Michael Jordan and I go way back. At least as far back as my first Wheaties box. So when my editor asked if I could spend a Sunday morning interviewing the man himself, I said I’m your girl.
I showed up on time, picked up my sticky photo of Number 23 labeled “media,” and reported for duty. I had assumed it would be me and Michael, one on one, for 20 unadulterated minutes. But when I got to the assigned room, I realized that my fantasy represented a security risk, a profit drain. There was a competing reporter. And her film crew. And another film crew to capture me capturing Michael. There was a set of PR personnel assigned to check up on me, and another to consider the interests of the Michael Jordan Foundation, Michael Jordan’s Restaurant, and Michael Jordan himself. It reminded me of surgery.
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Then it was my turn. But it was already 9. A PR technician intervened, reshuffled the morning’s events, and carved an additional sliver out of MJ’s day. I was granted ten minutes. “Don’t tell her that,” Michael complained. “But it’s for a good cause,” I cajoled. “I’m just messing with you,” Michael admitted.
“That was Michael Jordan,” I heard someone breathe.
