How to Be Like Mike

by Pat Williams

A MEMORY OF A YOUNG

  MICHAEL JORDAN

  By Richard Neher

  Michael’s Babe Ruth League Baseball

  Coach

  I coached Michael when he was thirteen, fourteen and fifteen years old. Michael Jordan was never an all-star when he played as a young boy. He was just a typical kid playing little league, but he was so loose and so competitive.

  When Michael was thirteen, our team’s fifteen-year-old catcher got hurt and we were desperate for a replacement. The rail-thin Jordan volunteered—“I’ll catch, coach!” —even though it took him three bounces to throw the ball to second base. I turned down Michael’s offer. He came back at me with, “Coach, if they run, I’ll gun!” Even then, Michael thought he could do anything. He had that confidence.

  We were playing Mutual of Omaha for first place that night and I stuck Michael back there. During infield practice, he bounced the ball to second and the other team started mocking him. Mike yelled at them, “You run, I’ll gun!” Sure enough, in the second inning he threw out three straight guys trying to steal —on the bounce!

  As far as basketball, Mike was just another gunner as a ten and eleven-year-old. He’d take thirty shots a game and if you passed him the ball, it wasn’t coming back. In the ninth grade, he was just a 5'9" guard, that’s all. Don’t let anyone tell you they saw greatness back in those days.

  August 1, 2001

  Wilmington, North Carolina

  A MICHAEL JORDAN

  MEMORY

  By Harvey Araton

  Sports Columnist, The New York Times

  My most vivid Michael Jordan memory is not one of him in the air or on the drive or celebrating the winning of another ring. It is a moment few of us outside the circle of these great athletes would ever be privileged to witness. I just got lucky. It was 1992, the Eastern Conference semifinals at Madison Square Garden, Pat Riley’s Knicks trying to stay alive and going about it in their new and brutish ways. It was the second half, the Knicks asserting control. Scottie Pippen had the ball in transition and seemed to be going in for a layup when suddenly he was hog-tied by John Starks and thrown to the floor. Time-out. Pippen, dazed, even bloodied, staggered to a seat on the bench. Seated at the edge of the press table, practically on the Bulls’ bench, I had a clear look into the team’s huddle, where, astonishingly enough, Jordan practically shoved Phil Jackson out of the way and kneeled right in front of his young and intimidated teammate. For about five seconds, he just stared at him, hard, and then he put his hand on Pippen’s knee. “Don’t you dare take that from them!” Jordan screamed. “Don’t let them do that to you! You’re getting the ball and you take it to the hole as hard as you can!” I will never forget the look in Jordan’s eyes that night. It was as controlled a rage as I’ve ever seen, which I’ve always believed was as essential to Jordan’s greatness as any part of his game. He had the ability to simultaneously balance anger and composure, regardless of the situation. If the opponent didn’t provoke him, Jordan found a way to inspire himself. If I had been Pippen that night, I would have been far more afraid to disappoint Michael than I would have been of Starks, Xavier McDaniel, Anthony Mason and Charles Oakley put together.

  PROLOGUE

  I am not a man who lives with a great deal of regret. But there are times, every so often, when I will spring forth from my bed in the middle of the night, hair standing in static spikes, and shake off the specter of a haunting nightmare. There are not many executives who can say they allowed the greatest athlete of the twentieth century to slide through their helpless grasp. And I’m one of them.

  Allow me to explain.

  I have spent my life in sports, in various front offices, in both baseball and basketball. By 1978, I was entrenched as the general manager of the NBA’s Philadelphia 76ers, who were coached by Billy Cunningham. And that fall, Billy Cunningham had a problem. It involved one of his players. His name was Lloyd Free. Eventually, Lloyd would change his legal name to World B. Free, and he would hover around the pro basketball world for what seemed like an eternity, taking ridiculously long jump shots and filling eager reporters’ notebooks with some of the ripest quotes they’d ever been given. He was an immense offensive talent, innovative and exciting and well-liked by the fans. It’s just that Lloyd sometimes forgot that he belonged to a team. He did not believe in the utility of the pass.

