The Bus Driver Who Took Michael Jordan to Every Away Game—His Current Life Will Leave You in Tears

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The Bus Driver Who Took Michael Jordan to Every Away Game

It was nearly midnight in downtown Chicago, the city’s lights reflected off slick winter streets as Michael Jordan’s Mercedes rolled to an uneasy stop outside Union Station. A grinding noise from under the hood finally forced him to pull over, steam rising into the frosty air. He sighed, glancing at his phone—11:47 p.m. “Perfect timing,” he muttered, dialing roadside assistance. The dispatcher promised help in forty-five minutes.

Restless, Michael stepped out into the cold, hands deep in his pockets. He watched the late-night shuttle vans circling the station, collecting tired travelers. One driver, in particular, caught his eye—a tall, elderly man moving with a slow but purposeful grace. He helped an elderly woman with her luggage, checked that everyone was safely seated, and adjusted the shuttle’s air conditioning before heading to the driver’s seat.

There was something familiar about the man’s manner: gentle, patient, quietly caring. When he passed under the streetlight, Michael saw his face clearly and his breath caught. It was Frank Morrison—the man who had driven the Laney High School basketball team to every away game for six years. Frank had been behind the wheel for some of the most important trips of Michael’s life, always steady, always supportive.

Michael stood frozen, watching as Frank carefully pulled away from the curb, his passengers safely aboard. The shuttle disappeared around the corner, leaving Michael standing in the quiet street with a thousand questions racing through his mind. Why was Frank still working? Why was he driving nights at his age? What had happened in the thirty years since they’d last seen each other?

By the time the tow truck arrived, Michael had made a decision. He was going to find Frank Morrison.

The next morning, Michael called the shuttle company. “I’m looking for one of your drivers,” he told the dispatcher. “Frank Morrison. He was working last night near Union Station.”

The woman’s voice brightened. “Oh, everyone knows Frank! He’s one of our best drivers. Been with us for about fifteen years now.”

“Fifteen years? How old is he?”

“Frank’s seventy-eight. But don’t let that fool you—he’s sharper than drivers half his age. Why do you ask?”

“I’m an old friend. Haven’t seen him in years. When does he usually work?”

“Frank works three shifts: mornings from six to ten, afternoons from two to six, and nights from ten to two. Seven days a week.”

Michael felt his stomach drop. “Seven days a week? At seventy-eight?”

“Frank never takes time off. Says he can’t afford to.”

After hanging up, Michael sat in his office, staring out at Lake Michigan. Frank Morrison was working twelve hours a day, seven days a week, at seventy-eight years old. There had to be a reason.

That afternoon, Michael drove to the shuttle company’s depot. He found Frank in the driver’s lounge, eating a sandwich and reading a paperback.

“Frank Morrison?” Michael approached slowly.

Frank looked up, and his weathered face broke into a wide smile. “Well, I’ll be damned—Michael Jordan.” He started to stand, but Michael waved him back down.

“Please, don’t get up. Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not. Though I gotta say, this is about the last place I’d expect to run into you.”

Michael sat across from Frank at the small table. Up close, he could see how much his former driver had aged—Frank’s hair was completely white now, his face deeply lined, but his eyes were still kind and alert.

“Frank, I saw you last night at Union Station. You were helping passengers.”

“Oh, you saw that? I thought that might’ve been you standing across the street. Wasn’t sure though. Been a long time.”

“It has. Frank, can I ask you something? Why are you still working at your age? Shouldn’t you be retired?”

Frank’s smile faded slightly. “Retirement’s a luxury some folks can’t afford, Michael.”

“What do you mean?”

Frank was quiet for a moment, then seemed to make a decision. “You remember my wife, Dolores? She used to come to some of the games.”

Michael nodded, recalling a cheerful woman who always waved from the stands.

“Dolores has Alzheimer’s,” Frank said quietly. “Been getting worse for about five years now. She’s in a memory care facility.”

Michael felt like he’d been punched. “Frank, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s a good place—the best we could find. But it costs four thousand a month, and Medicare doesn’t cover it all. My pension and Social Security don’t come close.” Frank took a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly. “So I work three shifts a day, seven days a week. Been doing it for three years now.”

“Three years, Frank? That’s incredible. But it’s also too much. You can’t keep this up forever.”

“I can keep it up as long as Dolores needs me to.”

