Some say Michael Jordan was the greatest basketball player of all time, but for one struggling mother in Chicago, he became something far more important—an answer to a desperate prayer. Sarah Johnson worked two jobs to support her 12-year-old son, Marcus, a basketball prodigy whose dreams were shattered by a devastating knee injury. With $50,000 in medical bills and no insurance coverage, she did the only thing left she could think of: she wrote a letter to Michael Jordan. What happened next would change not just her family’s life but the lives of countless other struggling families across America. This is a story about a mother’s love, a child’s dream, and how sometimes the biggest assists happen off the court.
Sarah Johnson’s hands shook as she opened another envelope from the hospital. Her kitchen table was covered with bills, each one stamped with bright red letters that spelled “past due.” The clock on the microwave blinked 11:47 p.m., but sleep wasn’t coming tonight—not with this much worry eating at her heart. “Please,” she whispered, “just this once let it be good news.” But the letter wasn’t good news; it never was. The words blurred as tears filled her eyes: Final Notice—payment of $50,000 required within 30 days.
Sarah crumpled the paper in her fist. How was she supposed to find that kind of money? She already worked as a cashier at Target during the day and waited tables at night. Every penny went to keeping their small apartment, putting food on the table, and trying to chip away at Marcus’s medical bills. Marcus, her beautiful, talented boy—just thinking about him made her chest hurt. He was only 12 but already taller than her, with long arms and his father’s natural grace on the basketball court. At least, that’s how he used to move. Now, he could barely walk without pain.
The sound of shuffling from the hallway made her quickly wipe her eyes. She didn’t want Marcus to see her crying again. “Mom?” Marcus stood in the doorway, leaning on his crutches. “You’re still up?”
“Just doing some paperwork, baby,” Sarah tried to smile, but it felt wrong on her face. “You should be in bed. It’s late.”
“My knee was hurting,” Marcus said, hopping over to the table, his right leg held carefully off the ground. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Sarah’s heart squeezed. The torn ACL in his knee needed surgery soon; every day they waited made things worse. The doctors said if they didn’t do the operation within the next few months, he might never play basketball again. “Did you take your pain medicine?” she asked, quickly gathering up the bills and shoving them into a drawer.
“We ran out yesterday,” Marcus lowered himself into a chair, wincing. “I didn’t want to tell you because I know they’re expensive.”
Sarah closed her eyes, another thing she couldn’t provide, another failure. “I’ll get more tomorrow,” she promised. “I get paid in the morning.”
Marcus nodded, but she saw the doubt in his eyes. He was too young to understand about money but old enough to know when things weren’t right. She hated that he had to worry about things like this.
“Remember when Dad used to take me to the park to practice?” Marcus asked suddenly.
Before he left, Sarah’s hands froze on the drawer handle. They rarely talked about Robert anymore; it had been ten years since he walked out, leaving nothing but a note and a stack of unpaid bills. Marcus had been just two years old. “You remember that?” she asked softly.
“Kind of,” Marcus traced patterns on the table with his finger. “Mostly from the pictures.”
But she remembered too. Robert had been so proud of Marcus’s early interest in basketball. “He’s got the Johnson genes,” he used to say. “He’ll be better than Jordan someday.” Now Robert was somewhere in Atlanta with his new family, and Marcus couldn’t even walk up the stairs without help.
“You’ll play again,” Sarah said firmly. “We’ll figure something out. I promise.”
“How?” Marcus’s voice cracked. “I heard you talking to the insurance people yesterday. They won’t pay for the surgery.”
“There are other ways,” Sarah moved to his side, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He was getting so tall, but right now he felt small against her. “Maybe we can get a loan—”
She trailed off, knowing it was hopeless. No bank would give her a loan; her credit was already ruined from the existing medical bills. She’d even tried starting a GoFundMe page, but after three months, it had only raised $127.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Marcus patted her hand. “Maybe I can do something else. Coach Bennett says I could help him teach the younger kids.”
