I had a summit at an East Village bar last night with two members of the SportsAngle brain trust Ã¢â‚¬â€œ Frank Pepe of Trumbull Island and Mr. Han, the self-appointed U.S. ambassador to Iceland Ã¢â‚¬â€œ and our conversation of course veered toward the Summer of LeBron.
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?