Michael Jordan Stops to Help Elderly Mechanic, Discovers He Taught Him How to Drive
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Title: Michael Jordan Stops to Help Elderly Mechanic, Discovers He Taught Him How to Drive
Introduction
On a rainy afternoon in Chicago, fate had a peculiar way of intertwining the lives of two seemingly different individuals. One was a basketball legend, Michael Jordan, whose name echoed through arenas and whose legacy was etched in the annals of sports history. The other was an elderly mechanic, Mr. Henry Wilson, who had spent decades teaching young drivers the fundamentals of the road. When Michael’s luxury SUV broke down, he found himself at a modest auto repair shop, unaware that the man he was about to meet was not just a mechanic but a mentor from his past. What began as a chance encounter would lead to a profound reunion, revealing how the lessons of a forgotten teacher shaped the mindset of greatness.
As Michael Jordan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, raindrops raced down his windshield, the wipers sweeping back and forth against the steady autumn shower. He was driving his black Range Rover through the outskirts of Chicago, having just visited his old neighborhood, where the Bulls had first made him feel at home nearly 40 years ago. “Still looks the same,” he muttered to himself, a small smile playing on his lips. At 60 years old, Michael’s face had changed—more lines around his eyes, a touch of gray in his close-cropped hair—but his 6’6″ frame still commanded attention wherever he went. Today, he wore a simple navy sweater and jeans, trying to blend in as much as someone of his fame could.
He was in town for a special Bulls event the following night, where the team was honoring him and several former teammates at the United Center. These events always brought back a flood of memories—the championships, the struggles, the brotherhood of those teams. Michael turned up the radio as an old song came on, the rain coming down harder now, drumming against the roof of his SUV. The streets were emptier out here, away from downtown—just small shops, gas stations, and houses with yellowing lawns preparing for winter.
That’s when he heard it—a strange clicking sound from somewhere under the hood, followed by a whining noise that grew louder. “What the—?” Michael frowned, leaning forward slightly as if that would help him hear better. A warning light flashed on the dashboard, and the steering suddenly felt heavy in his hands. The car began to slow, even though his foot was still on the gas pedal. “Come on, not now,” he muttered, scanning the roadside for a place to pull over. Up ahead, he spotted an old gas station with a small garage attached. The sign, partially obscured by the rain, read “Wilson’s Auto Repair.”
Michael guided his struggling vehicle toward it, the engine now making alarming sounds. He managed to pull into the lot just as the car gave one final shudder and died completely. He sat for a moment, rain pounding on the roof, and pulled out his phone—no signal. “Perfect,” he sighed, slipping the useless phone back into his pocket.
Popping the hood, he stepped out into the rain, which immediately soaked into his sweater as he walked to the front of the car. Steam rose from the engine, mixing with the cool rain. He didn’t know much about cars; he could change a tire if needed, but anything under the hood was beyond him. That’s what happened when you had people taking care of such things for most of your adult life. He looked toward the garage; a light was on inside, and he could see movement. Someone was there, at least.
Michael closed the hood and jogged toward the building, raindrops sliding down his face. The garage door was open, revealing a workshop that looked like it hadn’t changed much since the 1970s. Tools hung in neat rows on the walls, an old radio played soft jazz from a shelf cluttered with parts, and the concrete floor was stained with decades of oil and grease. In the middle of it all stood an elderly man bent over the engine of an old Chevy.
All Michael could see was his back, slightly stooped, dressed in worn blue coveralls. A white head of hair caught the fluorescent light from above. “Excuse me,” Michael called out, “my car broke down outside. Wondering if you could help me out.” The old man didn’t look up immediately; his age-spotted hands continued working, turning a wrench with careful precision. They shook slightly with the effort but moved with the confidence of someone who had done this same task thousands of times.
