Michael Jordan’s retirement, the last one at least, came during the period when I had lost interest in the NBA.  The comeback to play for the Wizards was, in my mind, more of a stunt than a true return to the game. 

He didn’t come back as the old MJ; he came back bulky and slow, with a steady dose of fadeaway jumpers. Michael Jordan came back. But the …from North Carolina—at Guard—6’6”—Michael Jordan...never played again.

That disappointed me for a while.  I still had a passing interest in the league with the likes of Allen Iverson and the Kobe-Shaq dominance.  But it was only passing.  I didn’t schedule my events around the playoff games; I didn’t watch SportsCenter hoping for another unbelievable display of NBA athleticism to cross the screen.  My finger stayed on the pulse of the league, but the pulse was weak.  I kept waiting for the next heart of the league, the next MJ, to appear.

I searched.

And searched.

And searched.

But I finally gave up.  I realized there will never be another MJ.  And that’s acceptable, because in this case, one person is not better than a team.  I don’t see Dwight Howard’s unbelievable displays of thunderous grace for a man his size and immediately remember MJ’s free-throw line take-off.

Those two dunks, and humans, are nothing alike.  They are their own entities and in their own rights should be admired. 

 I recognize now the emergence of new talent.  Not entrance, but emergence: their abilities have finally reached a level where we cannot help but take notice.  Chris Paul’s ridiculous ability to take over the flow of a game, Amare Stoudemire’s explosive cuts and dunks, and Deron Williams’ powerful slashes are some examples. 

When MJ was around, he was the focus.  Now the focus has spread.  Spotlights hang over many cities, instead of just Chicago.  I don’t see every kid with the same Michael Jordan poster on his wall.  Some have Kevin Garnett.  Others have Kobe. 

 Granted, fans still had other favorite players in the Jordan era.  People still had rivalries.  But people still hovered around Jordan, even in those rivalries.  People’s favorite player was Ewing: one of Jordan’s rivals, or Barkley: one of Jordan’s rivals, or Isaiah: one of Jordan’s rivals.  He was like the father of a hillbilly’s family—everybody was related to him.

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