I had a summit at an East Village bar last night with two members of the SportsAngle brain trust – Frank Pepe of Trumbull Island and Mr. Han, the self-appointed U.S. ambassador to Iceland – and our conversation of course veered toward the Summer of LeBron.
Patrick Ewing
Air of sadness forever casts shadow over Jordan’s greatness
I’ve always thought that there’s an inherent loneliness that comes with preternatural talent.
Reflecting on the great moments one can produce with sheer physical or mental genius can be like walking through a hall of mirrors, fated to see endless glimpses of moments in time that can never be recaptured except through still or moving images.
When I look at Michael Jordan, I see a man trapped by his own greatness. The man was like Icarus; he reached heights unlike those reached by anyone else, but the problem with tasting a nectar that sweet is that it’s difficult to put up the rest of your life by comparison.
I’ve long been fascinated by Jordan’s ascent from mere mortal to demigod. Over time, as his talents and accomplishments grew, he metamorphosed from a high school kid to an NCAA championship hero, to a hotshot rookie to an NBA scoring leader, to an MVP to a champion – and eventually to the greatest of all time. Not to mention… a worldwide icon.
But at what cost to the man’s soul?