“Be with you in a moment,” came the reply, his voice gravelly but strong. Michael stepped further into the garage, out of the rain, rubbing his arms, suddenly aware of how wet and cold he was. The garage smelled of oil, rubber, and something else—maybe coffee brewing somewhere in the back. Looking around, Michael noticed a small office to the side. Through its window, he could see a desk covered with papers and walls lined with photos and what looked like newspaper clippings. A basketball trophy sat on a shelf, tarnished with age.
The old man finally straightened up with a small groan, wiped his hands on a rag tucked into his belt, and turned around. He was probably in his 80s, with a face weathered by time. Deep wrinkles mapped his forehead and the corners of his eyes, but those eyes themselves were sharp—a clear, bright blue that seemed to take in everything about Michael in one glance. What surprised Michael most was that there was no flash of recognition in those eyes. Usually, even people who tried to play it cool couldn’t help that initial widening of the eyes, that subtle shift in posture when they realized who he was.
“What seems to be the trouble?” the old man asked simply, as if Michael were any other customer who had wandered in on this rainy afternoon. “Car died on me just outside,” Michael explained, gesturing toward the lot. “Warning light came on, then strange noises, then just died.” The man nodded, reaching for a rain jacket hanging on a hook by the door. “Let’s take a look then. I’m Henry Wilson,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Michael Jordan,” Michael replied, shaking the offered hand. Henry’s grip was firm despite his age, his palm calloused from decades of manual work. Still, no recognition either. Henry Wilson had been living under a rock for the past 40 years, or he was the best actor Michael had ever met. “Well, Mr. Jordan, let’s see what’s wrong with your vehicle,” Henry said.
Henry circled the Range Rover once, his eyes taking in the vehicle with a professional gaze. “Nice car,” he said simply, without the tone of awe most people used when commenting on Michael’s possessions. “It’s reliable, usually,” Michael replied, feeling oddly defensive. Henry nodded and gestured for Michael to pop the hood. As the latch released with a click, Henry lifted the heavy hood with surprising strength for a man his age. He propped it open and bent over the engine compartment, flashlight in hand.
“When did the warning light come on?” Henry asked, his voice slightly muffled. “About a mile back. Then it made clicking sounds, then whining, then just died.” Henry hummed to himself, moving the flashlight methodically across the engine components. His hands, though spotted with age and slightly trembling, moved with certainty. “Your alternator’s gone bad,” he said after a few minutes of inspection. “Battery’s drained too as a result.”
Michael shifted his weight, rain dripping from his nose. “Can you fix it?”
“I can,” Henry straightened up, “but I’ll need to order the part. Won’t come until tomorrow morning at the earliest.” Michael checked his watch. He had a dinner with Bulls executives in three hours. “Is there a rental place nearby, or can you call me a cab?”
Henry shook his head. “Nothing out here. I could give you a ride somewhere if you need, though.”
“That would be great,” Michael said, relieved. “I appreciate it.” They walked back to the garage, both men hunched against the rain. Inside, Michael watched as Henry called his parts supplier, arranging for the alternator to be delivered first thing tomorrow. There was something calming about the old man’s efficiency, his lack of wasted words or movements.
“You got a card for the tow company?” Michael asked, reaching for his wallet. “I can have them pick it up.”
“No need for that,” Henry interrupted. “Car’s already here. I can work on it tomorrow when the part comes in.”
Michael nodded. Most people would be falling over themselves to help him, making a big show of it. Henry’s matter-of-fact attitude was refreshing.
“So, Henry,” he said, hanging up the phone, “what brings you to this part of town? Not many folks your age come through here unless they’re lost.”
Michael smiled at that. “Just visiting my old neighborhood. I used to live in Chicago. Here for an event with the Bulls.”
“The basketball team?” Henry asked, wiping his hands on a rag.
Michael stared at him. Was it possible this man truly didn’t know who he was? “Yeah, the basketball team.”
“Always liked basketball,” Henry said, limping over to a small coffee maker in the corner of his office. “Been a Bulls fan since the ‘70s. You follow them?”