The brave smile on his face broke something inside Sarah. Her son, who had dreamed of playing in the NBA since he could walk, was trying to make her feel better about crushing his dreams. “No,” she said more sharply than she meant to. “This isn’t over. You’re going to play again. You’re going to be better than ever.”
Marcus looked up at her, hope flickering in his eyes. “You really think so?”
“I know so,” Sarah squeezed his shoulder, making a silent promise to herself. She would find a way. She had to.
“Can I show you something?” Marcus asked, reaching for his crutches and standing carefully. “It’s in my room.”
Sarah followed him down the short hallway to his bedroom. Basketball posters covered every inch of wall space. Michael Jordan soared in mid-dunk, LeBron James powered through defenders, Steph Curry released perfect three-pointers. But the center spot above Marcus’s bed was special. It was a photo from last summer before the injury. Marcus stood on a basketball court, holding up a trophy and grinning so wide it must have hurt. His team had just won the city championship, and Marcus had been named MVP.
Sarah remembered that day perfectly—the way he’d played like someone twice his age, the sound of the crowd chanting his name, the scout who’d come up afterward to talk about future opportunities. “Coach Bennett says if I don’t get the surgery soon, I might not be able to play in high school,” Marcus said quietly. “And if I can’t play in high school…”
He didn’t need to finish. They both knew what it meant. No high school team meant no college scouts. No college scouts meant no scholarship. No scholarship meant no future. Sarah could barely keep them afloat now, let alone save for education.
“Listen to me,” Sarah turned Marcus to face her, looking straight into his eyes. “You are not giving up, and neither am I. Whatever it takes, we’re going to fix this. Understand?”
Marcus nodded, but his eyes drifted to the trophy on his dresser. It was already collecting dust.
Later, after she’d helped Marcus back to bed and given him some Tylenol from her purse, Sarah sat alone in the dark kitchen. The bills seemed to glow in the drawer, mocking her. She pulled out her phone and opened her banking app. Available balance: $27.83. Her next paycheck would come tomorrow: $342.56 from Target. The tips from her waitressing job had been bad this week—only about $200. The rent was due in ten days: $2,100. Electric bill: $86.42. Gas bill: $45.67. Groceries, pain medicine, bus fare to work. The numbers swam before her eyes.
She’d already sold everything valuable they owned—her wedding ring, Robert’s old records, the little bit of jewelry her mother had left her. The only things left were Marcus’s basketball trophies, and she’d die before she took those away from him.
A sound escaped her throat, something between a laugh and a sob. She was failing. All these years of working herself to exhaustion, of promising Marcus that they’d be okay, of telling herself that being a single mother just meant she had to be twice as strong—and now this. The tears came fast and hot. Sarah buried her face in her hands, trying to muffle the sounds, but in the quiet apartment, her sobs seemed to echo off the walls. They were the sounds of a mother’s heart breaking, of dreams crumbling, of hope slipping away like water through desperate fingers.
Ten years of holding it together, and this was her breaking point. She didn’t hear the soft thump of crutches in the hallway or see Marcus watching from the shadows, his own tears falling silently as he witnessed his mother’s pain for the first time. In the morning, she would put on her Target uniform and smile at customers. She would serve food at the diner and laugh at bad jokes for better tips. She would be strong again, because that’s what mothers do. But for now, in the darkness of her kitchen, surrounded by bills she couldn’t pay and promises she couldn’t keep, Sarah Johnson let herself break.
Marcus backed away from the kitchen doorway, his crutches silent on the carpet. He’d never seen his mom cry like that before. Sure, there had been quick tears she’d wiped away when she thought he wasn’t looking, but this was different. This was his strong, unbreakable mother falling apart because of him. He hobbled back to his room and closed the door carefully. The pain in his knee was getting worse, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest.
