"Michael Jordan is a Jerk." by Ben Strauss

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For kids growing up in Chicago in the 1990s, Michael Jordan wasn’t a sports star or a super hero. He was possibility incarnate. When Jordan had the ball in the closing seconds of the fourth quarter—clock ticking down, tongue hanging out—he inspired such confidence that as if by osmosis our own lives became less daunting. As long as No. 23 took the last shot, book reports were writable, Brussels sprouts edible, and middle-school girls kissable. Following each of the clinching games of the early ‘90s three-peat, I sprinted out my front door to see sparklers light up the parking lot down the street. And during the redux in the latter part of the decade, three more Grant Park celebrations weren’t prepubescent wonders, but certain and quantifiable proof that: a) good triumphed over evil, b) destiny was real, and c) one day I would get to second base.

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Since his final retirement, Jordan devotees have taken on a new mission: protecting his legacy. As each unworthy heir has entered the league with the mantle of “the next Jordan,” it has been our duty to swat them away. There is no next. There is only M.J. What has become increasingly difficult is guarding the sanctity of our hero’s name. The cruel irony is that His Airness himself, basketball’s unguardable force, is breaking down the defense.

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Among the cuts: His Air Jordans were reported to be made in Asian sweatshops (Nike’s fault); he mercilessly harassed Jerry Krause, calling the rumpled general manager “Crumbs” because of the specks of doughnut left on his shirt (Krause was fat, and nobody else in Chicago liked him, either); he was a lousy teammate, once punching Will Perdue at practice and ordering players not to pass to Bill Cartwright in the final minutes of games (neither gave back any of the rings they won with Jordan). Other recent stories have cut deeper. He was the alleged ringleader of the Jordan-Woods-Barkley triumvirate and the gratuitous gambling and sex mélange that came to light after Woods’s family imploded (super rich guys doing super rich guy stuff?). Once a fierce player-advocate, the Charlotte Bobcats owner turned on his former brethren during the recent NBA labor dispute prompting Chicago Sun-Times columnist Lacy J. Banks to label him a hypocrite (an overdeveloped sense of competition?). And we’ll just call his Hall of Fame induction speech a touch spiteful.

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Then, in this week’s Sports Illustrated, Thomas Lake chronicled his journey to Wilmington, North Carolina, where he found the Laney High School coach who so famously cut the sophomore Jordan, as the mythology goes. The story is central to the Jordan mystique: Jordan’s rise began with humiliation, his greatness an outgrowth of the desire to prove his coach wrong. Except, as it turns out, Clifton “Pop” Herring never cut Jordan. He assigned the 5-foot, 10-inch guard to the junior varsity team so he wouldn’t spend his sophomore season riding the bench. Today, Herring is an alcoholic diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. The disease took hold and his life began to unravel just a few years after he spent mornings and weekends in the gym with Jordan working on his jump shot. When Jordan’s jersey was retired and his bronze statue dedicated in 1994, Herring was Jordan’s guest in Chicago. Jordan recognized him during his speech in front of a packed United Center. He called Herring the coach who cut him. Twenty thousand Bulls fans rained down boos. For Jordan, there is no statute of limitations on bulletin board material—real or perceived. Herring would be the victim of Jordan’s massive lie forever, but that alone wasn’t enough. Herring was flown halfway across the country so he would never forget that he had wronged the immortal Jordan. A sick old man didn’t deserve that fate. I was stung. Deep.

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Michael Jordan is a jerk.

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