I wrote something on the Jam video with Michael Jackson and Michael Jordan last week for Dime Magazine, and was pretty pleased with the reception Ã¢â‚¬â€œ even the Jordan Brand seemed to dig it. (How about a pair of Concords to show that appreciation?)
But one group took some umbrage with some of my wording: fans of Michael Jackson, leading to an interesting Ã¢â‚¬â€œ and mutually respectful Ã¢â‚¬â€œ exchange in the Dime comment section.
IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢ve started doing some writing for Dime Magazine — itÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s really sort of a full-circle kind of thing, since they were the first publication that ever let me write anything way back almost a decade ago. I lost touch with them for a while while I pursued some other things, but I always enjoyed checking in to see how they were evolving, and IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢m excited to have recently gotten back in touch.
The post below is the second piece I wrote for Dime; this one was the first. (I donÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t plan to write about Michael Jordan in every post, itÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s just how itÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s worked out so far.) Check out their web site, they have great content every single day. And IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢m excited, as always, to broaden my horizons a bit.
The thing people donÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t get about sneaker collectors is that itÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s often not about the sneakers themselves, but rather the stories behind them. You always remember your first pair of Jordans in eighth grade, or the sneakers you started college in, or the pair you got to celebrate getting a job you really wanted.
IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢d say nothing calls your attention to the fact that youÃ¢â‚¬â„¢re vulnerable to the passage of time like waking up to the news that Macho Man Randy Savage has passed away.
IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢ve always thought that thereÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s an inherent loneliness that comes with preternatural talent.
Reflecting on the great moments one can produce with sheer physical or mental genius can be like walking through a hall of mirrors, fated to see endless glimpses of moments in time that can never be recaptured except through still or moving images.
When I look at Michael Jordan, I see a man trapped by his own greatness. The man was like Icarus; he reached heights unlike those reached by anyone else, but the problem with tasting a nectar that sweet is that itÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s difficult to put up the rest of your life by comparison.
IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢ve long been fascinated by JordanÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s ascent from mere mortal to demigod. Over time, as his talents and accomplishments grew, he metamorphosed from a high school kid to an NCAA championship hero, to a hotshot rookie to an NBA scoring leader, to an MVP to a champion Ã¢â‚¬â€œ and eventually to the greatest of all time. Not to mentionÃ¢â‚¬Â¦ a worldwide icon.
But at what cost to the manÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s soul?