The sun was bright on that Chicago morning, casting its glow over the city’s skyline. Michael Jordan sat at his kitchen table, the warm sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his mansion. His home, a stunning showcase of his success, was peaceful that morning, with only the sound of soft jazz playing in the background. There were no games to attend, no sponsors demanding attention—just a rare moment of calm. This was his time. No crowds, no cameras, just some quiet to himself.
His kitchen was nothing short of spectacular, with smooth marble countertops that glistened under the sun’s rays. Everything was pristine: his coffee cup resting on a gold coaster, the fancy coffee machine that brewed drinks better than any cafe, and the delicious aroma of eggs and bacon still wafting from breakfast. Michael felt at ease as he sipped his coffee, enjoying the serenity of the morning.
Today wasn’t about basketball or business. It was about something simpler: catching up with old friends over coffee in the heart of the city. It had been a while since he’d allowed himself to just be Michael Jordan, not “The GOAT” or a global icon, but just a man with memories of championships and the life he’d built.
His home was a testament to his success. White marble floors gleamed, reflecting the many championship trophies that lined the shelves, along with jerseys from his most iconic games and photos of him soaring through the air. Each piece represented his journey, a history of victories that had shaped not only his career but the culture of basketball. The last shot he made against Utah in the 1998 finals, capturing the essence of his legendary career, sat framed in a corner. Michael often found himself lost in that photo, remembering the moment when he knew that shot was going in—his sixth championship, his legacy.
It was time to hit the road. He stood from his seat, smoothing his white T-shirt and black pants as he made his way toward the garage. His shoes, a pair of rare Air Jordans, caught the light as he walked, sparkling with every step. As he passed through the house, Michael couldn’t help but smile at the memories that surrounded him—everything was a reflection of his hard work, every achievement, every game.
In the garage, the centerpiece was waiting for him: his black Lamborghini Aventador. Unlike any other car, this vehicle was his pride and joy. Midnight black, so polished it looked like a mirror, the car had been a gift to himself after his final championship. It wasn’t just a car; it was a symbol of everything he had worked for. His hands ran over the cool metal of the hood, the sleek design reflecting the light as if the car was alive and waiting for him to drive it.
“Ready to shine, baby,” he said to himself with a smile, opening the door that lifted up like the wing of a bird. Inside, the car smelled of fresh leather, the seats custom-fit for him, the steering wheel engraved with his initials in red thread. Every detail was perfect, just like his game. He slid into the driver’s seat, starting the engine with a soft purr that quickly turned into a roaring lion’s growl. The car moved smoothly through the garage and onto the streets, its power at his fingertips.
The city looked beautiful that morning—quiet streets, clean air, and a few early risers on the sidewalk. Michael felt a sense of freedom as he drove, just as he had when he’d soared for a dunk during his playing days. As he passed by, he caught glimpses of people recognizing him. Some kids on the sidewalk cheered and waved, shouting, “That’s Jordan!” They pulled out their phones, snapping pictures as he gave them his signature wave. A few construction workers even stopped to watch as he drove by, one of them holding up a Bulls cap. Michael smiled back, enjoying the moment. This was the life he had worked for—freedom, respect, and admiration from all corners of the world.
But then, just as he turned a corner, Michael noticed something that felt off. A police car was stationed nearby, half-hidden behind a tree, and for some reason, he felt a sense of unease. His instincts, honed over years of competition, told him something wasn’t right. He glanced at his rearview mirror, and sure enough, the police cruiser pulled out behind him, following closely. Michael’s stomach tightened. He knew this game well—he had seen it happen to others, but never to him.
The flashing red and blue lights were like an ominous alarm ringing through his music. The sirens blared, loud and sharp, forcing him to pull over. Michael sighed and eased his car to the curb, his hands gripping the wheel. This wasn’t a normal traffic stop; he could feel it in his gut. He turned on his Instagram live, his fingers swiping across the screen to make sure the broadcast was recording. If something was going to go down, the world would see it.
As the police car stopped behind him, Michael began to speak directly to the camera. “Y’all watching?” he asked, his voice calm but serious. “Black man, nice car. You know what’s coming next.” The comments on his live feed exploded, with fans and followers flooding the screen with messages of support. “Stay safe, MJ! We got you,” they wrote. “Not the greatest of all time and look what’s happening right now.”