Michael couldn’t help but laugh. “You could say that.”
Henry glanced at him, one eyebrow raised as he poured coffee into two mugs. “Something funny about that?”
“No, sir,” Michael said, slipping out automatically, the way it did when he was talking to someone who reminded him of his father. “I played for them, actually.”
“For a while?”
Henry’s eyes widened. “Professional player? Well, with your height, I suppose that makes sense.”
Michael sat down, his mug in hand, a strange feeling settling in his chest. For decades, people had told him how great he was, how he changed the game for the better. But here was this old man, unimpressed, unknowingly criticizing him to his face. Oddly enough, Michael wasn’t offended. There was something honest about Henry’s assessment, something that cut through the decades of myth-making.
“Anyway,” Henry said, checking his watch, “where can I drop you? I’m guessing you need to get to that Bulls event.”
Michael checked his own watch. “I’ve got a dinner downtown at 7, but it’s only 4:30 now.” He looked at his stranded SUV through the window, rain still streaming down its black paint. “Mind if I hang around while you close up shop? I could help if you want.”
Henry seemed surprised by the offer. “You want to help in those clothes?”
Michael glanced down at his now damp designer sweater and shrugged. “It’ll dry.”
Henry studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Could use a hand, actually. I was working on Mrs. Diaz’s Chevy before you came in. Just doing some basic maintenance, but these old hands aren’t as quick as they used to be.”
“Lead the way,” Michael said, rolling up his sleeves. They moved to the old Chevy, its hood still open. Henry handed Michael a flashlight. “Hold this steady for me, would you?”
Michael did as asked, directing the beam where Henry pointed. For the next 20 minutes, they worked in comfortable silence, broken only by Henry’s occasional request for a different tool or for Michael to adjust the light.
“You know much about cars?” Henry finally asked, tightening a bolt with careful precision.
“Not really,” Michael admitted. “My dad used to work on our old Ford when I was a kid. I’d help sometimes, holding the light just like this. But once I started making decent money, I always just took my cars to the dealer.”
Henry grunted. “Dealers charge triple for what I do. But I suppose if you’ve got the money, it’s convenient.”
“My father would agree with you,” Michael said, thinking of his dad.
Henry followed his gaze to the clipping. “For 30 years, I taught auto shop, drivers ed, and coached basketball at Laney High in North Carolina before moving to Chicago.”
Michael felt his heart skip a beat. Laney High in Wilmington? “That’s right,” Henry nodded. “You know the area?”
Before Michael could answer, the phone on Henry’s desk rang. The old man answered it, speaking briefly to someone about a repair job scheduled for tomorrow. Michael used the moment to study the office more carefully. His eyes landed on a class photo hanging near the door. It showed rows of teenagers standing in front of a line of old cars, with Henry and another teacher standing at the ends. The label at the bottom read “Laney High Drivers Education, Spring 1978.”
Michael moved closer, scanning the young faces. And there, in the back row, because of his height, stood a skinny teenager with a serious expression—himself at 15 years old. His breath caught in his throat. Could it really be? Had fate somehow brought him to the shop of his own driver’s education teacher from all those years ago?
“Mr. Wilson,” Michael said slowly, “I think I was in your driver’s ed class at Laney High.”
Henry squinted at him, tilting his head slightly. “Where are you now? Can’t say I call every student.”
He smiled gently, the way he did when he was teaching. “Taught hundreds over the years.”
Michael wasn’t offended. Why would Henry remember him? He hadn’t been Michael Jordan then, just Michael—a growing boy who loved basketball more than anything. “It was 1978,” Michael said. “Spring semester.”
Henry’s eyes drifted back to the photo. “That’s a small world.”
He didn’t seem particularly impressed by the coincidence. “You were a good driver back then,” Michael laughed.
“Not at first,” Henry said, catching the memory. “But you were strict about doing things right, following the rules.”