  So in the fall of 1978, it was my job to trade Lloyd Free. And I tried. I really did. But Lloyd’s reputation preceded him. I couldn’t get anything done, couldn’t get anyone to risk their reputation on Lloyd. The season approached. The day before it began, I was rescued— by the Clippers, of all entities.

  The Clippers were in San Diego back then. Didn’t matter. They were still hapless and bumbling and ill-managed, one of the most aimless franchises in the history of organized sports. Their new coach was Gene Shue, who had coached Lloyd Free in Philadelphia, and was now willing to gamble on Lloyd.

  There was a catch, of course. He was willing to gamble on Lloyd in exchange for virtually nothing. Being desperate, I took the deal. I traded Lloyd Free to the Clippers for a first-round draft pick.

  That is, a first-round pick in 1984. Six years hence. Which, in the transitional world of pro basketball, might as well have been the year 2050.

  I probably don’t have to tell you that the local media roasted me. They thought I’d given Lloyd away, which I denied, even though, of course, I basically had. But what did I know? Chances were it wouldn’t even matter. This is a tumultuous business. Who knew where I would be in six years?

  Six years later, in 1984, I was still in Philadelphia. And the Clippers were still awful. And we still had the rights to their number-one draft pick. This was before the draft lottery had originated, so the commissioner would simply flip a coin between the worst team in the Eastern Conference and the worst team in the Western Conference to determine who got the top pick. Barring some colossal reversals of fortune, the Clippers appeared destined for the coin toss.

  We already knew this was a rich draft. Sam Bowie and Sam Perkins were the top seniors, and Hakeem Olajuwon and Charles Barkley were juniors who were expected to declare themselves eligible. So was a lanky guard from North Carolina whose name will figure prominently in this book.

  We were busy reveling in the misery of the Clippers, anticipating the coin toss, when something catastrophic occurred. Houston, the only team in the West that could challenge the Clippers for the cointoss position, launched into a prolifically weird losing streak. I say weird because this was not the typically unwelcome nosedive. It seemed almost planned, premeditated, which, of course, it almost certainly was. Exhibit A: Elvin Hayes, who was then nearing senior-citizen status, played fifty-three minutes in one overtime game.

  Still, on one of the final nights of the season, all we needed was for the Clippers to lose. Now, asking the Clippers to lose is not exactly a monumental request. This is a franchise that seemingly goes decades without winning a game.

  But on this night, the Clippers won. And Houston lost. And in the end, we lost. We tumbled out of the coin toss, and the Rockets slipped in and won it and picked Olajuwon. Portland, picking second, chose Sam Bowie. We had dropped to the fifth pick, and chose Barkley. Not exactly a poor selection. But with the third pick, Chicago chose . . . well, you know who Chicago chose. Children in third-world countries know who Chicago chose. I can’t even repeat it right now. I just know that seventeen years later, it still haunts my dreams.

  It’s easy enough to rationalize, to console myself with the notion that it’s technically not my fault, the way Houston conspired to ineptness. And that we might not have won the coin toss if we’d ever gotten that far. And that even if we had, we could have chosen any of that pool of players. And that we did get Barkley.

  But Billy Cunningham was a North Carolina graduate. He had an unfettered pipeline to North Carolina Coach Dean Smith, and I don’t think Dean Smith would have allowed Billy to go away without picking his player.

  So I think about it.
Of course I do. Michael Jordan escaped me. That’s not a feeling you shake off in the span of a single lifetime.

  This is fourteen years later, in 1998. I’m watching Game Six of the NBA Finals, Chicago versus Utah, and so is an overwhelming and curious segment of the world. We’ve begun to figure that this is it for Michael Jordan, that this is his final appearance in uniform, his glorious and final vanishing point from pro basketball. He’s not saying. He’s hiding behind a knowing smirk, but it’s implied.

