Make a Contribution to Remove NSFW Ads

39 Interesting Facts About Michael Jordan

Pack Rat

Pack Rat

Imperturbable
Platinum Member
1. Michael Jordan had a “love of the game” clause in his contract, allowing him to play basketball against anyone, anytime and anywhere. – Source

2. After Michael Jordan scored a game-high 69 points, teammate Stacey King quipped “I’ll always remember this as the night that Michael Jordan and I combined to score 70 points.” – Source

3. Michael Jordan now makes more money each year than he earned in salary during his entire 15 year NBA career. – Source

4. The night before the Olympic final, Michael Jordan apparently spent the night drinking and gambling all night, then he went on a long day of press appearances, plus 18 holes of golf in Barcelona before he went on to lead Team USA in a gold medal-winning victory over Croatia. – Source

5. Michael Jordan was fined $5000 for every game that he wore Air Jordans (as shoes violated NBA league policy). He made an estimated $90 million in 2013, more than any other active or retired athlete, largely from Nike royalties. – Source
6. Michael Jordan was once asked why he wouldn’t endorse black democratic candidate Harvey Gantt in a North Carolina senate race, to which Michael Jordan responded, “Republicans buy shoes too”. – Source

7. After Sports Illustrated published its “Bag It, Michael” cover story about his lackluster baseball career in 1994, Michael Jordan cut off all official communication with the magazine, even to this day. – Source

8. In 1992, Michael Jordan was the ambassador of Nike but his team was sponsored by Reebok so his uniform had a Reebok patch on the right shoulder. Jordan carried an American flag on his right shoulder to completely hide the Reebok logo proclaiming that “The American flag cannot deface anything.” – Source

9. The trend of baggy shorts in the NBA was started by Michael Jordan because he wanted to wear his UNC shorts under his Bulls shorts. – Source

10. Michael Jordan wore a jersey with the number 12 with no name on the back, during a game with the Orlando Magic, after someone broke into the Bull’s dressing room and stole Michael Jordan’s jersey. Jordan refused to sign autographs in Orlando after the incident. – Source
11. Michael Jordan donated his first year’s salary with the Washington Wizards ($1,000,000) to victims of the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks. – Source

12. When Chamillionaire asked Michael Jordan for a pic, Jordan responded with “I ain’t taking pictures with no niggas.” – Source



13. In 2005, Michael Jordan woke up Bow Wow in the middle of the night who was sleeping over with Jordan’s sons to ask who wore Allen Iverson shoes in his house. Bow Wow never saw those shoes again. – Source
14. A 20-year-old gallon of McDonald’s McJordan BBQ Sauce sold for $ 10,000 simply because it had Michael Jordan’s name on it. – Source

15. Michael Jordan’s “Jumpman” logo is actually a silhouette of a photograph of MJ performing a ballet move, not an actual dunk. – Source
16. Michael Jordan wore a brand new pair of shoes every game his entire career because he liked the ‘excited kid’ feeling it gave him & helped him prepare mentally for the game. – Source

17. Michael Jordan’s son cost his school a $3 million Adidas contract when he insisted on wearing his father’s line of Nikes. – Source

18. In 1995 Michael Jordan ruined Muggsy Bogues’ career with one line of trash talk. – Source

19. Michael Jordan stuck out his tongue when he drove to the basket as an imitation of his father, who was murdered in 1993. His father tended to stick out his tongue when absorbed in work. – Source

20. The Miami Heat retired number 23 for Michael Jordan, despite Jordan never playing for the team. – Source
21. Warner Bros built a gym for Michael Jordan to run pick up games and practice on during the filming of Space Jam. – Source

22. Michael Jordan was about to ditch Nike when an inexperienced designer created his dream shoe. – Source

23. The 1992 American Olympic basketball team (the “Dream Team” consisting of Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson, and Larry Bird, considered the “greatest team ever assembled”) won all of their games by an average of 44 points. – Source

24. Michael Jordan’s dad was murdered while sleeping at a rest stop. The murderer was arrested while wearing a Michael Jordan t-shirt. – Source

25. From November 1990 until his second retirement in 1998, Michael Jordan never lost three games in a row. – Source
26. Michael Jordan’s famous “The Flu Game” is believed to not have been caused by the flu but by intentional food poisoning via pizza. – Source