Moonlight streamed through his window, making the dust on his basketball trophy sparkle. He reached for the nearest one, remembering the day he won it. It was his first real tournament. Just eight months ago, he’d been so nervous that morning, his hands shaking as Mom helped him tie his shoes. “You’ve got this, baby,” she’d said, straightening his jersey. “Just play your game.” And he had. Everything clicked that day—every shot, every pass, every move. He’d scored 32 points in the championship game, breaking the tournament record for his age group. The scouts had started coming after that, watching his games from the bleachers with their notepads and whispered conversations.
Now those same bleachers were empty. No scouts, no cheering crowds, no more records to break—just a 12-year-old boy with a busted knee and a mother working herself to death to fix it. Marcus set the trophy down and pulled his old basketball from under the bed. The leather was worn smooth from thousands of hours of practice. He could still hear Coach Bennett’s voice: “You’ve got something special, kid. Something you can’t teach.”
The memory of that terrible game flooded back. They were playing their biggest rivals, the Hawks, in the city finals. Marcus had been unstoppable in the first half, scoring 20 points. Then, with two minutes left in the third quarter, he went up for a layup. The defender bumped him midair. Marcus landed wrong, felt something pop in his knee, and the world exploded in pain. He remembered Mom’s face as she ran onto the court. She looked terrified, but her voice was steady. “I’m here, baby. Mama’s here.”
The emergency room doctor called it a complete ACL tear. Marcus didn’t understand all the medical terms, but he understood surgery and long recovery and expensive. He also understood the look that passed between the doctor and his mother when they discussed payment options.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. “Marcus?” Mom’s voice was rough but steady. “You okay in there?”
“Yeah, Mom, just thinking.” She opened the door, and Marcus quickly wiped his eyes. Her face was tired, but she’d put herself back together. She always did.
“Can’t sleep?” she asked, sitting on the edge of his bed.
Marcus shook his head. “Watching some old games on my phone.” He held up his phone to show her. On the small screen, Michael Jordan soared through the air in Game 5 of the 1989 playoffs against Cleveland. Marcus had watched this clip hundreds of times. “Did you know Jordan got cut from his high school team?” he asked.
Mom smiled. “You’ve told me that story about 50 times.”
“But he didn’t give up! He practiced harder and came back better.” Marcus paused the video. “Mom, what if we just waited on the surgery? Maybe I could get stronger on my own.”
The smile fell from her face. “Baby, no. The doctor said waiting could cause permanent damage.”
“But the bills—”
“Are not your problem,” Mom took his face in her hands. “Listen to me. Your only job is to focus on getting better. Let me handle the rest.”
Marcus wanted to argue, but he saw the determination in her eyes. It was the same look she got whenever someone suggested she couldn’t handle being a single mother or when bill collectors called or when Dad’s new wife made comments about their situation.
“I miss playing,” he whispered.
Mom squeezed his hand. “Tell me about your favorite game.”
Marcus smiled, remembering the Hawks game. “Right before everything was perfect. The ball felt like it was part of my hand. Coach Bennett said I was playing like young Jordan.”
“You were amazing that day,” Mom’s voice was soft. “The whole gym was watching you. There was a college scout there.”
Marcus said, “Coach told me later. From DePaul University.” He saw Mom flinch slightly and immediately regretted mentioning it. The scout had been planning to track Marcus’s progress through high school. Now that future was as uncertain as everything else.
“You know what I remember most about that day?” Mom asked, changing the subject.
“How you helped that boy from the other team?” Marcus nodded.
One of the Hawks players had fallen hard and started crying while everyone else stood around awkwardly. Marcus had helped him up and walked him to his coach.
“That’s who you are,” Mom said proudly. “Not just a great player, but a good person. That’s worth more than any trophy.”
She stood up and kissed his forehead. “Try to get some sleep, okay? You have physical therapy tomorrow.”