Michael’s eyes were locked on the officer approaching his car. Officer Thompson, around 45 with a shaved head and dark sunglasses, knocked sharply on the window, his demeanor aggressive and cold. Michael lowered the window just enough to talk but kept his hands visible, ready for whatever was coming. He asked calmly, “Everything okay, officer?”
The officer, without offering any explanation, ordered him to step out of the car. “Step out now,” he snapped. Michael, confused but composed, asked, “For what? I wasn’t speeding, wasn’t swerving. What’s the problem here?” But Officer Thompson wasn’t interested in dialogue. He repeated the command more aggressively.
The tension in the air was thick, and the crowd on the sidewalk started to grow, many of them recording the entire encounter. Michael stayed calm, his eyes never leaving Officer Thompson as he responded, “You still haven’t told me why you pulled me over. That’s the first thing you’re supposed to do, right?”
Officer Thompson didn’t answer. Instead, he began to yank Michael from the car, forcing him out. The crowd gasped as the scene unfolded. “He’s putting hands on Jordan! He’s touching the GOAT!” someone shouted. Michael kept his cool, speaking to his live audience, “Y’all see this? Greatest of all time, and look how they treat us.”
The officer, visibly agitated, tried to handcuff him, but the crowd’s reaction was swift. People yelled and shouted, with some even calling for justice. The scene felt like an intense moment in a game, the pressure mounting on Officer Thompson as more and more people took notice. Then, as if from nowhere, the sound of a new siren cut through the chaos. A black police SUV appeared, tires screeching as it pulled up to the scene.
Chief Martinez, a seasoned officer with 30 years of experience, stepped out. The crowd went quiet as she assessed the situation. Her voice was firm and commanding as she addressed Officer Thompson. “What in God’s name is going on here?” she demanded. The tension was palpable as she quickly realized what had happened. “You put Michael Jordan, six-time NBA champion, Olympic gold medalist, in handcuffs because he was ‘non-compliant’?”
The officer’s face turned white with embarrassment as Chief Martinez immediately took charge. “You’re done,” she said, her voice sharp. Officer Thompson’s hands shook as he removed his badge and handed it over to her.
Michael, his wrists sore from the handcuffs, stood tall. He turned to the young boy who had been watching, his eyes full of confusion and fear. Michael knelt down to the child’s level and smiled. “You okay, little man?” he asked. The boy nodded, still in awe. Michael placed his famous gold chain around the boy’s neck. “Remember this day,” he said. “Remember that standing up for what’s right is always the winning move.”
The crowd cheered as the officers left, and the little boy beamed with pride, his new chain gleaming in the sunlight. Michael Jordan had taught him, and everyone watching, that courage and integrity could change the world.
As the story made its way through social media, the world began to talk. The WNBA, the NBA, even the police department, began reflecting on what had happened. Michael Jordan, with a simple but powerful stand for justice, had changed the game—not just in basketball, but in the world.
Here’s what happened to the $2 million Michael Jordan donated in 2016
Four years ago, MJ gave money to two organizations to foster social change
On July 25, 2016, following the police-involved shootings of two black men, Philando Castile and Alton Sterling, and the fatal shooting of five Dallas police officers at a protest, Charlotte Hornets owner Michael Jordan donated $1 million each to two organizations in an effort to “foster greater understanding, positive change and create a more peaceful world for ourselves, our children, our families and our communities,” he wrote in a letter that appeared on The Undefeated.
Those donations to the NAACP Legal Defense and Educational Fund, Inc. (LDF) and International Association of Chiefs of Police (IACP) were notable, not just because of the size of the grants, but also because of the notable reputation of Jordan.
Throughout his 15-year NBA career, Jordan was a global marketing superstar, with endorsement deals from the likes of Nike, Hanes, Gatorade, McDonald’s and Coca-Cola. He was able to captivate the entire country by the sheer force of his charisma and basketball talent — over a six-season stretch, Jordan averaged 33 points a game, which is insane to type — but also his general ability to not offend the masses. Jordan reportedly once said, “Republicans buy sneakers, too,” a claim he never admitted to until the recent release of ESPN’s The Last Dance documentary.
So, when Jordan announced he would be donating $2 million on July 25, 2016, as a way of furthering social change, society took notice.
Four years later, here’s what happened to all that money.