27. Michael Jordan wanted to sign with Adidas, not Nike but Adidas thought MJ wasn’t worth anything so they passed. – Source

28. In Michael Jordan’s last game as a Chicago Bull, he scored 23 points by half time and 45 by the end of the game, his two jersey numbers. – Source

29. Michael Jordan once played a cartoon superhero with Wayne Gretzky and Bo Jackson as his sidekicks. He was the brainy one of the group, often explaining long scientific reasonings for his plans. – Source

30. Space Jam (1996) was inspired by a 1993 Nike Super Bowl commercial featuring Michael Jordan and Bugs Bunny. – Source
31. Kim Jon-il has a basketball signed by Michael Jordan. – Source

32. Michael Jordan didn’t make his sophomore team because he was deemed too short and average to play at that level. – Source



33. A Salmonella strain is named in honor of Michael Jordan called Salmonella mjordan. – Source
34. Michael Jordan hates Hip-Hop. He declared this to Method Man and Redman at a Roc-a-fella Christmas party that MJ only went to meet Jay-Z (The only rapper he likes). – Source

35. A conspiracy theory exists that claims Michael Jordan’s foray into minor league baseball was due to his suspension for gambling. – Source
36. Michael Jordan has the record for the lowest score in 3pt shootout history at 5, back in 1990. – Source

37. When Michael Jordan was voted as a starter for the all-star team his rookie season some of the veteran players didn’t like all the attention on him, so they decided that they would not pass Michael the ball during the game. – Source

38. Michael Jordans best friend is the limo driver who gave him a lift when he first arrived in Chicago back in 1984. – Source

39. When Kobe Bryant met Michael Jordan for the first time, the first thing Kobe said to him was ‘You know I can kick your a*s one on one.'” – Source
http://www.kickassfacts.com/39-interesting-michael-jordan-facts/
 
29; ProStars was my shit when I was a kid :yes:

prostars-title.png
 
for the tin foil hats number 24 was a symbolic warning to jordan for trying to team up with cosby, oprah, to create a black channel... there was always a rumor on why jordan pops got killed and cosby son..if that riocking a jordan shirt shit ain't sending red flares to the tin foilers idk what is..pull tin foil hat off
 
90% of these I already knew. James Jordan actually said in "Come Fly with me that it was Michael's Granddad use to stick his tongue out when he was working on a car or doing something. I was a huge MJ fan...when i got older i realized that MJ is the greatest, but he is also an asshole...lol..
 
This one takes the cake for Jordan trivia.

Michael Jordan Tried to Steal My Date
by Greg Seigle
It's just before 10 p.m. Tuesday Jan. 8, 2002, and my cell phone rings—it's Christine, an out-of-town heartthrob, calling from the Four Seasons Hotel. She's just arrived in D.C. for a brief business trip and wants to meet for a late-night bite.

I'm busy writing a story for a news service, but it's hard to resist. She's famished, so we agree she'll go ahead to Cafe Milano and I'll meet her there in a half-hour.

About the same time we're on the phone, Michael Jordan is facing a larger-than-usual swarm of reporters at the MCI Center after playing in a 96-88 win over the Los Angeles Clippers. The morning papers have just revealed that his wife of 13 years, Juanita Jordan, has filed for divorce in Waukegan, Ill. A Chicago Sun-Times reporter asks if his divorce is inevitable. "None of your business," Jordan snarls, according to a subsequent account in the Washington Post.

As I'm striding toward the wood-framed glass doors of Milano, sucking on a breath mint, it occurs to me that Christine probably won't be sitting alone. She's a svelte, attractive woman; the vultures of Milano will surely have latched on to her. I walk faster.

Standing at the entrance, scanning tables, I quickly spot Christine—eating at a round table ringed with six big men. That's really all I notice—that these guys are big. She's talking, laughing, oblivious to my arrival.

"Great," I mutter, wanting to spin around and split. Still, I'm anxious to catch up. So I suck in a deep breath and beeline for her, hoping she'll jump up, throw her arms around me, and, after a quick adieu to the big boys, sashay off to another table with me.

"Hey, Christine," I murmur.

Christine's caught off guard. Her wide-eyed expression seems to say, Oh shit! I forgot about you! She doesn't stand.

"This is my friend Greg," she announces timidly, flipping her hand at me. Silence.

"Hey there," I mutter, smiling meekly and nodding toward the men. No response.