Marcus’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t told her that he’d been skipping therapy sessions. The clinic had started asking for payment upfront, and he knew they couldn’t afford it. Instead, he’d been doing exercises he found on YouTube, but they didn’t seem to help much.
After Mom left, Marcus lay back on his bed, staring at the basketball posters on his ceiling. Jordan, James, Curry—they all seemed to be looking down at him, their frozen expressions asking, “What are you going to do about it?”
He thought about Mom crying in the kitchen, about the bills in the drawer, about the pain medicine they couldn’t afford, about the surgery that seemed impossible. Then he thought about Jordan, cut from his high school team but refusing to quit, about all those early morning practices when Mom drove him to the gym before her shift started, about Coach Bennett saying he had something special.
Marcus reached for his crutches and carefully made his way to his desk. He opened his laptop, a Christmas gift from three years ago that still worked most of the time, and started typing.
“Dear Mr. Jordan, my name is Marcus Johnson. I’m 12 years old, and basketball is my life—or it was until I tore my ACL.” He wrote until his eyes burned, pouring out his story. He wrote about the game, the injury, the doctors. He wrote about Mom working two jobs and still not having enough. He wrote about his dreams of playing in the NBA someday.
When he finished, he read it over once, then deleted it all. It was stupid to think Michael Jordan would care about some kid from Chicago with a busted knee. He probably got thousands of letters every day. Still, as he crawled back into bed, the idea wouldn’t leave him alone. Jordan was from Chicago too. He knew what it was like to face setbacks, to have people say you couldn’t do something. Maybe—
“No,” Marcus pushed the thought away. Mom was already carrying too much. He couldn’t add to her burdens with impossible hopes. But in his dreams that night, he was back on the court. His knee was strong, the ball was in his hands, and the crowd was chanting his name.
In his dreams, he could still fly.
And somewhere in Chicago, in a kitchen lit only by moonlight, a mother’s tears were drying as she made plans of her own.
Sarah Johnson had reached her breaking point, yes, but sometimes breaking points are where new paths begin.
The next morning, Sarah arrived early for her shift at Target. Her eyes were puffy from crying, but her red vest was pressed, and her name tag gleamed under the fluorescent lights. She’d learned long ago that appearances mattered. The better she looked, the better her chances of getting extra hours.
“Sarah,” Linda, her supervisor, caught her before she could clock in. “Got a minute?”
Sarah’s stomach dropped. In her experience, nothing good ever came from those words. Linda led her to the tiny breakroom. “Corporate’s cutting hours again. I have to reduce everyone’s schedule.”
“Linda, please,” Sarah’s voice cracked. “I need those hours. My son—”
“I know about Marcus,” Linda’s face softened. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. First, the guy in electronics is on maternity leave. If you’re willing to learn the department, I can move you there. It’s a dollar more per hour.”
Sarah wanted to hug her. “Yes, absolutely! Yes!”
“Training starts today,” Linda hesitated. “My sister works at Northwestern Memorial Hospital in the billing department. Maybe she could help with Marcus’s situation.”
Hope flickered in Sarah’s chest. “Really?”
“I’ll give her a call,” Linda squeezed her arm. “We take care of our own.”
The rest of Sarah’s morning passed in a blur of training videos and inventory counts. During her lunch break, she pulled out her phone and opened a new note. At the top, she wrote “Options.” Under it, she listed: Target promotion for $160 a month, Linda’s sister at billing, second mortgage, bad credit, sell car, need for work, basketball fundraiser.
She stared at the pathetically short list. Even if everything worked out perfectly, it wouldn’t be enough. The surgery alone was $50,000, not counting physical therapy and medication afterward.
“Rough day?” Sarah looked up. Maria, one of the diner waitresses from her night job, had stopped by Target on her break. She slid into the seat across from Sarah, pushing a cup of coffee toward her.
“You could say that,” Sarah managed a weak smile. “How’s your boy doing?”