The simple certainty in Frank’s voice hit Michael harder than any basketball loss ever had. “How often do you see her?”

“Every morning before my first shift. I bring her coffee and read her the newspaper. Most days she doesn’t remember me, but sometimes…” Frank’s voice broke slightly. “Sometimes she looks at me and says, ‘There’s my Frank.’ Those moments make it all worth it.”

Over the next hour, Frank shared more about his life—how he’d driven school buses for forty years before retiring, how he and Dolores had been married for fifty-two years, how they’d planned to travel in retirement, maybe see the Grand Canyon or visit their grandchildren in California.

“Instead, I’m driving strangers around Chicago at midnight,” Frank said with a rueful laugh. “Life’s funny sometimes.”

“Frank, do you remember the game against Charlotte Catholic my junior year?”

Frank’s eyes lit up. “Do I remember? That was the game that put you on the map! You scored thirty-eight points.”

“Thirty-six,” Michael corrected with a smile.

“Thirty-six, then. But I remember the ride back on the bus. You were so excited you couldn’t sit still. Kept asking me if I thought college scouts would notice.”

Michael laughed. “I was terrified they wouldn’t.”

“I told you that night that you were special. That you had something I’d never seen in forty years of driving kids to games. You had the fire.”

“You did. Still do, I imagine.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment.

“Frank, what you’re doing for Dolores—that’s love. Real love.”

“Fifty-two years of marriage, Michael. She stood by me through everything. Lost jobs, sick parents, all the ups and downs. Now it’s my turn to stand by her.”

“But working yourself to death isn’t what she’d want.”

Frank’s expression grew firm. “Maybe not. But it’s what I can do. It’s all I can do.”

Michael looked at this man who had driven him to some of the most important games of his life, who was now driving himself into the ground to care for the woman he loved.

“Frank, what if it wasn’t all you could do? What if there were other options?”

Frank studied Michael’s face. “What are you getting at?”

“I’m getting at the fact that you drove me to my dreams for six years. Maybe it’s time someone drove you to yours.”

Two days later, Michael met Frank at the memory care facility where Dolores lived. It was a nice place—clean, well-staffed, with gardens and common areas designed to be calming for residents with dementia.

Michael watched as Frank greeted his wife of fifty-two years. “Good morning, beautiful,” Frank said, kissing Dolores on the cheek. “I brought you coffee. Two sugars, just like always.”

Dolores looked at him with confusion. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Frank. Your husband.”

“I don’t think I’m married,” Dolores said, but she accepted the coffee gratefully. Frank sat beside her and opened the newspaper. “Let me read you the sports page. There’s a story about the Bulls.”

As Frank read, Michael saw something beautiful happen. Even though Dolores didn’t recognize her husband, she relaxed as he spoke. She smiled at his jokes, nodded at the news, and when he reached over to hold her hand, she didn’t pull away.

Love, Michael realized, didn’t always need memory to exist.

After the visit, Frank walked Michael to the parking lot. “She has good days and bad days,” Frank said. “Today was somewhere in between.”

“Frank, how much would it cost to keep Dolores here for the rest of her life?”

Frank looked uncomfortable. “Michael, I told you—”

“Just answer the question. How much?”

Frank calculated in his head. “Depending on how long… probably around three hundred thousand. Maybe more.”

“And what would you do if money wasn’t an issue? If you could afford the best possible care for Dolores without working yourself to death?”

Frank was quiet for a long moment. “I’d spend every minute I could with her. I’d read to her every day. I’d take her to the garden when the weather’s nice. I’d make sure she was never scared or confused alone.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.” Michael pulled out his checkbook.

“What are you doing?”

“Frank, forty years ago you drove a skinny kid to basketball games all over North Carolina. You encouraged him when he was scared, celebrated with him when he won, and never once made him feel like he was bothering you.”

“Michael, that was my job.”

“No, Frank. Driving the bus was your job. Caring about us, believing in us, making us feel safe—that was you being who you are.”

Michael wrote out a check for five hundred thousand dollars.

“This covers Dolores’s care for as long as she needs it, and it gives you the chance to be her husband instead of working three jobs to pay for her care.”

Frank stared at the check, his hands shaking. “I can’t accept this.”

“Yes, you can. Because this isn’t charity, Frank. This is payback. You drove me to my dreams. Now let me drive you to yours.”

Frank’s eyes filled with tears. “Michael, this is too much.”