One guy—a burly bald man who reminds me of Russian-mafia thugs I encountered during a reporting stint in the former Soviet Union—shoots me a sustained "get the **** out of here" stare. Another man, curly-haired, scurries away to summon the manager.

Christine is flustered. "Grab a seat," she says, even though there are no chairs available.

Suddenly, I realize that one of the men sneering at me, the one seated to the left of Christine, is Michael Jordan.

My boyish instinct is to burst into a big smile, stick out my right hand and exclaim: "Oh my God! Michael Jordan! How the hell are you?"

But the macho man inside me wants to growl: "Dude, are you hitting on my date?"

The restaurant's manager sidles up and whispers: "Sir, if you could, please move away. The gentlemen want to conduct some business."

I look to Christine for a clue. Her eyes dart towards Jordan's, then back at mine. She grins sheepishly.

Just then, two people stand up to leave, causing a timely distraction. "Look," I tell Christine, as soon as I can speak without anyone hearing. "I'm going to leave, OK? It's Michael Jordan, for crying out loud. Go for it. Have a good time."

But just as I'm turning away, Christine surprises me—and everyone else—by grabbing my forearm. "No!" she blurts out. "Don't go! Hold on."

She abruptly stands up and bids the group farewell, hoisting her half-finished bowl of shrimp ravioli and glass of champagne as she leaves.

The waiter scrambles to react, and Christine and I head for a table of our own. The move happens so fast I don't think to ask for a table far, far away. Big mistake.

We settle into the table right next to Jordan's—Christine snares the seat facing him as I sit to the side—and it seems all eyes are upon us. Including his.

I figure MJ and his pals will soon grow tired of ogling Christine, who's wearing a strapless minidress and knee-high black boots. After a half-hour, however, it becomes clear they're not going to stop.

"Jeez, I'm not that good-looking," Christine says.

Despite the distractions, we're mostly engrossed in conversation. At one point, she's voluntarily saying she's attracted to me. "It's the champagne," I laugh nervously. She knows I'm gaga for her.

Still, it's impossible to ignore the table of men next to us, especially that guy with the poster-boy smirk. Christine isn't blameless, either. I notice her occasionally smiling Jordan's way. The second or third time, I call her on it.

"Is there a problem?" I ask.

"I'm sorry. It's just that he keeps staring at me," she says.

I swing my head toward Jordan; he tips his head back and puffs on a cigar, pretending not to notice.

I can't believe this is happening—I'm getting dissed by one of the most popular icons in Washington...the country...no, the entire world! Isn't he supposed to be a role model?

While Christine is off in the ladies' room, I catch Jordan's eye for a millisecond. His upper lip curls, as though I were some rookie trying to challenge him on the court.

When Christine gets back, she's clearly basking in the attention from the other table. I figured she made her choice when she left Jordan's table. My instincts now, though, tell me she may be reconsidering. I suggest we leave, but she says she wants to stay.

Now it's my turn to go to the bathroom. When I re-emerge, the curly-haired man is sitting next to her in one of our unused chairs. I sit down and engage in some polite banter. He's Tim Grover, Jordan's personal trainer. Grover seems unimpressed by the news that my cousin Leslie is married to Wizards backup guard Hubert Davis.

So I stand up, extend my right hand, and announce, "Well, it was nice to meet you, Tim. Have a good night." He glides back to Jordan's table.

I sit there stewing. I've admired Jordan from afar for many years. Now that I've encountered him face to face he's...uh, he's hitting on my date?

Before I can call for the check, the men at Jordan's table rise to leave, hovering over us and fluffing their expensive outerwear.

A tall bald man in a full-length white cashmere coat remains behind, mumbling, "See you soon" to Jordan and the others as they shuffle out. He takes a seat at the bar, orders a drink, and swivels around in his stool so he faces my side.

Minutes later, Christine and I get up to go. As I take a few steps ahead of her to grab the door, the man in the cashmere coat slips behind me. When I turn around, he's whispering in her ear, handing her a note of some sort. Christine quickly grabs it and stuffs it in her pocket. The man scurries away.

"Hey, what was that he handed you?" I ask Christine, acting amused.

"Oh, you mean this?" she says, playfully handing me a card adorned with the Wizards logo. It's the card of Fred Whitfield, identified as a "legal counsel" for the team.

