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Too good to be true
Dear Mr. Jordan,
I remember it like it was yesterday.
A tall, dark figure etched like a splinter in my mind. The red and white capped on your broad shoulders. The infamous 23 embroidered on your back the number that speaks a thousand words.
I remember "the shot" in 1982 that propelled the North Carolina Tar Heels to victory and a baby-faced kid to a new calling.
You came at a time when all young boys needed a hero. Like Superman vying aginst Lex Luthor, you never let the villain better you. You were a player, a hero, an entire league.
I remember Craig Ehlo watching hopelessly as you hung, for virtually a lifetime and stuck a dagger through the hearts of Cleveland fans everywhere. It was the beginning of many special moments, which logic can't explain.
Young boys across the globe played for you. Late nights and snow-filled blacktops were no match for the dream. For one instant, "I could be like Mike."
I vividly remember the night in 1997 when you were so ill you needed assistance by Scottie Pippen to exit the court, yet still single-handedly decimated the Utah Jazz, scoring 38 points. Nothing was left on the floor, only a moment in time that will add to the legacy.
I remember the playoff showdown in 1992 against the Portland Trailblazers and Clyde "the Glide" Drexler. It was as if you were throwing a pebble into the ocean, seemingly every shot destined to tickle the twine.
Like the Cinderella story, you inked-out a career no one could have imagined. From a high-school cut to the greatness you are today, it was like God had a preordained idea for you to grace our lives.
The last memory I have of you is your game-winning shot against the Jazz to win the 1998 NBA championship. All eyes from Saskatoon to Sydney were mesmerized, waiting for you to do what you had done so many times in the past. And before we could blink, it was over.
My infatuation with you may be selfish, but I offer no apologies. I want to hold on to all those moments that were so dear. They are sacred and live in the hearts of Bulls fans everywhere. I can't fathom the thought of an old, fallen Jordan declining faster than a frosh's grades in university.
As you attempt to ante up a second time, remember: the Washington Wizards are not the Chicago Bulls, you are forty years old, not twenty-five, and Allen Iverson, Kobe Bryant and Vince Carter are primed to tear you to shreds.
Michael, I've seen enough. Protect the legacy.
Your greatest fan.