get it. You say to yourself: What, that's it? You expect more for such a man. You don't quite know what "more" would be, but whatever it is, you expect it. You've always thought that anything recognizing him would do a bit more. Flashing neon and a picture of him with a motorized hand waving might help. After all, this is the man who singlehandedly took not just himself, not just a team, but an entire league, straight to the top. Sure, the NBA was doing well before he showed up. Larry Bird. Magic Johnson. Isiah Thomas. What was this new guy up to? How could he come in right in the middle of everything and steal it all away?

It's a simple sign. It says This Section of I-40 Dedicated to: Michael Jordan. It doesn't say Everyone's Favorite Number 23. It doesn't mention the hundreds of college and/or pro players who wear that number in his honor. It doesn't tell you that before he entered the league, nobody important wore that number, or that currently, it's one of the league's most popular numbers. It doesn't give the amount of money spent annually on anything with the famous 23 on it, from replica jerseys to cheap knock-off T-shirts to ordinary coffee cups.

It doesn't say All-Time Leader in Headlines. It ignores the multitude of features done on him by reporters large and small, from Chicagoland to Guatemala to Bangladesh. It fails to address the fact that he's probably the best way to fill any extra space in your daily newspaper. It carelessly omits the magazine covers, the interviews, the conversations with Ahmad Rashad, the seemingly endless variety of videos made available by the NBA's marketing machine ["I Love This Stuff"].

It doesn't say Best Marketer in Human History. It doesn't make evident the billions of dollars he's raked in for the NBA as a whole and the Chicago Bulls in particular, nor the tremendous sales boosts he's provided for countless other products: "Better eat your Wheaties", Gatorade's "Be Like Mike", Nike's "Just Do It", Ball Park Franks' "They plump when you cook 'em", and most recently, Jordan Inc's "Double Mesh". It doesn't [thankfully] mention his film career highlighted by the incomparable Space Jam, the one that proved there are in fact two things, acting and hitting curveballs, that he Just Can't Do.

It doesn't say Six-Time NBA Finals MVP. It doesn't effuse about everything that he does on the court just to help his team win. It doesn't recount the story of that classic Game 5 of the 1997 NBA Finals, when he came down with the flu. It doesn't discuss the reports you heard from Ahmad in the pregame reports, saying that he was weak and didn't seem capable of performing like his usual self. It doesn't observe that Ahmad was right: He wasn't capable of performing like his usual self; he was forced to do more. It leaves out the final total of points for which he was responsible: 38 in front of the hostile Utah crowd, including the game-winning dagger that seemed to seal the fate of the Jazz. It doesn't depict that final, unforgettable image of him, having just sucked all the life out of the Utah Jazz and of their fans, staggering off the court while the assistance of Scottie Pippen was the only thing that prevented him from falling all the way to the hardwood. It doesn't point out that for a change, it was Scottie who helped out Michael and not the reverse.

It doesn't say Six-Time NBA Champion. It doesn't attempt to explain all he did for his basketball team: leadership, support, understanding, explosiveness. It doesn't echo Marv Albert's call of that historic, timeless, physics-defying play against the Lakers in the 1991 NBA Finals, his first time breaking past the Pistons and playing ball in June: "Oh, a spectacular move by Michael Jordan!" It overlooks all the astounding things he's done, from the game winner against the Cavs way-back-when to the 1993 championship, the last his beloved father would ever see, to the two-word press release "I'm back." It doesn't show you the incredible pressure he placed on teammate Steve Kerr in the 1997 Finals, in the sixth game when the Bulls needed to break the tie to get the Larry O'Brien Trophy once more. It doesn't acknowledge the sideline huddle wherein he told Steve that it would be his shot; his confidence in the overlooked sharpshooter paid off immensely. It doesn't take you back to the 1998 NBA Finals, another Game 6, but this one on the road, when, trailing by three, he made one shot, let Utah go to the other end, effortlessly heisted the rock from Bryon Russell, brought it back downcourt, held up for a moment to let Russell get back on D, drove inside until Russell slipped [thanks to a little push], and immediately hoisted up the game-winning jumper that stopped the clock at :05.2 and stopped everyone's hearts at the setting Can't Take Much More of This. It doesn't relive another historic bit of NBC broadcaster coverage, this one courtesy of Bob Costas: "Jordan... open... Chicago with the lead!"

Or does it?

As you drive down the aforementioned interstate, there it stands before you: This Section of I-40 Dedicated to: Michael Jordan. Your mind wanders beyond a none-too-heavily-traversed expressway in southeastern North Carolina, beyond Chapel Hill, where he gave us so many memories that, as it happened, turned out to be a mere preview of what was to come. Finally, your mind reaches the Second City, the shores of Lake Michigan, the local broadcast area of WGN. You don't identify him with Brooklyn, his birthplace. You don't identify him with Wilmington, his upbringing. You don't identify him with Chapel Hill, his emergence. You don't identify him with Birmingham, his second "career". You identify him with Chicago, IL. None of those places have a statue of him, only the House That Jordan Built, the replacement for the Madhouse on Madison Street. The sign doesn't say everything about him. You do. You link the name Michael Jordan with the word greatness. You know about all the children being born these days, so many of the boys, and even some of the girls, bearing either the name Michael, Jordan, or even both. You link him with Chitown. This is where he contributed, where he performed, where he amazed, where he excels. This is where he belongs.