"What did he say to you?" I ask, bravely handing the card back.

"Ummm...he said, ‘When that guy drops you off, call this phone number and we'll send the limo to pick you up,'" Christine responds.

"Really? Wow. Are you going to call?"

"I don't know yet," she replies.

Christine and I walk outside into the freezing night, where a black, chrome-trimmed limo is idling out front, warm and cozy. We climb into my nearby car, a dented Ford Taurus with frost bits dotting the windshield.

"Brrrr!" Christine chirps, rubbing her upper arms and exhaling thin clouds of steam.

I drive her to her hotel. There, Christine surprisingly lays one on me, a long, slow kiss that, after it ends a minute or three later, stirs me to inquire whether I should see her upstairs.

"No, it's late, and I have to get up early," she says. My car clock reads 1:24 a.m.

She jumps out and I watch her walk down the long corridor of the Four Seasons before driving away, fighting off the urge to park nearby and see if the limo cruises up.

The next afternoon, unable to contain my curiosity, I call Christine and ask point blank: "What happened after I dropped you off?"

"Now, Greg, what kind of a woman do you think I am?" she says, laughing.

There's a brief, awkward pause before she pipes up again.

"What, do you think I'd actually go hook up with him?"

I want to believe Christine, but it's difficult, especially after she tells me that she's suddenly decided to extend her stay in D.C. a few days for reasons other than work—and will be busy until Friday.

Now I'm scrambling to check my Wizards schedule. Yep, the team is in town—until Friday, when it departs for Milwaukee.

Later, Christine informs me she spent part of her "mini-vacation" gallivanting about Washington with the Jordan gang. She swears it was just tea, dinner, and the like.

"He's a very nice man," Christine alleges.

"Do you think he was nice to me?" I snap back.

"I guess not," she concedes.

I haven't gone out with Christine again, although we still keep in minimal touch.

In my jilted eyes, Jordan's a role model all right—a role model for spoiled athletes who think they and their hangers-on can run roughshod over anyone. He has to dominate, even in casual social situations. And he's remarkably thorough about it. At Cafe Milano, when I received the bill, I couldn't help noticing that the ravioli and champagne Christine had picked up at Jordan's table had been transferred to my tab. CP
 
See these are just a few reasons why after all these years, I wonder why people are still showing love to a man whose proven he cares as much about black people as Donald Trump? IMO opinion Jordan was, is and will always will be about himself!
 
I could be wrong, but I thought the fine that #5 talks about was for wearing black socks (which violated the league's policy) and not his shoes.
 
TheyCallMeBe said:
This one takes the cake for Jordan trivia.

Michael Jordan Tried to Steal My Date
by Greg Seigle
It's just before 10 p.m. Tuesday Jan. 8, 2002, and my cell phone rings—it's Christine, an out-of-town heartthrob, calling from the Four Seasons Hotel. She's just arrived in D.C. for a brief business trip and wants to meet for a late-night bite.

I'm busy writing a story for a news service, but it's hard to resist. She's famished, so we agree she'll go ahead to Cafe Milano and I'll meet her there in a half-hour.

About the same time we're on the phone, Michael Jordan is facing a larger-than-usual swarm of reporters at the MCI Center after playing in a 96-88 win over the Los Angeles Clippers. The morning papers have just revealed that his wife of 13 years, Juanita Jordan, has filed for divorce in Waukegan, Ill. A Chicago Sun-Times reporter asks if his divorce is inevitable. "None of your business," Jordan snarls, according to a subsequent account in the Washington Post.

As I'm striding toward the wood-framed glass doors of Milano, sucking on a breath mint, it occurs to me that Christine probably won't be sitting alone. She's a svelte, attractive woman; the vultures of Milano will surely have latched on to her. I walk faster.

Standing at the entrance, scanning tables, I quickly spot Christine—eating at a round table ringed with six big men. That's really all I notice—that these guys are big. She's talking, laughing, oblivious to my arrival.

"Great," I mutter, wanting to spin around and split. Still, I'm anxious to catch up. So I suck in a deep breath and beeline for her, hoping she'll jump up, throw her arms around me, and, after a quick adieu to the big boys, sashay off to another table with me.

"Hey, Christine," I murmur.

Christine's caught off guard. Her wide-eyed expression seems to say, Oh shit! I forgot about you! She doesn't stand.

