I’m so lucky to have grown up where and when I did.
In the history of professional sports, no one has been bigger, better or more successful than Michael Jordan, and I got the sweetspot of his prime throughout my childhood.
One of my earliest memories is celebrating the 1991 NBA Championship in my driveway banging pots and pans. My dad even let us spike a couple coca-colas off the concrete to watch them explode as M-80’s rang out in the distance.
Those guys must be spiking an entire case
It was and remains the best childhood sports in American history: I witnessed 6 championships in 8 years. And in the process, you gradually become numb to the excellence to where expectation overcomes the pleasure of winning. And for all of this to happen at a young age, it doesn’t register the same as if you’re an adult. That all goes back to the expectation.
But then one day you find yourself arguing sports with someone from New York and it dawns on you: There’s nobody anywhere that can compete with a Chicago kid from the 90’s. Nobody had it better, ever. Not watching Ruth & Gherig. Not cheering for Brady & Belichick. And certainly not Derek Jeter’s Yankees – not by a fuckin mile.
Jordan’s Bulls reign supreme in this conversation and I wanted to take a minute on his 62nd birthday to highlight this simple fact that I think is often overlooked in my generation.
But I also think it makes it so much more painful now. We didn’t grow up anywhere near last place. We grew up having pride and competing for championships and centering our lives around Chicago sports because Michael Jordan made it easy and important.
Everything now is so much worse off where the detachment grows in tandem with the sadness. In time there will be no pain because there’s even less joy. Like walking into the Schaumburg Olive Garden and learning they ran out of breadsticks… you never see it coming until it’s too late.
That’s how I feel about the disastrous state of Chicago sports where the only thing left propping us up is a childhood filled with MJ memories. To have lived through that window is something every sports fan parent dreams about for their kids.
And we got to live it.
I got to dribble in my Oak Lawn backyard while pretending to be Michael Jordan during his prime.
I got to put Black Bulls Jordan Jersey on my Christmas list.
I got to sit in the 300 level with my best friend and his dad to watch Jordan in the playoffs on multiple occasions.
I got to wear #23 in baseball because I loved MJ so much and then I got to wear #22 when my friends made fun of me for wearing #23.
We got posters and toys and and starter jackets and multiple copies of Space Jam on VHS.
We basically had everything a kid could ever want and that was because Michael Jordan is the greatest athlete of all time and we got to live through that era.
It’s crazy to think he’s 62 years old after all that. And I’m not sure if I’m even making sense in this brief tribute. But I want to just emphasize that it’s severely overlooked in Chicago millenials just how lucky we are to have lived through the Michael Jordan years are kids.
That’s all I wanted to say and now I’ve said it.
Happy Birthday Mike.