“Still am,” Henry said with a small smile.
Thunder cracked outside, making both men glance toward the window. The rain showed no signs of letting up. “My family moved to Chicago in ’82,” Henry said, easing himself back into his chair. “Martha got a job at the university, opened this shop a year later. Been here ever since.”
“And you still follow the Bulls?” Michael noted.
“Hard not to in Chicago,” Henry replied. “But I don’t get to games much anymore. Ticket prices, parking, crowds—easier to watch on TV.”
“You don’t watch much basketball now?” Michael asked.
Henry shrugged. “Game’s different. Too much showboating, not enough fundamentals.” He gave Michael a pointed look.
“You played, you said? When was that?”
Michael hesitated. “Through the ‘90s mostly.”
Henry said with a nod, “Those were good teams.”
Michael couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, they were.”
An old clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence that followed. Michael found himself wondering what would happen if he told Henry who he really was. Would the old man be impressed? Embarrassed about his earlier comments? Or would he just nod and continue treating Michael exactly the same way?
Somehow, Michael suspected the latter. There was something refreshingly solid about Henry Wilson—something unchangeable. A man who had taught generations of young people and treated them all the same, with firm expectations and simple respect.
“You said you have kids?” Henry asked, breaking the silence.
Michael nodded. “Five. Three boys, two girls.”
“Good drivers?”
Michael laughed. “I made sure of it. Remembered your lessons when I taught them.”
Henry smiled at that, a genuine smile that lit up his weathered face. “That’s the thing about teaching. You never know what sticks, what gets passed down.”
He gestured to the photo. “Most of those kids probably don’t remember my name, but maybe something I taught them helped keep them safe on the road.”
That’s enough, Michael thought about all the coaches he’d had over the years—how their voices still echoed in his head sometimes during difficult moments—how he’d passed their wisdom on to his own children, often word for word.
“Footage isn’t the same,” Henry insisted. “You had to be there, feel the energy in the building.”
His eyes took on a distant look. “Took my son to see the Bulls in ’72. Tickets were $12. Now you can’t get in the door for less than a hundred.”
“Times change,” Michael thought. “Some things change for the better.”
Henry replied, “But I suppose if you’ve got the money, it’s convenient.”
“My father would agree with you,” Michael said, thinking of his dad.
Henry followed his gaze to the clipping. “For 30 years, I taught auto shop, drivers ed, and coached basketball at Laney High in North Carolina before moving to Chicago.”
Michael felt his heart skip a beat. Laney High in Wilmington? “That’s right,” Henry nodded. “You know the area?”
Before Michael could answer, the phone on Henry’s desk rang. The old man answered it, speaking briefly to someone about a repair job scheduled for tomorrow. Michael used the moment to study the office more carefully. His eyes landed on a class photo hanging near the door. It showed rows of teenagers standing in front of a line of old cars, with Henry and another teacher standing at the ends. The label at the bottom read “Laney High Drivers Education, Spring 1978.”
Michael moved closer, scanning the young faces. And there, in the back row, because of his height, stood a skinny teenager with a serious expression—himself at 15 years old. His breath caught in his throat. Could it really be? Had fate somehow brought him to the shop of his own driver’s education teacher from all those years ago?
“Mr. Wilson,” Michael said slowly, “I think I was in your driver’s ed class at Laney High.”
Henry squinted at him, tilting his head slightly. “Where are you now? Can’t say I call every student.”
He smiled gently, the way he did when he was teaching. “Taught hundreds over the years.”
Michael wasn’t offended. Why would Henry remember him? He hadn’t been Michael Jordan then, just Michael—a growing boy who loved basketball more than anything. “It was 1978,” Michael said. “Spring semester.”
Henry’s eyes drifted back to the photo. “That’s a small world.”
He didn’t seem particularly impressed by the coincidence. “You were a good driver back then,” Michael laughed.
