Then and Now: A Personal Account of the 1991 NBA Finals

Diamond Bar, California: June 5, 1991.

The boy finally settles down, finding a place on the floor just a few feet away from the living room television. His father gently picks him up and moves him a couple of steps back, lest his eyes become crossed. The opening tip-off is just a few moments away. The boy's mother, yells out a question she knows the answer to: "Who are you rooting for, son?"

"Chicago! Bulls! Michael Jordan!"

Mother, father, and aunt have a laugh as the boy raises his arms in ecstasy. The uncle only smiles, as he's a lifelong Lakers fan. The boy's eyes sparkle as No. 23 runs around the court, takes the ball in his hand and leads the men in white jerseys. For every camera shot of his hero, they alternate with the man in the purple jersey, with the same numbers as No. 23, only backwards.

"Who's that, daddy?" the boy asks.

"That's Magic Johnson, kid." The uncle interjects, filling the air with his booming voice, almost commanding respect and expecting an apology, even if it is from his four year-old nephew. The game goes on.

The mother marvels at the sight of her son, perfectly still and quiet if not a for a few jerks and sighs whenever No. 23 catches the ball or appears on camera.

Halftime. Chicago leads by five points and the boy runs to the backyard, towards the basketball rim. He asks his father to play. Dad sets his beer aside and has a quick 1-on-1 with his son. He beats his son. Competitive by nature, he rarely if ever lets him win. The boy's frown is erased with a hug. The game is restarted, and he finds his old spot on the floor, close to the action.

No. 23 is having some trouble with fouls, so the coach sits him on the bench. "Fouls? What's that?" the boy wonders, "why is he sitting down instead of playing? He's the best player in the world!"

Things are not bad for the Bulls, though. The men in the white jerseys are making most every shot they attempt, and every exalted cheer by the boy is met with a groan and a muffled expletive from his uncle. The aunt talks down to her husband, asking him to set a better example.

The game is nearing its end. No. 23 is back on the court. He's eager to put the game beyond doubt. He catches a pass. Shoots. Scores. He does it again. And again. By this time, the game is almost beyond reach. No. 23 takes the ball, leaps in the air, and then...suddenly, the boy's eyes widen and his jaw drops. Most everyone else's did.

"Oh, a spectacular move... by Michael Jordan!" exclaims the voice coming from the TV. The image is burned in his brain. If it wasn't fully cemented before, it is now. He's hooked for life. The game is over. The boy is put to bed in the spare bedroom of his uncle and aunt's home, close to his brother. The next day, he'll go home.

It's been seventeen years since that evening. The boy is now a man, or at least he's sized like one.

The uncle died more than a decade ago, murdered in a confusing turn of events. Details of the tragedy, guarded for so long like a state secret, were revealed to him only a few months prior.

He lives with his father while he goes to school. His mother has gone her separate way for quite some time now. He debates whether it's been four or five years since he's seen her last. He chuckles with an air of desperation, and shrugs his shoulders. That's life.

Despite owning a DVD tucked away in his room containing highlights of that game, he sits in front of his computer screen waiting for his favorite play to load in a tiny and sure-to-be pixelated screen. He imitates the voice coming from the screen. His eyes widen, his jaw drops.

If only for that very instant, he is that boy.