"This is my friend Greg," she announces timidly, flipping her hand at me. Silence.

"Hey there," I mutter, smiling meekly and nodding toward the men. No response.

One guy—a burly bald man who reminds me of Russian-mafia thugs I encountered during a reporting stint in the former Soviet Union—shoots me a sustained "get the **** out of here" stare. Another man, curly-haired, scurries away to summon the manager.

Christine is flustered. "Grab a seat," she says, even though there are no chairs available.

Suddenly, I realize that one of the men sneering at me, the one seated to the left of Christine, is Michael Jordan.

My boyish instinct is to burst into a big smile, stick out my right hand and exclaim: "Oh my God! Michael Jordan! How the hell are you?"

But the macho man inside me wants to growl: "Dude, are you hitting on my date?"

The restaurant's manager sidles up and whispers: "Sir, if you could, please move away. The gentlemen want to conduct some business."

I look to Christine for a clue. Her eyes dart towards Jordan's, then back at mine. She grins sheepishly.

Just then, two people stand up to leave, causing a timely distraction. "Look," I tell Christine, as soon as I can speak without anyone hearing. "I'm going to leave, OK? It's Michael Jordan, for crying out loud. Go for it. Have a good time."

But just as I'm turning away, Christine surprises me—and everyone else—by grabbing my forearm. "No!" she blurts out. "Don't go! Hold on."

She abruptly stands up and bids the group farewell, hoisting her half-finished bowl of shrimp ravioli and glass of champagne as she leaves.

The waiter scrambles to react, and Christine and I head for a table of our own. The move happens so fast I don't think to ask for a table far, far away. Big mistake.

We settle into the table right next to Jordan's—Christine snares the seat facing him as I sit to the side—and it seems all eyes are upon us. Including his.

I figure MJ and his pals will soon grow tired of ogling Christine, who's wearing a strapless minidress and knee-high black boots. After a half-hour, however, it becomes clear they're not going to stop.

"Jeez, I'm not that good-looking," Christine says.

Despite the distractions, we're mostly engrossed in conversation. At one point, she's voluntarily saying she's attracted to me. "It's the champagne," I laugh nervously. She knows I'm gaga for her.

Still, it's impossible to ignore the table of men next to us, especially that guy with the poster-boy smirk. Christine isn't blameless, either. I notice her occasionally smiling Jordan's way. The second or third time, I call her on it.

"Is there a problem?" I ask.

"I'm sorry. It's just that he keeps staring at me," she says.

I swing my head toward Jordan; he tips his head back and puffs on a cigar, pretending not to notice.

I can't believe this is happening—I'm getting dissed by one of the most popular icons in Washington...the country...no, the entire world! Isn't he supposed to be a role model?

While Christine is off in the ladies' room, I catch Jordan's eye for a millisecond. His upper lip curls, as though I were some rookie trying to challenge him on the court.

When Christine gets back, she's clearly basking in the attention from the other table. I figured she made her choice when she left Jordan's table. My instincts now, though, tell me she may be reconsidering. I suggest we leave, but she says she wants to stay.

Now it's my turn to go to the bathroom. When I re-emerge, the curly-haired man is sitting next to her in one of our unused chairs. I sit down and engage in some polite banter. He's Tim Grover, Jordan's personal trainer. Grover seems unimpressed by the news that my cousin Leslie is married to Wizards backup guard Hubert Davis.

So I stand up, extend my right hand, and announce, "Well, it was nice to meet you, Tim. Have a good night." He glides back to Jordan's table.

I sit there stewing. I've admired Jordan from afar for many years. Now that I've encountered him face to face he's...uh, he's hitting on my date?

Before I can call for the check, the men at Jordan's table rise to leave, hovering over us and fluffing their expensive outerwear.

A tall bald man in a full-length white cashmere coat remains behind, mumbling, "See you soon" to Jordan and the others as they shuffle out. He takes a seat at the bar, orders a drink, and swivels around in his stool so he faces my side.

Minutes later, Christine and I get up to go. As I take a few steps ahead of her to grab the door, the man in the cashmere coat slips behind me. When I turn around, he's whispering in her ear, handing her a note of some sort. Christine quickly grabs it and stuffs it in her pocket. The man scurries away.

"Hey, what was that he handed you?" I ask Christine, acting amused.