“Not at first,” Henry said, catching the memory. “But you were strict about doing things right, following the rules.”
“Still am,” Henry said with a small smile.
Thunder cracked outside, making both men glance toward the window. The rain showed no signs of letting up. “My family moved to Chicago in ’82,” Henry said, easing himself back into his chair. “Martha got a job at the university, opened this shop a year later. Been here ever since.”
“And you still follow the Bulls?” Michael noted.
“Hard not to in Chicago,” Henry replied. “But I don’t get to games much anymore. Ticket prices, parking, crowds—easier to watch on TV.”
“You don’t watch much basketball now?” Michael asked.
Henry shrugged. “Game’s different. Too much showboating, not enough fundamentals.” He gave Michael a pointed look.
“You played, you said? When was that?”
Michael hesitated. “Through the ‘90s mostly.”
Henry said with a nod, “Those were good teams.”
Michael couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, they were.”
An old clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence that followed. Michael found himself wondering what would happen if he told Henry who he really was. Would the old man be impressed? Embarrassed about his earlier comments? Or would he just nod and continue treating Michael exactly the same way?
Somehow, Michael suspected the latter. There was something refreshingly solid about Henry Wilson—something unchangeable. A man who had taught generations of young people and treated them all the same, with firm expectations and simple respect.
“You said you have kids?” Henry asked, breaking the silence.
Michael nodded. “Five. Three boys, two girls.”
“Good drivers?”
Michael laughed. “I made sure of it. Remembered your lessons when I taught them.”
Henry smiled at that, a genuine smile that lit up his weathered face. “That’s the thing about teaching. You never know what sticks, what gets passed down.”
He gestured to the photo. “Most of those kids probably don’t remember my name, but maybe something I taught them helped keep them safe on the road.”
That’s enough, Michael thought about all the coaches he’d had over the years—how their voices still echoed in his head sometimes during difficult moments—how he’d passed their wisdom on to his own children, often word for word.
“Footage isn’t the same,” Henry insisted. “You had to be there, feel the energy in the building.”
His eyes took on a distant look. “Took my son to see the Bulls in ’72. Tickets were $12. Now you can’t get in the door for less than a hundred.”
“Times change,” Michael thought. “Some things change for the better.”
Henry replied, “But I suppose if you’ve got the money, it’s convenient.”
“My father would agree with you,” Michael said, thinking of his dad.
Henry followed his gaze to the clipping. “For 30 years, I taught auto shop, drivers ed, and coached basketball at Laney High in North Carolina before moving to Chicago.”
Michael felt his heart skip a beat. Laney High in Wilmington? “That’s right,” Henry nodded. “You know the area?”
Before Michael could answer, the phone on Henry’s desk rang. The old man answered it, speaking briefly to someone about a repair job scheduled for tomorrow. Michael used the moment to study the office more carefully. His eyes landed on a class photo hanging near the door. It showed rows of teenagers standing in front of a line of old cars, with Henry and another teacher standing at the ends. The label at the bottom read “Laney High Drivers Education, Spring 1978.”
Michael moved closer, scanning the young faces. And there, in the back row, because of his height, stood a skinny teenager with a serious expression—himself at 15 years old. His breath caught in his throat. Could it really be? Had fate somehow brought him to the shop of his own driver’s education teacher from all those years ago?
“Mr. Wilson,” Michael said slowly, “I think I was in your driver’s ed class at Laney High.”
Henry squinted at him, tilting his head slightly. “Where are you now? Can’t say I call every student.”
He smiled gently, the way he did when he was teaching. “Taught hundreds over the years.”
Michael wasn’t offended. Why would Henry remember him? He hadn’t been Michael Jordan then, just Michael—a growing boy who loved basketball more than anything. “It was 1978,” Michael said. “Spring semester.”
Henry’s eyes drifted back to the photo. “That’s a small world.”