  The series has been grueling. Jordan’s legs are gone, but he continues to push toward the basket for lay-ups, for fouls, for free throws. There are 18. 9 seconds left when Jordan skulks in from behind and steals the ball from Karl Malone. The Bulls trail by a point. No time-out is called. And here is Jordan on the other end, never doubting himself, isolated on Bryon Russell, allowing the clock to drop below ten seconds, elevating fluently over a flailing Russell, letting go of a picturesque jumper, arm hovering like a beacon as the game-winning shot lands for his sixth NBA championship ring. This is how he walked away, scoring forty-five points, including his team’s last eight, frozen in a superlative moment amid the patina of victory. Fade out.

  Weeks passed. That image glossed into a portrait in my mind. I thought ahead, about the future, about what would remain of that image a generation from now, if Jordan’s legend could persevere. I thought about my children, how their generation had never lived through the careers of Julius Erving and Larry Bird and Magic Johnson, how legacies congeal and grow musty and distant so alarmingly soon.

  Part of my work comes as a motivational speaker. I craft my talks around the basic concepts of the human persona: speaking, listening, learning, the elemental skills and traits that shape us. And so I began to build a talk around the legacy of Michael Jordan, monikered after the old advertising slogan:How to Be Like Mike.

  I spoke to youth groups and corporate leaders. It was a speech that grabbed people, something they wanted to hear. “Can you imagine your organization with Michael Jordans running all over the place?” I’d ask the executives, emphasizing that I wasn’t merely talking about the Wednesday night basketball league. I tried to incorporate all that made Jordan one of the transcendent personas of the twentieth century. I’ve met Jordan a few times, but it was more the testimony of those who knew him that endeared me to the topic. “I’ll remember his greatness,” Bulls radio announcer Neil Funk told me. “It was like traveling with Babe Ruth. Or Elvis. Or any other great artist.”

  Jordan is not a flawless man. Because of his extraordinarily public position, his shortcomings were often as widely exposed as his successes. But he is more than merely the sum of his talent, and the lessons of his life are significant enough that they deserve to be compiled here. And they deserve to be emulated. It is my wish that, by the end, you will see there is a way to do this without the benefit of a fade-away jump shot.

  What I give you, then, are eleven chapters that encapsulate a persona as sweeping and immense as any this generation has ever witnessed. Here’s hoping that the moment will never fade out.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE TUNNEL

  JORDAN ON FOCUS:

  What happens to clutch guys in big moments is that everything slows down. You have time to evaluate the situation, and you can clearly see every move you need to make. You’re in the moment, in complete control. It’s hard to get there; something has to have you thinking that you can do no wrong. But once you do get there, you can just come out at the start of a game and generate the feeling.

  Concentration is the secret of strength in politics, in war, in trade; in short, in all management of human affairs.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  On the morning of Game Five of the 1997 NBA Finals against Utah, during what would be his next-to-last flourish in pro O basketball, Michael Jordan was swathed in blankets in a Salt Lake City hotel room, curled into a fetal position, his body limp and wracked with illness. He had a hundred-degree fever. Headaches and nausea had kept him awake all night. He was being pumped with intravenous fluids to replenish his strength.

  Word circulated that Jordan was profoundly ill. In the locker room, his teammates surveyed his unusually ashen skin, and television cameras captured Jordan’s laconic attempts to practice before the game began.

  The Jazz pulled out to an early lead. And yet it was Jordan who kept his team in the game, scoring twenty-one points in the first half, playing nearly the entire second half even as his body began to wither and his energy faded. He hit a three-pointer to give the Bulls the lead, and they won, 90–88. He’d scored fifteen points in the fourth quarter. He’d done it even though he could barely stand. He’d blustered through the malaise, through the breakdown of his body, and he’d maintained his focus on the series, on the game, on his team.

  There are a multitude of aspects to the persona that is Michael Jordan: his intelligence, his competitiveness, his perseverance, his leadership. Combined, they are the reason for Jordan’s six NBA titles, for his ascendance into the spectrum of the world’s most transcendent figures.

  But this day in Salt Lake City, Jordan was stripped to his essence. This was Jordan with a singularity of purpose, a focus, that could not be blurred.