“Frank, do you know what I’m worth?”

“I heard something about billions.”

“And do you know what’s worth more than all that money?”

Frank shook his head.

“The memory of a man who treated a teenage basketball player like he mattered. Who made him feel safe on long bus rides to scary games. Who believed in him before anyone else did. You can’t put a price on that kind of impact, Frank. But if you could, it would be a lot more than this check.”

Three weeks later, the shuttle company threw Frank Morrison a retirement party. Forty years of driving school buses, fifteen years of driving shuttles, and thousands of passengers whose lives he’d touched with his kindness and care. Michael was the guest of honor.

“Frank Morrison,” Michael told the gathered crowd, “drove the Laney High School basketball team to games for six years. But more than that, he drove us to believe in ourselves. Frank taught us that getting there safely was just as important as winning the game. He taught us to respect our opponents, support our teammates, and never give up on our dreams. Most importantly, Frank taught us what real loyalty looks like—what it means to show up for the people you care about, day after day, year after year, no matter how hard it gets.”

The crowd erupted in applause.

“Frank, you’ve spent your whole life driving other people to where they needed to go. Thank you for letting me return the favor.”

Six months later, Michael visited Frank and Dolores at the memory care facility. He found them in the garden, Frank reading aloud from a photo album while Dolores listened with peaceful attention.

“And this is from our honeymoon in Niagara Falls,” Frank was saying, pointing to a black and white photo. “You wore that blue dress I loved.”

Dolores studied the picture carefully. “She’s very pretty.”

“The prettiest,” Frank agreed.

When Frank saw Michael approaching, he stood up with a smile. “Michael! Perfect timing. I was just showing Dolores our old pictures.”

Michael sat down with him in the garden. “How’s she doing?”

“Good days and bad days, like always. But we’re having more good days lately. I think it’s because I’m not exhausted all the time anymore.”

“And how are you doing?”

Frank looked at his wife, who was now examining the flowers nearby. “I’m exactly where I need to be. Any regrets about retiring?”

“Only that I didn’t do it sooner. These past six months with Dolores—they’ve been the best we’ve had in years. Not because she’s better, but because I’m present. Really present.”

Frank picked a flower and handed it to Dolores, who smiled and tucked it behind her ear.

“You know what the funny thing is, Michael? All those years, I thought providing for her meant working as hard as I could. Turns out what she needed most was just having me here.”

Michael watched as Dolores leaned into Frank’s shoulder, content and safe.

“Frank, I have something to tell you. I’m starting a foundation for families dealing with Alzheimer’s and dementia. It’ll help with care costs, but also with support services for caregivers.”

Frank’s eyes widened. “Michael, that’s incredible.”

“I want to call it the Frank and Dolores Morrison Foundation for Family Caregivers.”

Frank was quiet for a long moment, overwhelmed. “You’ve given us so much already.”

“Frank, you gave me something more valuable than anything I could ever give you.”

“What’s that?”

“You showed me what it looks like to keep driving even when the road gets hard. You showed me what loyalty really means.”

Michael looked at the couple—still deeply in love after fifty-two years, still taking care of each other even when memory failed.

“Most importantly, you showed me that the most important trips aren’t the ones that make you famous. They’re the ones that bring you home.”

Today, the Frank and Dolores Morrison Foundation for Family Caregivers has helped thousands of families navigate the challenges of caring for loved ones with dementia. Frank Morrison, now eighty, spends his days with Dolores at the memory care facility. Some days she remembers him, some days she doesn’t. But every day, he shows up—with coffee, newspapers, and fifty-two years of love.

Michael Jordan visits them regularly—not as a celebrity, but as someone who learned from Frank that the real victory isn’t crossing the finish line first. It’s making sure everyone gets there safely.

In the lobby of the memory care facility, there’s a plaque that reads:
“In honor of Frank Morrison, who spent his life driving others to their dreams and taught us that love is the ultimate destination.”

And every morning at 9:00 a.m., Frank Morrison can be found in the garden with his wife, reading her stories about their life together—reminding her, and himself, that some journeys are worth taking over and over again.

Because sometimes, the most important thing you can do is keep showing up, keep driving forward, and never forget that love is always worth the trip.

That’s what Frank Morrison taught a teenage basketball player thirty years ago—and it’s what he’s still teaching anyone wise enough to watch and learn.

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