“The same,” Sarah showed her the hospital bill. “They want payment in 30 days.”
Maria whistled low. “That’s crazy money. You tried writing to celebrities? My cousin’s kid got cancer treatment that way. Some famous person paid for the whole thing.”
Sarah shook her head. “Who would care about us?”
“What about Michael Jordan? He’s from Chicago, right? And Marcus is a basketball player.”
“Jordan probably gets thousands of letters,” Sarah said. “So?”
Maria leaned forward. “What’s the worst that could happen? He says no? You’re already at no.”
Sarah opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. Maria had a point. They were already at rock bottom. What did she have to lose?
That night, after her diner shift, Sarah sat at her kitchen table with a pen and paper. Marcus was asleep, his pain medicine finally kicking in. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the old refrigerator. She’d learned long ago that appearances mattered. The better she looked, the better her chances of getting extra hours.
“Dear Mr. Jordan,” she wrote, then immediately crumpled the paper. Too formal. “Dear Michael Jordan.” Another crumpled ball. “Mr. Jordan, my son Marcus…” The third attempt joined the others on the floor.
How do you write to someone who might be your last hope? How do you put a mother’s desperation into words? Sarah closed her eyes, remembering Marcus’s last game. He’d been so beautiful to watch—all grace and natural talent, the crowd chanting his name, the future so bright it hurt to look at.
She picked up her pen again. “I never thought I’d write a letter like this. My name is Sarah Johnson. I’m a single mother in Chicago, and my son Marcus is 12 years old. Basketball isn’t just a game to him; it’s his dream, his future, and now maybe his only chance.”
The words flowed easier now, straight from her heart to the page. She wrote about Marcus’s talent, his dedication, his kindness to other players. She wrote about the injury, the diagnosis, the crushing weight of medical bills. She wrote about working two jobs and still falling short, about watching her son’s dreams slip away while she stood helpless.
“I’m not asking for a handout,” she wrote. “I’ve always taught Marcus that we earn what we get, but sometimes life throws more at you than you can handle alone. Sometimes even the strongest people need help.” Tears smudged the ink as she finished.
“I just want to see my son play again, to see him smile like he used to, to give him a chance at his dreams. Thank you for reading this far. Sincerely, Sarah Johnson.”
She read it over once, twice, three times. It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest. She folded the letter carefully and slipped it into an envelope. Now came the hard part: finding out where to send it.
Sarah spent the next hour searching online—the Jordan brand headquarters in Oregon, the Charlotte Hornets office, his old agent. Every address she found felt like a shot in the dark. Finally, at nearly midnight, she found a P.O. Box in Chicago that was supposedly connected to Jordan’s charitable foundation. It might be outdated; it might go to some assistant who threw away letters without reading them. But it was something.
She addressed the envelope with shaking hands, used one of her precious stamps, and set it by her purse for tomorrow. “Please,” she whispered to no one in particular, “just let it reach him.”
A noise from Marcus’s room made her freeze, but it was just him talking in his sleep, something he’d done since he was little. Sarah crept to his doorway and watched him for a moment. Even in sleep, his hand was making shooting motions, his dreams still full of basketball. The sight nearly broke her again, but this time the tears didn’t come. In their place was a fierce protective love that burned away her doubts.
She would mail this letter tomorrow, and if Jordan didn’t answer, she’d write another and another. She’d write to every celebrity, every foundation, every person who might help. She’d work four jobs if she had to. She’d sell everything they owned because that’s what mothers do—they find a way.
Sarah touched the envelope in her pocket, feeling the weight of their hopes inside it. Tomorrow, she’d send their dreams out into the world and pray they reached the right hands. But for tonight, she had three hours until her alarm went off for her morning shift—three hours to rest and gather strength for whatever came next. Because sometimes the most desperate measures are the only ones left, and sometimes they’re the ones that change everything.
