At 26, NikeTalk is now older than the average player on the Washington Wizards. For only two of those years - and two years in my entire life - were the Wizards relevant enough to not only sell out their home arena, but arenas throughout the league. They were not a title contender but, for once, they were not an "also ran." They were
relevant.
At a time when conflicts of interest still mattered, Michael Jordan divested his ownership stake in the Washington Wizards to play two seasons for the league minimum. In 2001, he donated the entirety of that to 9/11 victims' relief funds. You can question (or ridicule) the team's moves (drafting Kwame Brown, trading Rip Hamilton for Jerry Stackhouse, bringing in Christian Laettner and Charles Oakley, giving heavy minutes to Popeye Jones), but you couldn't question Jordan's effort. You'd see him, in the dog days of the season, with two ice bags wrapped around each knee in cities like Cleveland and Milwaukee after giving it his all in a "meaningless" regular season game. Whether he did so for little Timmy in row 68 EE or in service to his own legendary competitive drive is largely irrelevant. He gave his all, and did so as a member of the Washington Wizards.
Jordan could've ended his career with nothing left to prove, hitting the series-clinching shot to secure his second three-peat.
Instead, he ended it with nothing left to give, suffering an unceremonious blowout loss to Philadelphia.
After it was over, instead of returning to his position in the front office or even his status as a minority owner, Abe Pollin and Ted Leonsis gave MJ a terse "thank you for your service", reportedly offering him a paltry $10 million severance check, which, word has it, he tore up in front of their faces.
Whatever you think of Jordan's tenure with the Wizards, it's difficult to overstate the offensiveness of offering $10 million to a man who'd made $33 million in his last season with the Bulls alone, who single-handedly sold out an otherwise chronically empty arena for two straight years, moved countless merch, and undeniably elevated the value of a franchise he'd been forced to divest from in the process. And yet, that's how the Wizards' owners chose to treat their former business partner, undeniably the highest profile player to ever wear their uniform.
On the occasion of Jordan's final game in Miami, Pat Riley saw to it that no Heat player would ever again wear #23.
No exception was made for LeBron James. (Announcing his intent to switch to #6 was your tip off to his famous "decision.")
That the Wizards never bothered to retire MJ's number, formally or informally, says everything about Ted Leonsis and the "organization" he's inherited and mismanaged.
Only once in history has someone widely considered the greatest player of all time wanted to play for Washington's NBA team. Given the state of human civilization, odds are that will never happen again.
To allow his number to be worn by a guy who
doesn't even want to be here is a new low for a franchise that has for so long represented the NBA's rock bottom.