He didn’t seem particularly impressed by the coincidence. “You were a good driver back then,” Michael laughed.
“Not at first,” Henry said, catching the memory. “But you were strict about doing things right, following the rules.”
“Still am,” Henry said with a small smile.
Thunder cracked outside, making both men glance toward the window. The rain showed no signs of letting up. “My family moved to Chicago in ’82,” Henry said, easing himself back into his chair. “Martha got a job at the university, opened this shop a year later. Been here ever since.”
“And you still follow the Bulls?” Michael noted.
“Hard not to in Chicago,” Henry replied. “But I don’t get to games much anymore. Ticket prices, parking, crowds—easier to watch on TV.”
“You don’t watch much basketball now?” Michael asked.
Henry shrugged. “Game’s different. Too much showboating, not enough fundamentals.” He gave Michael a pointed look.
“You played, you said? When was that?”
Michael hesitated. “Through the ‘90s mostly.”
Henry said with a nod, “Those were good teams.”
Michael couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, they were.”
An old clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence that followed. Michael found himself wondering what would happen if he told Henry who he really was. Would the old man be impressed? Embarrassed about his earlier comments? Or would he just nod and continue treating Michael exactly the same way?
Somehow, Michael suspected the latter. There was something refreshingly solid about Henry Wilson—something unchangeable. A man who had taught generations of young people and treated them all the same, with firm expectations and simple respect.
“You said you have kids?” Henry asked, breaking the silence.
Michael nodded. “Five. Three boys, two girls.”
“Good drivers?”
Michael laughed. “I made sure of it. Remembered your lessons when I taught them.”
Henry smiled at that, a genuine smile that lit up his weathered face. “That’s the thing about teaching. You never know what sticks, what gets passed down.”
He gestured to the photo. “Most of those kids probably don’t remember my name, but maybe something I taught them helped keep them safe on the road.”
That’s enough, Michael thought about all the coaches he’d had over the years—how their voices still echoed in his head sometimes during difficult moments—how he’d passed their wisdom on to his own children, often word for word.
“Footage isn’t the same,” Henry insisted. “You had to be there, feel the energy in the building.”
His eyes took on a distant look. “Took my son to see the Bulls in ’72. Tickets were $12. Now you can’t get in the door for less than a hundred.”
“Times change,” Michael thought. “Some things change for the better.”
Henry replied, “But I suppose if you’ve got the money, it’s convenient.”
“My father would agree with you,” Michael said, thinking of his dad.
Henry followed his gaze to the clipping. “For 30 years, I taught auto shop, drivers ed, and coached basketball at Laney High in North Carolina before moving to Chicago.”
Michael felt his heart skip a beat. Laney High in Wilmington? “That’s right,” Henry nodded. “You know the area?”
Before Michael could answer, the phone on Henry’s desk rang. The old man answered it, speaking briefly to someone about a repair job scheduled for tomorrow. Michael used the moment to study the office more carefully. His eyes landed on a class photo hanging near the door. It showed rows of teenagers standing in front of a line of old cars, with Henry and another teacher standing at the ends. The label at the bottom read “Laney High Drivers Education, Spring 1978.”
Michael moved closer, scanning the young faces. And there, in the back row, because of his height, stood a skinny teenager with a serious expression—himself at 15 years old. His breath caught in his throat. Could it really be? Had fate somehow brought him to the shop of his own driver’s education teacher from all those years ago?
“Mr. Wilson,” Michael said slowly, “I think I was in your driver’s ed class at Laney High.”
Henry squinted at him, tilting his head slightly. “Where are you now? Can’t say I call every student.”
He smiled gently, the way he did when he was teaching. “Taught hundreds over the years.”
Michael wasn’t offended. Why would Henry remember him? He hadn’t been Michael Jordan then, just Michael—a growing boy who loved basketball more than anything. “It was 1978,” Michael said. “Spring semester.”