The next morning, Sarah’s hand trembled as she dropped the letter into the blue mailbox outside the post office. The metal door clanged shut with a finality that made her jump. There was no taking it back now. “Please find him,” she whispered, touching the cold metal one last time before hurrying to catch her bus to work.
Days crawled by. Sarah found herself watching the mail carrier like a hawk, though she knew it was too soon for any response. Marcus’s knee wasn’t getting better; if anything, the pain seemed worse, though he tried to hide it.
“Mom?” Marcus called from the living room one evening, a week after she’d mailed the letter. “Can you come here?”
Sarah found him sitting on the couch, an ice pack on his knee and his laptop open. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“Nothing’s wrong! Look at this!” He turned the screen toward her. It showed a video of a professional basketball player doing rehabilitation exercises. “Coach Bennett sent it. He says I can do some of these while we wait for the surgery.”
Sarah’s throat tightened. Marcus was still saying “while we wait” instead of “if we get the surgery.” She wasn’t sure if that made her proud or devastated. “That’s great,” she managed, “but be careful, okay? Don’t push too hard.”
“I won’t,” Marcus started the video again. “Coach Bennett’s coming over tomorrow. He says he has something to show us.”
Sarah nodded, trying to smile. Coach Bennett had been checking on Marcus regularly since the injury, bringing videos and basketball magazines to keep his spirits up. She was grateful for his support, but each visit was also a reminder of what Marcus had lost.
The next day, Coach Bennett arrived carrying a large envelope. “Got something special for you, champ,” he said, settling into their worn armchair. He pulled out a stack of photographs. “Found these in my old files.”
Marcus scooted forward on the couch, wincing slightly at the movement. The first photo showed a much younger Coach Bennett standing next to a familiar figure in a Chicago Bulls jersey. “Is that Michael Jordan?” Marcus’s eyes went wide.
Coach Bennett grinned. “Sure is! This was back in ’85 when he was just getting started. I was coaching high school ball then, and he came to do a clinic.”
Sarah’s heart skipped. She hadn’t told anyone about her letter. Not even Maria. Was this a sign?
“Did you know him well?” she asked carefully.
“Nah, just met him that one time. But let me tell you something about Jordan,” Coach Bennett leaned forward. “He understood sacrifice better than anyone. His mama worked three jobs to keep him in shoes when he was coming up. He never forgot that.”
Sarah’s hands started shaking. She excused herself to the kitchen, needing a moment to compose herself. Through the doorway, she could hear Coach Bennett telling Marcus stories about young Jordan’s work ethic and determination. “You remind me of him sometimes,” Coach’s voice carried into the kitchen. “Not just the talent, but the heart. You’ve got that same fire.”
Sarah wiped her eyes with a dish towel. When she returned, Marcus was looking through more photos—pictures of himself from previous seasons, growing taller and more skilled in each one. “Look at this one, Mom,” he held up a photo from his first-ever basketball game. Six-year-old Marcus in an oversized jersey, beaming at the camera with missing front teeth.
“Remember how scared I was?”
“You weren’t scared once the game started,” Sarah said softly. “You were born to play.”
Coach Bennett stayed for dinner, a simple meal of spaghetti that Sarah stretched with extra sauce to feed three. As they ate, he talked about plans for the upcoming season. “We’re keeping your spot on the team,” he said to Marcus. “When you come back.”
“If,” Marcus interrupted quietly.
“No, when,” Coach Bennett insisted. “You’re not done, kid. Not by a long shot.”
After Coach left, Marcus was quieter than usual. Sarah found him in his room, looking at the photos again. “You okay, baby?”
“Yeah,” he traced the edge of the Jordan photo. “Just thinking about what Coach said about Jordan’s mom working three jobs.”
Sarah’s chest tightened. “Marcus, I found your second job application,” he said suddenly, the one for the gas station. It fell out of your purse.”
Sarah sat heavily on his bed. She’d been hoping to keep that secret a little longer. The graveyard shift at the gas station wasn’t ideal, but it would be another $200 a week.