The organizations
In 2016, Sherrilyn Ifill, president and director-counsel of the LDF, and Chief Terrence M. Cunningham of the IACP appeared on the July 10 episode of the CBS program Face the Nation. They were there to discuss the distance between law enforcement and African American communities across the country. Two weeks later, Jordan’s people called.
“Our executive director got an email out of the blue on a Sunday evening at 7 o’clock, where they said that they had a donor that wanted to make a million-dollar donation to the IACP,” Cunningham told The Undefeated.
Jordan announced the grants the next day and said he chose the LDF, which separated from the NAACP in 1957, and IACP because he believed the two organizations could “make a positive difference” while the country reeled from the recent acts of violence against African Americans and police officers.
Ifill believes the LDF was chosen because of its prioritization of constitutional protections for black people and its ability to “directly engage” with law enforcement.
“We understood that Mr. Jordan was deeply concerned about what he saw — what all Americans were seeing at that time — police killings of unarmed African Americans and a total disconnect in most instances between the way community members and civil rights groups were talking about the issue and the way law enforcement was talking about it,” Ifill said via email.
Cunningham, a retired Wellesley, Massachusetts, police chief and current deputy executive director of the IACP, said his organization’s ability to change its policy likely made it an attractive law enforcement organization for Jordan. That same year, the IACP had organized a meeting of 17 law enforcement organizations that developed a national consensus use-of-force policy for officers.
“I think it was the breadth and the reach of IACP that the Jordan folks saw when they vetted us,” Cunningham said. “And then you combine that with the power of our relationship with the legal defense fund, there’s a real opportunity for change there.”
With the $1 million grant, the LDF was able to further employ staff — attorneys, researchers and organizers to assist with the work of the campaign — in critical cities that have dealt with community-police issues in recent years: from monitoring consent decrees between the Justice Department and the cities of Baltimore and Ferguson, Missouri to working with community members in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and North Charleston, South Carolina, following the respective shooting deaths of Terence Crutcher and Walter Scott by police officers.
Jordan’s donation, Ifill says, was also instrumental in supporting the LDF’s Race and Policing Reform Campaign, created in 2018 to “promote unbiased and responsible policing policies and practices at the national, state and local levels,” according to the LDF website. The funds were used to support staffing hires, travel, community initiatives and convenings, as well as strategic communications, including research and publications.
Ifill said an association with Jordan has allowed the LDF to attract other donors. That directly has provided financing to allow the organization to track the federal funding of police departments and make sure the departments are in compliance with Title VI of the 1964 Civil Rights Act, which forbids discrimination on the basis of “race, color, and national origin.”
“It has allowed us to respond quickly when terrible police killings of unarmed black people occur, but it’s also allowed us to anticipate issues and intervene to amplify community voices, or to use our own voices in direct communication with law enforcement,” Ifill said.
For the IACP, Cunningham and his colleagues stressed using the grant for substantive programming that could make a difference rather than what Cunningham called “bulls—.” Jordan’s donation, along with other federal grants, has helped grow the IACP’s Institute for Community-Police Relations, whose mission is to “advance a culture of cohesion and trust between police and the communities they serve.”
The grant covered: two 15-week courses at Howard University, a historically black college and university in Washington, that sought to build a relationship between the police and African Americans (each class was open to 15 students and 15 law enforcement leaders); a postsecondary academic curriculum centered on engaging conversations between law enforcement and communities at George Mason University (in which 15 students and 15 law enforcement leaders participated); another class at the University of Denver (where 40 students and police officers participated); youth-centered programming; task force training; and the organization’s Trust Initiative, a campaign aimed at “[inspiring] law enforcement officials across the world to join members of their communities in healing and building trust,” according to a 53-page document the IACP sent Jordan’s team this year documenting how the grant was used that Cunningham shared with The Undefeated.
“We said, ‘Look, this is like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for us to really try to make a change and do things differently and change the profession,’ ” Cunningham said.
The grant also provided training and educational material for departments when speaking with disenfranchised groups, which a lot of them had never done before.
“You start telling a young white cop, particularly from a privileged police department, that when you stop an African American person for speeding, there are two different lenses there,” Cunningham said. “You’re looking through the lens of, ‘Hey, I’m just stopping another car.’ They’re looking through the lens of, ‘Oh, my God, what’s going to happen? Are they going to shoot me? Are they going to hurt me? Are they gonna kill me?’ ”