Henry’s eyes drifted back to the photo. “That’s a small world.”
He didn’t seem particularly impressed by the coincidence. “You were a good driver back then,” Michael laughed.
“Not at first,” Henry said, catching the memory. “But you were strict about doing things right, following the rules.”
“Still am,” Henry said with a small smile.
Thunder cracked outside, making both men glance toward the window. The rain showed no signs of letting up. “My family moved to Chicago in ’82,” Henry said, easing himself back into his chair. “Martha got a job at the university, opened this shop a year later. Been here ever since.”
“And you still follow the Bulls?” Michael noted.
“Hard not to in Chicago,” Henry replied. “But I don’t get to games much anymore. Ticket prices, parking, crowds—easier to watch on TV.”
“You don’t watch much basketball now?” Michael asked.
Henry shrugged. “Game’s different. Too much showboating, not enough fundamentals.” He gave Michael a pointed look.
“You played, you said? When was that?”
Michael hesitated. “Through the ‘90s mostly.”
Henry said with a nod, “Those were good teams.”
Michael couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, they were.”
An old clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence that followed. Michael found himself wondering what would happen if he told Henry who he really was. Would the old man be impressed? Embarrassed about his earlier comments? Or would he just nod and continue treating Michael exactly the same way?
Somehow, Michael suspected the latter. There was something refreshingly solid about Henry Wilson—something unchangeable. A man who had taught generations of young people and treated them all the same, with firm expectations and simple respect.
“You said you have kids?” Henry asked, breaking the silence.
Michael nodded. “Five. Three boys, two girls.”
“Good drivers?”
Michael laughed. “I made sure of it. Remembered your lessons when I taught them.”
Henry smiled at that, a genuine smile that lit up his weathered face. “That’s the thing about teaching. You never know what sticks, what gets passed down.”
He gestured to the photo. “Most of those kids probably don’t remember my name, but maybe something I taught them helped keep them safe on the road.”
That’s enough, Michael thought about all the coaches he’d had over the years—how their voices still echoed in his head sometimes during difficult moments—how he’d passed their wisdom on to his own children, often word for word.
“Footage isn’t the same,” Henry insisted. “You had to be there, feel the energy in the building.”
His eyes took on a distant look. “Took my son to see the Bulls in ’72. Tickets were $12. Now you can’t get in the door for less than a hundred.”
“Times change,” Michael thought. “Some things change for the better.”
Henry replied, “But I suppose if you’ve got the money, it’s convenient.”
“My father would agree with you,” Michael said, thinking of his dad.
Henry followed his gaze to the clipping. “For 30 years, I taught auto shop, drivers ed, and coached basketball at Laney High in North Carolina before moving to Chicago.”
Michael felt his heart skip a beat. Laney High in Wilmington? “That’s right,” Henry nodded. “You know the area?”
Before Michael could answer, the phone on Henry’s desk rang. The old man answered it, speaking briefly to someone about a repair job scheduled for tomorrow. Michael used the moment to study the office more carefully. His eyes landed on a class photo hanging near the door. It showed rows of teenagers standing in front of a line of old cars, with Henry and another teacher standing at the ends. The label at the bottom read “Laney High Drivers Education, Spring 1978.”
Michael moved closer, scanning the young faces. And there, in the back row, because of his height, stood a skinny teenager with a serious expression—himself at 15 years old. His breath caught in his throat. Could it really be? Had fate somehow brought him to the shop of his own driver’s education teacher from all those years ago?
“Mr. Wilson,” Michael said slowly, “I think I was in your driver’s ed class at Laney High.”
Henry squinted at him, tilting his head slightly. “Where are you now? Can’t say I call every student.”
He smiled gently, the way he did when he was teaching. “Taught hundreds over the years.”
Michael wasn’t offended. Why would Henry remember him? He hadn’t been Michael Jordan then, just Michael—a growing boy who loved basketball more than anything. “It was