“It’s just temporary,” she said. “Until we get things figured out.”
“I don’t want you to work any more jobs,” Marcus’s voice cracked. “You’re already so tired.”
“Hey,” Sarah took his face in her hands. “Look at me. This is not your burden to carry. You focus on getting stronger. Let me handle the rest.”
Before Marcus could respond, Sarah’s phone buzzed again. Unknown number. The same breathless pause, the same moment of terror and hope. But this time, when she answered, the voice was different—deeper, more familiar somehow.
“Mrs. Johnson?” the deep voice continued. “I think we have everything we need to move forward.”
Sarah clutched the phone, her knees weak behind her. Marcus was still talking about the news article, unaware that his whole future hung on this call. Sometimes hope comes disguised as a stranger’s voice on the phone, and sometimes miracles arrive just when you’re about to stop believing in them.
“Mrs. Johnson,” the deep voice continued, “the foundation board has reviewed Marcus’s case along with the new Youth Sports medical fund.”
There was a pause, papers shuffling. “We want to cover the full cost of his surgery. All of it.”
The kitchen tilted. Sarah grabbed the counter to stay upright. “Mrs. Johnson, are you all right?”
“Yes,” she managed, though her voice sounded far away. “I just… are you sure?”
A warm chuckle came through the phone. “Very sure. We’ve already contacted Northwestern Memorial. They’re expecting your call to schedule the procedure.”
Tears rolled down Sarah’s cheeks. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“There’s something else,” the voice grew softer. “Someone would like to speak with you.”
A click, a pause, and then a new voice—one she’d heard countless times on TV but never thought she’d hear speaking to her. “Mrs. Johnson, Michael Jordan here.”
Sarah’s legs gave out. She sank to the kitchen floor, phone pressed to her ear. “Mr. Jordan,” she breathed.
“Please call me Michael,” his voice was kind but strong, just like in all those postgame interviews she’d watched with Marcus. “Your letter reminded me of something important—that sometimes the biggest victories happen off the court.”
Sarah couldn’t speak. Tears flowed freely now.
“I had someone check out your boy’s game films,” Jordan continued. “Coach Bennett sent them over. Marcus has something special, but more than that, he’s got heart—like you.”
“Thank you,” Sarah whispered. “Thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “We’ve got plans for Marcus, but first, let’s get that knee fixed. Can you come to the hospital tomorrow morning? 9:00 a.m.?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. Everything’s arranged. And Mrs. Johnson, get some rest. You’ve earned it.”
The call ended, and Sarah sat on the kitchen floor, trembling. She wanted to run to Marcus’s room to wake him up and tell him that maybe, just maybe, things were going to be okay. But Mr. Parker’s warning echoed in her head: “Don’t discuss this with anyone yet.”
She didn’t sleep that night. Instead, she pulled out every medical bill, every insurance denial, every pay stub. She organized them into neat piles, then reorganized them again. When the sun rose, her eyes were burning, but her kitchen table was covered in perfectly arranged documents.
The hospital meeting was at 10:00 a.m. Sarah called Target and used one of her precious personal days. Linda’s sister Janet met her in the billing office. “I’ve been reviewing your file,” Janet said, her face kind but professional. “There might be some options we haven’t explored.”
For the next hour, they went through everything—income-based repayment plans, charitable care programs, medical credit cards. Each option felt like another dead end until Janet mentioned something called a catastrophic care grant.
“It’s very competitive,” Janet warned, “and it would only cover about 20% of the total cost. But combined with other programs…”
Sarah wrote down every detail, hope rising with each note. Between this and the foundation…
No, she couldn’t let herself think that far ahead.
When she got home, the promised email from Mr. Parker was waiting. The list of required documents was overwhelming: medical history, doctor’s statements, proof of income, tax returns, even Marcus’s basketball records. She started working immediately. Every free moment between shifts was spent gathering papers, making copies, scanning documents. She barely slept. Dark circles grew under her eyes, but she didn’t care.
