Todd Miller: Blog

23 + 6 = Everything.

There were only three times when, during the course of my schooling through high school, the teaching was stopped, the television was turned on, and we watched, in silence. The last time was September 11, 2001. It was first period, government class, and after another teacher came to inform my teacher of the first strike, we stopped class, and watched on live TV as the second plane hit the second tower.

The other two instances aren’t nearly as important as that one, but they did still happen. The time before that was in sixth grade, at St. Paul’s Lutheran School in Munster Indiana. Mr. Brandt, the music and social studies teacher paused his lesson and we watched the jury deliver O.J. Simpson’s verdict. He was innocent. Mr. Brandt couldn’t believe it. Because he couldn’t believe it, neither could we. It was a long, no nonsense class of treble clefs and bass clefs for the rest of the afternoon.

The first time class was stopped for a television viewing was two years before O.J.’s verdict. I was in fourth grade, my first year at St. Paul’s, in Mr. Eitzen’s class. It happened some time in the morning. Mr. Eitzen must have gotten word from another teacher. We sat in our seats, he turned off the overhead lights, he wheeled the television cart to the middle of the room, adjusted the antenna, and turned it on. Then we watched the press conference as Michael Jordan announced his first retirement from the game of basketball, after three straight championships, at the still young age of just thirty years old.

I was caught off guard. I didn’t know what to do. My entire life until that day, in large majority, could have been defined by two letters, MJ. He won the rookie of the year in the 1984-85 season, the first season of my life. I didn’t know the Bulls without him and I didn’t want to imagine what it would be like. As I sat in that dark classroom, I was thankful that Mr. Eitzen had turned off the lights because I was crying.

The next two years were hard. Michael was figuring some things out after the death of his father and he was in the minor league system of my baseball team, the White Sox, but even I knew, at that young age, that he didn’t have the same magic on the baseball field as he did on the court. So, I spent those two years watching old Bulls games and videos of Michael’s that I had on tape, “Michael Jordan’s Playground” and others.

I think we all know what happened next. He was back. Three more years, and three more championships. I didn’t take them for granted either. Some of my favorite memories are of waking up before dawn, piling into the neighbor’s station wagon and making the thirty minute drive into the city, to Grant Park, where we, along with thousands of other people staked out our positions and waited for the midday championship celebrations. I had my championship shirts and hats and as I watched them on stage from across the huge field, I couldn’t have been prouder of Michael and Scottie  and Phil and the rest of the Bulls.

Tomorrow Michael Jordan will be inducted into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame and again, I feel like I did while watching those championship celebrations. Sure, the whole world was watching him win the six championships and a good deal of people will be watching tomorrow as well. And yes, he’s a worldwide superstar and the best person to ever play the game of basketball and everyone knows that. But they don’t get it like we do in Chicago. We were in on it. He’s simply the best there ever was or will be and he’s all ours.

Congratulations, Michael.