Hall of Fame

I am a Chicagoan.

Yes. Chicago. Home of Oprah, Jesse Jackson, Al Capone.

One outta three ain’t bad.

Chicago was also home to another international name for a number of years.

His Airness. Michael Jordan.

Before I get started, let me insert a disclaimer. I was raised in a household where athletes and entertainers were watched, but not idolized. Ed Bradley and Gerald Levert died on the same day. I was in shock. I got a call from a friend, grief stricken. We went on and on before I realized I was grieving for the journalist. My friend was not. Gerald who?

Number 23 is about to be named to the Hall of Fame. As of this writing, he may already be admitted.

I take nothing away from the man’s athletic prowess. I live in a city that has loved perennial sports losers for over a century. Six NBA wins is a good thing.

Please stop with the fawning, though. Or at least, let’s fawn for the right reasons.

Michael Jordan making it to the Hall of Fame is about as predictable as me giving Black leaders a hard time.

Be honest. You are the best player to play the game. Six championship rings. Olympic gold. You saved the damn league. Naw, we’re gonna still have a close vote on that one.

Please.

My beef isn’t with Jordan, the man. Sadly, I understand what it is to be a hyper-competitive asshole that works hard, achieves and then lords it over the folk you left behind. Hey, I am in recovery, but even Ruqayyah, my ladylove, still points out that I have much work to do and progress to make.

I have a problem with all of the young Black men who are so hard up for a hero they can think of nothing but a man who, truthfully, does not give a damn about them and worse, does nothing for them.

Young Black men did not make Michael Jordan. Old white men did not make Michael Jordan. Sorry, old white dudes.

Jordan made Jordan. He grueled out some tough years with mediocre teams and weak coaches (you weak if you can’t control MJJ…sorry), persevered, kept doing him, and watched the rewards roll in.
My man.

Now, if only the kids like the barber manning the station three chairs down the could apply that drive to themselves instead of chanting “Michael Jeffrey Jordan” every two minutes, we might be better off as a people.

I had a college roommate that cried when Jordan retired the first time. “He’s like a father figure…”

Dude, he doesn’t even know you.

That’s like white rednecks’ love for George W. Bush. I mean, yeah, he’ll take your support, but don’t let the cowboy boots fool you. This dude has so little in common with you and your life it’s not even funny. Or Terry McMillan, dogging men and pushing other Black women to do so while she still searches for Mr. Right.

Perhaps it is because I am not much for hero worship.

Perhaps my own ego is so outsized that I think everyone has it in them to be the best at whatever they do if they just work at it.

Perhaps I am just tired of arguing that damn, we are no different than anyone else, we have excelled under conditions others which others would have quickly perished, yet we seem to keep coming off like cartoon characters out for a good time and a pity party.

Jordan excelled because he willed it and he worked for it. We can all do the same damned thing if we are willing to commit as fully as he did.

I congratulate Jordan on his election to the Hall of Fame; something he knew was owed him after Season Four. There would have been no NBA, in terms of numbers and tickets sold, without him.

Eventually, though, Black Americans have to get it out of their heads that true success comes from Caucasians’ live entertainment, and that only the lucky few of us make anything of ourselves. We have to stop thinking that we are destined to a life of just surviving and looking for beacons of hope while others get out and live.

Adulation does not a success make.

Off my soapbox. Next time, ya’ll gonna laugh ‘til your sides hurt.

Seriously, though? Give what I said some thought.