“Mom?” Marcus caught her dozing over a stack of papers three days later. “Are you okay?”
“You look really tired.”
“I’m fine, baby,” Sarah tried to smile, but a yawn betrayed her. “Just busy with work stuff.”
Marcus frowned. “You’re working too hard. Maybe I could get a job—just something small after school.”
“Absolutely not,” Sarah’s voice came out sharper than she intended. “Your only job is getting better.”
But getting better seemed harder every day. Marcus’s physical therapy appointments—the ones they could afford—weren’t enough. The at-home exercises helped a little, but without proper treatment, his knee wasn’t healing right. “It’s stuck,” he told her one morning, trying to bend his knee. “Like it’s rusting or something.”
Sarah felt the panic rise in her throat. The doctors had warned them about this. Without surgery, soon the damage could become permanent.
She stayed up all night finishing the foundation paperwork, triple-checking every detail. In the morning, her hands shook as she fed the thick envelope into the overnight shipping box. One day’s express shipping cost as much as their weekly grocery budget, but she couldn’t risk regular mail. Time was running out.
Then came the hardest part: waiting. A week passed. Sarah jumped every time her phone rang. She checked her email obsessively. Nothing. Another week. Marcus’s pain got worse. He started missing school, the stairs to his second-floor classroom too much to handle
Michael Jordan, Whose Mother Forced Him Into Nike’s $2.5 Million, Had An Adorable Phone Call Ritual With Deloris Jordan
February 20, 2022; Cleveland, Ohio, USA; NBA great Michael Jordan is honored for being selected to the NBA 75th Anniversary Team during halftime in the 2022 NBA All-Star Game at Rocket Mortgage FieldHouse. Mandatory Credit: Kyle Terada-USA TODAY Sports
Michael Jordan has always credited both of his parents, Delores and James, for where he is in his life currently. While their methods of parenting sometimes did involve a bit of physicality, the eventual 6x NBA Finals MVP has never once expressed remorse over his upbringing.
They most definitely were strict but when they saw potential, they nurtured it. Jordan not making the Varsity basketball team in his sophomore year as Laney crushed him but it was his mother who eventually told him to not give up on the sport despite the setback.
Sure enough, MJ’s determination and unwillingness to give up coupled with him growing well past 6 feet in the summer between sophomore and junior year helped him make Varsity and actually excel as their primary scorer.
Jordan’s mom had a phone call ritual with her son
A lot of what has happened with Michael Jordan when it comes to all things positive is thanks to Deloris Jordan. She was incredibly smart with her upbringing for Michael and remained equally as smart when he made it big as a Chicago Bull in the NBA.
After all, she alongside James forced Michael into hearing Nike’s contract and eventually made him take the $2.5 million over 5 years.
During an interview with Cigar Aficionado, Jordan opened up about the advice his mother and father used to and still give him to this day. His mother, following every phone call, after saying ‘I love you’, would follow it up with ‘Keep your nose clean’.
What she meant by this was that she simply wanted Michael to stay away from trouble.
When you live a life that’s in the spotlight as much as Jordan’s is, it’s easy to find yourself in situations that aren’t all too savory. Whether it be surrounding yourself with questionable people or making poor financial decisions, Delores just wanted her son to be smart and think twice before making a decision.
Did Michael Jordan stay out of trouble?
Well, as everybody does in their life, Michael Jordan as well did make quite a few mistakes. Everything from making golf bets with Slim Bouler to him being called out for infidelity due to love letters found between him and other women, Jordan was far from perfect.
However, he grew from it all. After having started with a clean slate following his divorce from Juanita Vanoy, he would find love once again in the form of Cuban model, Yvette Prieto. They have been married for almost 10 years now and share two twin daughters with one another.
