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TheBrownDog
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Not very well written, but.....
February 26, 2003
Michael and Reggie. Reggie and Michael.
Was there a memo? Is it 1998 all over again?
There was Michael Jordan, backing down defenders, hitting that vintage fall-away jumper from every conceivable angle. There was Reggie Miller, one of the few guys who showed up for the Indiana Pacers on Tuesday night, demanding the basketball in the fourth quarter and knocking down those lethal 3-pointers.
Did we miss something? Was it Retro Night at Conseco Fieldhouse?
This was supposed to be a night to honor Jordan. As the game wore on, though, it turned into a night to marvel at two great players, two transcendent athletes who have brought out the excellence in one another for so many years.
One is 40 years old. One is 37 years old. And yet, in this, a dog-day regular-season game late in February when younger players are wearing down, Jordan and Miller embraced the moment and somehow raised an otherwise hideous game into something resembling compelling theater.
Too old? Too diminished?
Not Michael. Not Reggie. Not when there are still games to be won, still memories to be made.
The game itself was eminently forgettable, an artistic flop that raised even more serious questions about the crumbling state of the Pacers. Now, it's not just the extended losing streak and an offense that has gone from The Quick to Five Guys Waiting Around For A Bus.
At least there were the great ones to salvage an otherwise miserable excuse for a game.
Michael and Reggie. Reggie and Michael. Same as it ever was.
In the end, Jordan's last night in Indianapolis was like so many of his nights in Indianapolis. And in Cleveland and Sacramento and every other place he's graced the floor. Once again, Jordan showed that grace and greatness never really grow old.
Even now, he is one of the best 20-25 players in the league. Even now, he could announce he's coming back for another year, another two years, and nobody could argue against him.
He's done, though. This time, he's done.
"This really put me in a position to walk away with no more doubts, no more itches (to scratch)," Jordan said before the game. "I don't regret anything I've done coming back."
Make no mistake, though: Jordan came back for Jordan. He came back this time for the same reason he came back all those other times. For the love of the game. This wasn't about money, or ego, or any of the wrong reasons athletes hang around way too long. This was about passion.
Think back now to the early part of the season, and all the dopey talk about how Jordan was diminishing his legacy, how he should have left the moment his teardrop jumper over Utah's Bryon Russell rippled the net. How preposterous does it all sound now, watching Jordan, the "diminished" Jordan, take over games the way he always has, putting the Wizards and their playoff hopes atop his shoulders?
How could anybody have begrudged him one last trip around the league?
This isn't the way we want to remember him.
Exactly whose life is this? Whose legacy? Whose memories? Was Joe Montana diminished by playing out his career in Kansas City?
If this was, in fact, the very last time, it was an appropriate valedictory.
Michael and Reggie. Reggie and Michael.
February 26, 2003
Michael and Reggie. Reggie and Michael.
Was there a memo? Is it 1998 all over again?
There was Michael Jordan, backing down defenders, hitting that vintage fall-away jumper from every conceivable angle. There was Reggie Miller, one of the few guys who showed up for the Indiana Pacers on Tuesday night, demanding the basketball in the fourth quarter and knocking down those lethal 3-pointers.
Did we miss something? Was it Retro Night at Conseco Fieldhouse?
This was supposed to be a night to honor Jordan. As the game wore on, though, it turned into a night to marvel at two great players, two transcendent athletes who have brought out the excellence in one another for so many years.
One is 40 years old. One is 37 years old. And yet, in this, a dog-day regular-season game late in February when younger players are wearing down, Jordan and Miller embraced the moment and somehow raised an otherwise hideous game into something resembling compelling theater.
Too old? Too diminished?
Not Michael. Not Reggie. Not when there are still games to be won, still memories to be made.
The game itself was eminently forgettable, an artistic flop that raised even more serious questions about the crumbling state of the Pacers. Now, it's not just the extended losing streak and an offense that has gone from The Quick to Five Guys Waiting Around For A Bus.
At least there were the great ones to salvage an otherwise miserable excuse for a game.
Michael and Reggie. Reggie and Michael. Same as it ever was.
In the end, Jordan's last night in Indianapolis was like so many of his nights in Indianapolis. And in Cleveland and Sacramento and every other place he's graced the floor. Once again, Jordan showed that grace and greatness never really grow old.
Even now, he is one of the best 20-25 players in the league. Even now, he could announce he's coming back for another year, another two years, and nobody could argue against him.
He's done, though. This time, he's done.
"This really put me in a position to walk away with no more doubts, no more itches (to scratch)," Jordan said before the game. "I don't regret anything I've done coming back."
Make no mistake, though: Jordan came back for Jordan. He came back this time for the same reason he came back all those other times. For the love of the game. This wasn't about money, or ego, or any of the wrong reasons athletes hang around way too long. This was about passion.
Think back now to the early part of the season, and all the dopey talk about how Jordan was diminishing his legacy, how he should have left the moment his teardrop jumper over Utah's Bryon Russell rippled the net. How preposterous does it all sound now, watching Jordan, the "diminished" Jordan, take over games the way he always has, putting the Wizards and their playoff hopes atop his shoulders?
How could anybody have begrudged him one last trip around the league?
This isn't the way we want to remember him.
Exactly whose life is this? Whose legacy? Whose memories? Was Joe Montana diminished by playing out his career in Kansas City?
If this was, in fact, the very last time, it was an appropriate valedictory.
Michael and Reggie. Reggie and Michael.








