When Michael Jordan stepped onto the stage at Symphony Hall in Springfield, Massachusetts, the air was thick with anticipation. It was the moment he’d worked toward his entire life—the day he would finally enter the Basketball Hall of Fame. As he adjusted the microphone and prepared to speak, the entire auditorium held its breath, waiting to hear from the greatest basketball player of all time.
Halfway through his speech, Michael’s phone buzzed loudly on the podium, vibrating insistently. A ripple of confusion passed through the crowd as Michael paused, glancing quickly at the illuminated screen. His expression changed instantly from composed to startled, and then deeply reflective.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Michael said slowly, his voice noticeably shaken, “please excuse me for just a moment. I need to take this call.”
The murmurs grew louder as Michael stepped away from the microphone, phone pressed firmly to his ear. Observers strained to catch fragments of the conversation, noticing his intense focus, the urgent set of his jaw.
In the back of the hall, away from the spotlights, sat an elderly man in a wheelchair. Zara Chen, a young reporter covering the ceremony, had noticed him earlier. Now, she watched as Michael Jordan’s eyes locked onto the man from across the room. The phone call ended, and without another word, Michael moved swiftly through the crowd toward the figure at the back.
As Michael approached, memories surged back with vivid clarity—scenes of dusty playgrounds in Wilmington, North Carolina, afternoons spent shooting hoops until twilight faded into night. It was the face of Deacon Mills, his childhood friend and fierce basketball rival, a boy whose life had dramatically diverged from Michael’s due to a devastating accident decades earlier.
“Deacon,” Michael whispered, voice trembling as he knelt beside the wheelchair. “It’s been too long.”
Deacon Mills looked frail, his once powerful build diminished by years and illness, but his eyes still burned with the same intensity Michael remembered.
“I didn’t want to interrupt your big day, Mike,” Deacon said, his voice weak but steady. “But there wasn’t any time left. I needed to see you.”
Michael felt the weight of the moment, the years of silence and unanswered questions pressing heavily between them. “Why did you disappear, Deacon? I’ve searched everywhere.”
“After the accident, seeing your success was too painful,” Deacon confessed softly. “I couldn’t bear watching you live the dream we had both chased, knowing mine was over. So, I ran from everything, including you.”
Michael felt a deep pang of sorrow and guilt. “You were always stronger, faster, better than me. Everyone knew it. It should have been both of us up there today.”
Deacon smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Coach Patterson knew differently. He saw something in you I never had—the hunger, the fight. He knew you’d become a legend.”
“I never forgot you,” Michael insisted earnestly, placing a hand gently on Deacon’s arm. “Every victory, every championship—I carried the memory of our games, our friendship.”
A shadow crossed Deacon’s face. “There’s something else, Mike. Something you deserve to know.” He hesitated, gathering strength. “The accident—it wasn’t just bad luck. Marcus, my cousin, drove recklessly because I pushed him. I was jealous and angry that you’d made varsity and I hadn’t. It was my fault.”
Michael absorbed the revelation quietly, sadness and understanding mingling in his expression. “We were kids, Deacon. We made mistakes. I don’t blame you.”
“I’ve carried that guilt my whole life,” Deacon admitted, voice quivering. “Afterwards, I tried to make amends quietly. I changed my name to James Williams, coached youth basketball, ran your foundation for injured young athletes. It was my way of staying close, of contributing to the dreams we once shared.”
“That was you?” Michael asked, stunned. “All these years, you’ve been helping those kids in my name?”
Deacon nodded slowly. “It felt like a way to heal, to make peace with my past and our friendship.”
Michael reached into his jacket, pulling out a small velvet box. Inside gleamed a Laney High Championship ring. “I had this made after senior year,” Michael explained softly. “I’ve carried it with me ever since, hoping one day I could give it to you. It symbolizes everything we worked for, everything we dreamed.”
Deacon’s eyes filled with tears as Michael slipped the ring onto his thin finger. “Thank you,” he whispered, gripping Michael’s hand weakly. “For everything.”
The hours passed quietly in Deacon’s hospital room, Marcus Wilson, Deacon’s former student and close confidant, joining Michael at his side. Together they shared stories, laughter mingling with tears, recalling basketball games, friends long gone, dreams lost and found.
By evening, Deacon’s breathing slowed, and a serene peace settled over him. Michael held his hand firmly, knowing each heartbeat mattered. As Deacon closed his eyes for the last time, a gentle smile lingered on his lips, reflecting the peace he’d finally achieved.
Days later, at the resumed Hall of Fame induction ceremony, Michael stood again before a hushed audience. This time, his speech carried a new depth.
