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Letter from occupied New York
By John Leonard
With City Hall behind barricades, Mayor Rudy Giuliani is getting ready to take his show on the road
(01/14/99)

 

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Portrait of a political "pit bull"
By Russ Baker
Rep. Dan Burton, who called President Clinton a "scumbag," has a few questions to answer about his own behavior
(12/22/98)

 

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R E C E N T L Y

Starr's lowest blow
By Bruce Shapiro
In indicting Julie Hiatt Steele, the independent counsel continues a pattern of bullying women
(01/13/99)

Impeachment diary II
By Anonymous
While senators basked in the glow of Friday's bipartisan trial accord, both sides were already plotting to renew the war
(01/13/99)

Ebonics II
By Lee Hubbard
Oakland students' test scores are among the lowest in the state, but Oakland teachers press ahead with Mumia Abu Jamal teach-in
(01/13/99)

Tainted witness
By Murray Waas
The Arkansas trooper who corroborated David Hale's story received payments from the American Spectator
(01/12/99)

Working class hero?
By Micah L. Sifry
Jesse Ventura will have to reconcile his millionaire libertarian views with his blue collar support
(01/11/99)

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Michael Jordan's final act

Michael Jordan The legend is leaving at the top. That's why we need him to stay.

BY DAN BREKKE | So Long, MJ. Goodbye to the Greatest Ever. The Perfect Departure. Never Mind Who's Next -- He's Irreplaceable. Tough Luck for the NBA.

Thirty-six hours of instant analysis/eulogy/postmortem/ deification. Enough. Listening to the awed tones of Frank Deford and a thousand and one other commentators, reading the front-page requiems and career wraps, looking at the highlight clips -- they all end with the perfectly scripted exit: the championship-grabbing steal and jumper against Karl Malone and the Jazz last June -- finally made me see it.

This is all wrong.

It's not time for Michael Jordan to leave. Forget the National Basketball Association for a minute. I'm not ready. The world's not ready. I reject his resignation.

I say this not as someone who has followed every step of Jordan's career -- though I've gotten in the way of enough media over the last 15 seasons that we could talk about everything from Michael's late-blooming high school career to his late nights in Atlantic City. Nor do I weigh in as someone who has haunted pro locker rooms and can tell you what Michael's sneakers smell like -- though we know, don't we, that he's got more of them than anyone and they've got a sweeter odor than yours or mine.

No, I say this first as a California guy who still thinks he's a Chicago guy, the rail-hanging teen heckler who went out to the Stadium to watch the Sloan-Van Lier-Walker-Love-Boerwinkle Bulls of the early 1970s, a team of fierce overachievers whose style of play was as elegant as a Hells Angels stomping. And second, I guess, as a member of an even larger group -- that big slice of humanity that doesn't often get to enjoy the illusion that we engineer our own graceful exits.

The only time I ever saw Jordan play in person -- October 1985, Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum Arena, against the Golden State Warriors -- I watched from the last row. He made a great drive in the first quarter -- don't remember whether he scored -- got fouled, made his free throws, then went to the bench. I spent the second, third and fourth quarter bellowing for him to get back in there. It didn't look like anything was wrong with him from where I was sitting, and it seemed weird that he was just off by himself, ignored by teammates and coaches. That's not what I had shelled out six or nine bucks for. Was he hurt? I didn't buy it. "Michael! Put your shoe back on!" I screamed.

Anyway, he had broken his foot, and he missed the Bulls' next 60-some games. He came back in the playoffs. The team didn't want him to risk reinjury by going back on the floor for a series that was a foregone conclusion against the Larry Bird-at-the-top-of-his-game Celtics. Jordan didn't know what "foregone conclusion" meant. He blew through the Boston defense for a 63-point game and single-handedly forced the series to its three-game limit.

N E X T+P A G E+| Nothing could stop him


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