Van Gundy said Jordan was your best
friend off court so he could hit you come game time.
Some say his casino seat was always taken, he knew
how to bet on himself. Those two years in baseball
a shroud to avoid suspension. His debt, his father,
his father’s death. There is an I in win he’d say to you.
The microphones weren’t close enough to catch him
on court. He would back up off five foot three Muggsy
Bogues, say, Shoot it you f***ing midget. Muggsy missed
by a mile. Jordan took shots at his friends in his
hall of fame acceptance speech, barely even mentioned
Pippen. Before you’d get crossed over or he caught
you sleeping at the buzzer, he’d get in that head –
had words for you, that gift of gab, that trash talk,
that ice cold, that nineteen footer, that free throw
with his eyes closed. On Saturday Night Live, Michael
would dance with Da Superfans in a hula skirt. He’d
shake and bake with Bugs Bunny. He’d dunk
from your free throw line, the sideline of your shoe,
the tag on your shirt, the screen at your local IMAX,
his tongue hanging from the rim of his lip. Your preacher
would use him as a metaphor during Sunday sermon.
Your aunt would swoon, How handsome. You had his
rookie card framed. Muggsy’s shot never did recover
but you cried when Michael got that Olympic gold,
kissed his mother’s forehead and placed it
around her neck.