"Oh, you mean this?" she says, playfully handing me a card adorned with the Wizards logo. It's the card of Fred Whitfield, identified as a "legal counsel" for the team.

"What did he say to you?" I ask, bravely handing the card back.

"Ummm...he said, ‘When that guy drops you off, call this phone number and we'll send the limo to pick you up,'" Christine responds.

"Really? Wow. Are you going to call?"

"I don't know yet," she replies.

Christine and I walk outside into the freezing night, where a black, chrome-trimmed limo is idling out front, warm and cozy. We climb into my nearby car, a dented Ford Taurus with frost bits dotting the windshield.

"Brrrr!" Christine chirps, rubbing her upper arms and exhaling thin clouds of steam.

I drive her to her hotel. There, Christine surprisingly lays one on me, a long, slow kiss that, after it ends a minute or three later, stirs me to inquire whether I should see her upstairs.

"No, it's late, and I have to get up early," she says. My car clock reads 1:24 a.m.

She jumps out and I watch her walk down the long corridor of the Four Seasons before driving away, fighting off the urge to park nearby and see if the limo cruises up.

The next afternoon, unable to contain my curiosity, I call Christine and ask point blank: "What happened after I dropped you off?"

"Now, Greg, what kind of a woman do you think I am?" she says, laughing.

There's a brief, awkward pause before she pipes up again.

"What, do you think I'd actually go hook up with him?"

I want to believe Christine, but it's difficult, especially after she tells me that she's suddenly decided to extend her stay in D.C. a few days for reasons other than work—and will be busy until Friday.

Now I'm scrambling to check my Wizards schedule. Yep, the team is in town—until Friday, when it departs for Milwaukee.

Later, Christine informs me she spent part of her "mini-vacation" gallivanting about Washington with the Jordan gang. She swears it was just tea, dinner, and the like.

"He's a very nice man," Christine alleges.

"Do you think he was nice to me?" I snap back.

"I guess not," she concedes.

I haven't gone out with Christine again, although we still keep in minimal touch.

In my jilted eyes, Jordan's a role model all right—a role model for spoiled athletes who think they and their hangers-on can run roughshod over anyone. He has to dominate, even in casual social situations. And he's remarkably thorough about it. At Cafe Milano, when I received the bill, I couldn't help noticing that the ravioli and champagne Christine had picked up at Jordan's table had been transferred to my tab. CP
Click to expand...


good read...
:bravo:
 
TheyCallMeBe said:
This one takes the cake for Jordan trivia.

Michael Jordan Tried to Steal My Date
by Greg Seigle
It's just before 10 p.m. Tuesday Jan. 8, 2002, and my cell phone rings—it's Christine, an out-of-town heartthrob, calling from the Four Seasons Hotel. She's just arrived in D.C. for a brief business trip and wants to meet for a late-night bite.

I'm busy writing a story for a news service, but it's hard to resist. She's famished, so we agree she'll go ahead to Cafe Milano and I'll meet her there in a half-hour.

About the same time we're on the phone, Michael Jordan is facing a larger-than-usual swarm of reporters at the MCI Center after playing in a 96-88 win over the Los Angeles Clippers. The morning papers have just revealed that his wife of 13 years, Juanita Jordan, has filed for divorce in Waukegan, Ill. A Chicago Sun-Times reporter asks if his divorce is inevitable. "None of your business," Jordan snarls, according to a subsequent account in the Washington Post.

As I'm striding toward the wood-framed glass doors of Milano, sucking on a breath mint, it occurs to me that Christine probably won't be sitting alone. She's a svelte, attractive woman; the vultures of Milano will surely have latched on to her. I walk faster.

Standing at the entrance, scanning tables, I quickly spot Christine—eating at a round table ringed with six big men. That's really all I notice—that these guys are big. She's talking, laughing, oblivious to my arrival.

"Great," I mutter, wanting to spin around and split. Still, I'm anxious to catch up. So I suck in a deep breath and beeline for her, hoping she'll jump up, throw her arms around me, and, after a quick adieu to the big boys, sashay off to another table with me.

"Hey, Christine," I murmur.

Christine's caught off guard. Her wide-eyed expression seems to say, Oh shit! I forgot about you! She doesn't stand.

"This is my friend Greg," she announces timidly, flipping her hand at me. Silence.

"Hey there," I mutter, smiling meekly and nodding toward the men. No response.