“Basketball taught me about competition and victory, but my greatest lessons came from friendship and forgiveness,” Michael said, emotion evident in his voice. “Today, I stand here not just for myself, but for Deacon Mills, who taught me what it means to overcome and to forgive.”
The crowd erupted in applause, moved by the heartfelt tribute. Zara Chen, watching from her seat, knew she’d witnessed something profound—a story not just about basketball, but about the enduring strength of friendship, redemption, and the human spirit.
As Michael stepped away, he felt a deep peace, carrying within him not just the honor of the Hall of Fame, but the memory and legacy of the friend who had shaped his life in ways far deeper than basketball ever could.
Michael Jordan takes final shots at Hall of Fame induction
Emotional Jordan “thanks” those who lit his competitive fire but saves best shot for Jerry Krause.
Michael Jordan speaks during his induction into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame on September 11, 2009, in Springfield, Massachusetts.
Jim Rogash/Getty Images
SPRINGFIELD, Mass. — After sitting through an eight-minute video of highlights and testimonials to his tremendous career, Michael Jordan approached the podium Friday night at Symphony Hall to thunderous applause with tears streaming down his face.
But anyone expecting perhaps the greatest competitor in NBA history enter the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame with overflowing sentiment and sweetness was soon jolted back to reality.
Jordan quickly regained his composure and talked about the competitive fire that fueled his accomplishments — and napalmed some of his former rivals — in a speech that was anything but sweet and sentimental.
That much was obvious early on when Jordan talked about why he chose former North Carolina State great David Thompson to be his sponsor instead of someone associated with his alma mater, North Carolina. He said he simply admired Thompson while he was growing up in North Carolina.
’”When I called him and asked him to stand up for me, I know I shocked the [crap] out of him; I know I did,’’ Jordan said. ‘’But he kindly said, ‘Yeah, I’ll do it.’’’
As for his legendary competitive fire, Jordan cited his family for bringing out those competitive juices.
“You guys ask me where my competitive nature comes from? It came from them,’’ he said. “They started the fire in me. That fire started with my parents and as I moved on in my career, people added wood to that fire.’’
An early example, Jordan cited, was when he was cut from his high school varsity team as a sophomore.
“You guys think that’s a myth,’’ he said. ‘’Leroy Smith was a guy that when I got cut he made the team on the varsity team. He’s still the same 6-7 guy, he’s not any bigger and his game is probably the same.
“But he started the whole process with me, because when he made the team and I didn’t, I wanted to prove — not just to Leroy Smith, not just to myself — but to the coach who actually picked Leroy over me. I wanted to prove, ‘’You made a mistake, dude.’’’
Jordan invited Smith to the ceremony.
Buzz Peterson was another motivating factor for Jordan because Peterson was selected as the North Carolina player of the year when they were high school seniors.
“All I heard was there was this kid from Asheville, North Carolina, who was player of the year,’’ Jordan said. ‘’I’m thinking, ‘Well, he ain’t never played against me yet, so how did he become player of the year?’”
When Jordan got to Carolina, Peterson was his roommate.
“From that point on,’’ Jordan said, “he became a focal point — not knowingly; he didn’t know it, but he did.”
Jordan also told a story about how he battled Bulls chairman Jerry Reinsdorf to let him return late in his second NBA season after missing much of the year with a broken foot. The Bulls were hesitant to let Jordan play that year because there was a 10 percent chance he could reinjure the foot.
In this Sept. 11, 2009, file photo, Michael Jordan cries as he takes the podium during his enshrinement ceremony into the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield, Mass.
Stephan Savoia/AP
“Jerry said, ‘If you had a headache and there were 10 [Tylenol] tablets and one of them contained cyanide, what would you do?’” Jordan said. ‘’I said, ‘How bad is the headache?’’’
Soon after Jordan was back on the court.
He also “thanked” Isiah Thomas (for allegedly orchestrating the freeze out of Jordan in his first All-Star Game), Pat Riley, Jeff Van Gundy (‘’The little guy who took over for Riley’’), Bryon Russell and other opponents for adding wood to the fire.
Jordan had only kind words for his teammates — Scottie Pippen, Toni Kukoc, Steve Kerr, Charles Oakley and Dennis Rodman attended — and coach Phil Jackson.
But Jordan couldn’t resist taking a shot at former general manager Jerry Krause over his “protest” by not attending the ceremony.
“Jerry Krause is not here,” he said. “I don’t know who invited him. I didn’t.”
To be sure, it felt more like a roast rebuttal than a Hall acceptance speech. Some of his victims probably wished he simply said ‘’Thank you’’ and sat down, like he told some friends he would do.