  The following March, as our team, the Orlando Magic, was arriving for a game in New York, I took a seat on the team bus next to B. J. Armstrong, a veteran guard who played with Jordan in Chicago during their championship run in the early 1990s. It was late, nearly two in the morning, and I had the outline for this book stuffed in my Franklin Planner, which, if you know me, you understand is where I keep everything that is dear to me, except perhaps my children (but only because they couldn’t fit). At the time, this book had ten chapters, because motivational speakers like to think in the realm of hard-and-fast numbers.

  Think about MJ’s focus. He’d have two or three defenders on him at all times. Think how it must feel to compete against two or three guys every night. He’d face that battle every game.

  —Nate McMillan

  HEAD COACH, SEATTLE SONICS

  So I extracted the outline and handed it to B. J. and asked him if he would look it over. He said he would. He took a few minutes as the bus rumbled toward our hotel on 54th Street.

  To focus on what's around you diminishes your ability to focus on what’s before you.

  —Andy Stanley

  PASTOR AND AUTHOR

  Finally, he handed it back to me.

  “Looks good,” he said. “Looks like you’ve captured it all.”

  There was a pause.

  “Except you’ve missed the most important thing.”

  I nearly choked. “What?” I said. “Tell me, B. J.”

  “The thing that makes Michael who he is,” he said, “is his focus. His ability to concentrate absolutely. To set everything else aside other than what needs to be done right now.”

  I took the outline into my hotel room and revised and reshuffled for another hour. Which is why you’re reading this chapter before the others. Because B. J. Armstrong was right.

  It is a mistake to look too far ahead. Only one link in the chain of destiny can be handled at a time.

  —Winston Churchill

  “The thing I’ve noticed about Michael Jordan,” says Tom Smithburg, the Bulls’ former publicist, “is that he’s just completely focused. It’s like he’s decided to turn on that switch that brings down the curtain and shuts everything out but basketball.”

  “There was a reason MJ was so focused. He had a routine and nothing could break it. He was never late. He was always extra early. He put his socks on the same way every time, then put on his shorts perfectly. Everything had to be just so,” said John Salley, former NBA player.

  Smithburg speaks of an invisible “tunnel,” of Jordan’s ability to walk glassy-eyed through that tunnel from the first day of the season until the last game of the play-offs. He kicked over a garbage can during half-time of a play-off game against Orlando, and it was as if he didn’t even realize he
’d done it. He’s confessed that the games he played were the most serene part of his existence, that he could hear nothing in the tunnel, that he could think prolifically in the midst of that noise.

  And it’s not that the tunnel affects his demeanor among the public. He’s still personable and engaging. There’s just an everlasting sense that the tunnel exists.

  “Even when he’s smiling and talking to his teammates, or walking through a crowd,” Smithburg said, “you know he’s in the tunnel, looking toward the end.”

  “Some athletes have a competitive drive that interferes with their focus,” said football coach Bill Walsh. “Very, very few have the complete inventory of qualities: the truly gifted athlete with the truly innate sense of focus. Michael had it—in spades.”

  The team ophthalmologist for the Bulls and White Sox, David Orth, had a test he used to measure reaction time. A player would peer through a screen into a dark area and Orth would flash sets of numbers on a tic-tac-toe board. They’d appear in increments, from a half-second to one hundredth of a second. The players called out the numbers as they were flashed.

  Jordan called out more numbers than anyone.

  “What that showed,” Orth said, “was spectacular vision. But it was more than that; it showed a tremendous physical ability to concentrate.”

  I coached in the 1988 All-Star game in Chicago. MJ won the slam-dunk contest on that Saturday, but was sick with a bad sore throat. Most guys wouldn’t have played in the game on Sunday. MJ went for forty-two against Magic Johnson and theWest team.

  —Brendan Suhr

  FORMER NBA ASSISTANT COACH

  Success in anything is about focus and concentration. When I coached, I’d say to the players, “Yes, I know you played hard, but that’s not good enough. You’ve got to stay focused on the task at hand the entire game.”

  —Rick Barry