One guy—a burly bald man who reminds me of Russian-mafia thugs I encountered during a reporting stint in the former Soviet Union—shoots me a sustained "get the **** out of here" stare. Another man, curly-haired, scurries away to summon the manager.

Christine is flustered. "Grab a seat," she says, even though there are no chairs available.

Suddenly, I realize that one of the men sneering at me, the one seated to the left of Christine, is Michael Jordan.

My boyish instinct is to burst into a big smile, stick out my right hand and exclaim: "Oh my God! Michael Jordan! How the hell are you?"

But the macho man inside me wants to growl: "Dude, are you hitting on my date?"

The restaurant's manager sidles up and whispers: "Sir, if you could, please move away. The gentlemen want to conduct some business."

I look to Christine for a clue. Her eyes dart towards Jordan's, then back at mine. She grins sheepishly.

Just then, two people stand up to leave, causing a timely distraction. "Look," I tell Christine, as soon as I can speak without anyone hearing. "I'm going to leave, OK? It's Michael Jordan, for crying out loud. Go for it. Have a good time."

But just as I'm turning away, Christine surprises me—and everyone else—by grabbing my forearm. "No!" she blurts out. "Don't go! Hold on."

She abruptly stands up and bids the group farewell, hoisting her half-finished bowl of shrimp ravioli and glass of champagne as she leaves.

The waiter scrambles to react, and Christine and I head for a table of our own. The move happens so fast I don't think to ask for a table far, far away. Big mistake.

We settle into the table right next to Jordan's—Christine snares the seat facing him as I sit to the side—and it seems all eyes are upon us. Including his.

I figure MJ and his pals will soon grow tired of ogling Christine, who's wearing a strapless minidress and knee-high black boots. After a half-hour, however, it becomes clear they're not going to stop.

"Jeez, I'm not that good-looking," Christine says.

Despite the distractions, we're mostly engrossed in conversation. At one point, she's voluntarily saying she's attracted to me. "It's the champagne," I laugh nervously. She knows I'm gaga for her.

Still, it's impossible to ignore the table of men next to us, especially that guy with the poster-boy smirk. Christine isn't blameless, either. I notice her occasionally smiling Jordan's way. The second or third time, I call her on it.

"Is there a problem?" I ask.

"I'm sorry. It's just that he keeps staring at me," she says.

I swing my head toward Jordan; he tips his head back and puffs on a cigar, pretending not to notice.

I can't believe this is happening—I'm getting dissed by one of the most popular icons in Washington...the country...no, the entire world! Isn't he supposed to be a role model?

While Christine is off in the ladies' room, I catch Jordan's eye for a millisecond. His upper lip curls, as though I were some rookie trying to challenge him on the court.

When Christine gets back, she's clearly basking in the attention from the other table. I figured she made her choice when she left Jordan's table. My instincts now, though, tell me she may be reconsidering. I suggest we leave, but she says she wants to stay.

Now it's my turn to go to the bathroom. When I re-emerge, the curly-haired man is sitting next to her in one of our unused chairs. I sit down and engage in some polite banter. He's Tim Grover, Jordan's personal trainer. Grover seems unimpressed by the news that my cousin Leslie is married to Wizards backup guard Hubert Davis.

So I stand up, extend my right hand, and announce, "Well, it was nice to meet you, Tim. Have a good night." He glides back to Jordan's table.

I sit there stewing. I've admired Jordan from afar for many years. Now that I've encountered him face to face he's...uh, he's hitting on my date?

Before I can call for the check, the men at Jordan's table rise to leave, hovering over us and fluffing their expensive outerwear.

A tall bald man in a full-length white cashmere coat remains behind, mumbling, "See you soon" to Jordan and the others as they shuffle out. He takes a seat at the bar, orders a drink, and swivels around in his stool so he faces my side.

Minutes later, Christine and I get up to go. As I take a few steps ahead of her to grab the door, the man in the cashmere coat slips behind me. When I turn around, he's whispering in her ear, handing her a note of some sort. Christine quickly grabs it and stuffs it in her pocket. The man scurries away.

"Hey, what was that he handed you?" I ask Christine, acting amused.

"Oh, you mean this?" she says, playfully handing me a card adorned with the Wizards logo. It's the card of Fred Whitfield, identified as a "legal counsel" for the team.

"What did he say to you?" I ask, bravely handing the card back.

