I don’t think any of you could possibly understand what it’s like. OK. Well, maybe that’s a bit of an overstatement. Maybe if you grew up in Chicago, in the late 1980s, or Los Angeles or Boston in the mid 1980s, or Buffalo in the early 1990s, you understand how it feels.
But otherwise, you cannot understand the pain.
What is this pain I speak of? It’s the feelings of despair that one man can create for an entire city. With his weaving, his dodging, his fading away, his wrist-flicking, his driving, one man destroyed New York City’s hopes and dreams for years. I do not speak of David Dinkins.
This deserves some background. In the mid 1990s, I had the lovely fortune of attending a Knicks game with my father. It was a deciding clash with the hated Pistons, the team that redefined dirty and naughty play in the late 1980s. It was the first time I fell in love with the Knicks, my orange and white and blue warriors of the hardwood for all my adolescence. They gave us towels by the entrances to our section; they were rally towels, to be waved when the Knicks needed support the most. We fell behind early, and we retook the lead, only to fall behind again. The towels came out. I looked around Madison Square Garden, and all I saw were 20,000 arms waving 20,000 towels chanting “DEFENSE!” at the top of their lungs. It was heaven. It was sports. I was in love.
This was my team, representing my city. We had Ewing, John Starks, even, yes, even Hubert Davis. We had Charles Oakley, our bastion of toughness in the power forward slot. We were gritty, rough and we dove for loose balls. We beat teams by seizing every last bit of what we needed to beat them. We weren’t flashy, or quick, or sharpshooting. We were gritty. We were Lenny Dykstra, times five, on sleek hard wood.
And then it all fell apart. And it happened year, after painful year. We collided with the Red and Black. The Red and Black had one man, No. 23 and later No. 45, who consistently made the Knicks look like fifth graders learning how to dribble during recess. It was, of course, Michael Jordan. MJ. The man who was once found, in a survey, to be more well-known than President Clinton, the then so-called “leader of the free world.” Michael Jordan was the greatest player in the history of organized basketball, and please, do not give me any of this Oscar Robertson crap, or any of this Magic Johnson crap. They were good, but no one ever was as good as MJ. So many were anointed as The Next. They all failed. Harold Miner? HA. There could be no Next. There could be a First, maybe. But no one could be Him.
When he took the ball, you know it was going to be artistry. It was going to be magic. Remember the jumper and fist pumping session over Craig Ehlo, Eastern Conference playoffs, 1989? Remember when he switched hands against the Lakers, 1991 Finals? Remember when he shrugged after his sixth three pointer of THE FIRST HALF against the Blazers, 1992 finals? Remember when he went baseline and slammed on John Starks’ mullethead, 1993 Eastern Conference Finals? Remember when he passed out on the bench, then scored 38 points, 1997 Finals? Remember how he “ended” his career with a championship-winning jumper, 1998 Finals?
I remember them all, very well. Every shot that Michael Jordan hits is like a dagger going through my heart. He took my city and reduced it to nothingness. People packed MSG, waved towels like they had never waved them before, and left hoarse. Anything to get our boys past MJ. It never worked. He didn’t have a Kryptonite. He was Kryptonite to everyone else.
So now, here he comes again, a little bit older and with a significantly less talented supporting cast down on Sixth and D, in my adopted city. How can I root for the man? How can you ask me to root for a man who so often, and with such ease, took the place I was reared, and the team I was reared on, and reduced them to silly putty? I cannot. I cannot say Jordan’s return is good for the game; all about Jordan is pure evil. Fans enter arenas with high hopes; this is the year for their boys. They got the right coach, the right players. You see MJ on the other sideline, warming up, draining corner after corner after layup after dunk. It’s all over. You have no chance. You’re powerless.
The man is back, in my second city. I see him on buses and billboards, and I cringe, perhaps even cry. Those were my Knicks, denied a shot at title after title by his swishing and dishing. The man is back. I wish he would just stay away.