"Ummm...he said, ‘When that guy drops you off, call this phone number and we'll send the limo to pick you up,'" Christine responds.

"Really? Wow. Are you going to call?"

"I don't know yet," she replies.

Christine and I walk outside into the freezing night, where a black, chrome-trimmed limo is idling out front, warm and cozy. We climb into my nearby car, a dented Ford Taurus with frost bits dotting the windshield.

"Brrrr!" Christine chirps, rubbing her upper arms and exhaling thin clouds of steam.

I drive her to her hotel. There, Christine surprisingly lays one on me, a long, slow kiss that, after it ends a minute or three later, stirs me to inquire whether I should see her upstairs.

"No, it's late, and I have to get up early," she says. My car clock reads 1:24 a.m.

She jumps out and I watch her walk down the long corridor of the Four Seasons before driving away, fighting off the urge to park nearby and see if the limo cruises up.

The next afternoon, unable to contain my curiosity, I call Christine and ask point blank: "What happened after I dropped you off?"

"Now, Greg, what kind of a woman do you think I am?" she says, laughing.

There's a brief, awkward pause before she pipes up again.

"What, do you think I'd actually go hook up with him?"

I want to believe Christine, but it's difficult, especially after she tells me that she's suddenly decided to extend her stay in D.C. a few days for reasons other than work—and will be busy until Friday.

Now I'm scrambling to check my Wizards schedule. Yep, the team is in town—until Friday, when it departs for Milwaukee.

Later, Christine informs me she spent part of her "mini-vacation" gallivanting about Washington with the Jordan gang. She swears it was just tea, dinner, and the like.

"He's a very nice man," Christine alleges.

"Do you think he was nice to me?" I snap back.

"I guess not," she concedes.

I haven't gone out with Christine again, although we still keep in minimal touch.

In my jilted eyes, Jordan's a role model all right—a role model for spoiled athletes who think they and their hangers-on can run roughshod over anyone. He has to dominate, even in casual social situations. And he's remarkably thorough about it. At Cafe Milano, when I received the bill, I couldn't help noticing that the ravioli and champagne Christine had picked up at Jordan's table had been transferred to my tab. CP
Click to expand...
Good Story. But dude was a simp! I woulda been left that hoe at the restaurant!
 
Fuck Jordan!!! That piece of shit never stood for nothing but his brand and selling those cheap made, overpriced shoes!!
 
muckraker10021 said:
#7 is dead wrong

READ: http://www.si.com/vault/2013/02/18/106287113/michael-jordan-at-50-its-complicated

One of the best articles about the "retired" Jordan. If you didn't read it in 2013, read it now. Jordan can't handle silence. Always goes to bed with the TV on, showing old westerns.
Click to expand...

Reading through the article...Jordan still didn't talk to them...

We will have to wonder about that without, as usual, much help from him. Jordan declined an interview request from SI, as he has ever since his baseball hiatus. The March 14, 1994, issue depicted him swinging at a pitch, along with the cover line, BAG IT, MICHAEL! JORDAN AND THE WHITE SOX ARE EMBARRASSING BASEBALL. His refusal to consent to interviews with SI ever since seems to have grown out of his famous tendency to strike back at those whom he feels have slighted him. It's an off-the-court version of the way he would try to drop 50 on an opponent who dared talk trash.
 

Make a Contribution to Remove NSFW Ads
You must log in or register to reply here.

Similar threads

World B Free
Michael Jordan's son ~~~MARCUS JORDAN ARRESTED FOR COCAINE POSSESSION. EDIT: his charge revised from cocaine to ketamine following further testing.
2 3
Replies
97
Views
3K
World B Free
World B Free
lightbright
Could you reconcile with the white descendants of whites that owned your family ancestors?
Replies
8
Views
79
55th View
5
Gemini
Michael Jordan Judge In Dad's Murder Case ... Asks Parole Board To Release Convicted Killer
Replies
2
Views
142
rph2005
rph2005
E
Montell Jordan Says Drake Helped Him Recoup Def Jam Earnings Through Song Sample
Replies
4
Views
133
Hey Julian!
Hey Julian!
MASTERBAKER
Michael Jordan photo sets off fan concerns at Monaco-Barcelona soccer match
Replies
29
Views
712
Helico-pterFunk
Helico-pterFunk
Back
Top