Sarah Thompson was only nine years old, but she carried questions that felt far too big for her small frame. They took shape on late nights when she couldn’t sleep, on quiet mornings when she dribbled her basketball in the driveway, and most of all on that rainy November night six months ago—the night her father never came home. He’d been driving back from his shift at the factory when slick roads and a sudden storm took him away forever. In the weeks that followed, Sarah clutched her basketball as though it were a life raft in a churning sea.
Her mother, Katie, worked double shifts at a local hospital to pay the bills, leaving Sarah plenty of time to practice alone on the weathered blacktop behind First Methodist Church. Even in the cold drizzle of late fall, she’d stand at the free-throw line, recalling how her dad used to say, “Basketball is like a prayer in motion, Sarah Bear. Every shot is a chance to talk to God.” She’d close her eyes, release the ball, and wait for the satisfying swish that made her feel, if only for a moment, that her father still guided her hands.
One ordinary Tuesday afternoon, Sarah returned from school to find a golden envelope with an NBA logo resting on the small kitchen table. Bills and junk mail were scattered beneath it, but the envelope seemed to glow in the sunlight streaming through the window. Her heart fluttered as she recognized the return address: The Chicago Bulls Youth Foundation. She tore it open, barely breathing.
Inside was a letter that felt like a miracle: she’d won a contest to attend Michael Jordan’s Youth Basketball Camp at the United Center—an all-expenses-paid, three-day event with the greatest player of all time. Sarah shouted so loudly that her mother rushed in from the other room, still wearing her scrubs. When Katie read the letter, relief washed across her tired face. She wrapped Sarah in a hug and whispered, “Your dad would be so proud, baby.”
That night, Sarah couldn’t sleep. She flipped on the lamp beside her bed, opening the journal she used to write letters to her father. In slanted handwriting, she wrote about how excited she was, how she imagined Michael Jordan’s signature fadeaway jump shot, and how her father used to say that “MJ had angels lifting him up every time he soared.” She ended with the question she’d been too afraid to ask anyone else: Why does God take away the people we love most?
In the weeks before camp, Sarah practiced even harder. At the small church court, she dribbled until her fingertips stung. She shot free throws until she heard her dad’s voice in her mind, reminding her to follow through. On weekends, she’d find Father Mike sweeping the church steps; he always had a kind word for her. “Early practice again, Sarah?” he’d ask. She would smile shyly, thinking of how her father used to say this was “holy ground”—that any place you poured your heart into became sacred.
When camp day finally arrived, Katie managed to drop Sarah off at the United Center before rushing to her own long shift. The arena stood like a giant fortress, banners of past Bulls championships waving in the summer breeze. Sarah’s heart hammered in her chest. It felt surreal to be there, in the same place where countless NBA legends had played. She clung to a small folded paper in her pocket—a final version of her question for Michael Jordan. She’d rewritten it a dozen times, seeking the perfect words.
Stepping inside, she spotted about fifty other kids, all buzzing with excitement. Coaches in red Bulls warm-ups ushered them into lines, handing out jerseys. She was assigned a bright white one with red lettering: CAMP 23. Sarah proudly slipped it over her head, remembering how her dad used to wear a vintage Bulls jersey while they shot hoops in the driveway.
During a morning drill, Sarah found herself partnered with a boy named Marcus. He had dark eyes and wore a silver chain around his neck with a small cross. He dribbled with a hesitant confidence that matched her own. Before they started a bounce-pass exercise, she noticed the sadness in his eyes. It reminded her of her own reflection on the worst days.
“First time at a camp like this?” she asked softly.
Marcus nodded. “My mom used to coach basketball at my elementary school,” he mumbled. “She died last year. Dad thought maybe this camp would help me get back on the court.” His voice trailed off.
Sarah’s throat tightened. “I lost my dad, too,” she managed, mind flashing to the stormy November night. Marcus looked up, startled by the coincidence, and they shared a moment of quiet understanding. After that, every pass, every drill felt like a small vow of camaraderie, a silent promise that they weren’t alone in their grief.
By lunchtime, Sarah’s anticipation for Michael Jordan’s arrival was nearly unbearable. As the group finished eating, Coach Lisa announced that on the final day, ten kids would be chosen to ask Jordan a personal question. Sarah’s heart soared, though she also felt a twinge of fear. What if she wasn’t chosen? What if she was—but couldn’t find the courage to speak?
That night, back home, Sarah couldn’t contain her excitement long enough for her mother to return. She wrote another letter to her dad in her journal, detailing every moment: how the United Center’s floor gleamed like polished gold, how the coaches taught them that every shot had a story. She confessed her biggest hope: “I want to ask Michael Jordan why God took you away, Dad. Is that too much?”
On day two, the coaches pulled everyone aside, announcing the ten names who’d get to stand before Jordan and ask a question. When they read “Sarah Thompson,” she felt as though she might burst into tears and cheers at the same time. Marcus was chosen too, and he gave her a small grin, clapping politely with the rest of the kids. After the roster was finalized, Coach Lisa lowered her clipboard. “Be ready for tomorrow,” she said, scanning their faces. “Michael Jordan doesn’t just answer basketball questions. He answers heart questions.”
That evening, Sarah barely slept. She kept seeing her father’s face in every corner of her room. She thought about the question in her pocket, and her heart pounded with doubts. She felt childish for wanting to ask a sports icon about God, but she couldn’t let it go. If anyone might understand, maybe it was Michael Jordan—the man her father claimed played “like he had angels guiding him.”
On the final morning, the United Center was hushed and reverent. The kids filed onto the court, the chosen ten standing in front. Cameras flashed as Michael Jordan strolled in, taller and calmer than Sarah had ever imagined. He thanked everyone for being there, joked about how he still remembered being a nervous kid at summer camps, and launched into answering questions with genuine warmth.
Marcus went first. He asked about resilience, referencing Jordan’s famous “Flu Game.” Jordan spoke about pushing through adversity, about how sometimes the greatest lessons come when you’re weakest, and how leaning on teammates is part of the journey. Sarah could see Marcus’s shoulders relax, as though her new friend was receiving permission to let people help him carry his grief.
Then Coach Lisa called Sarah’s name. Her legs trembled as she stepped forward. The entire arena seemed to hold its breath. Michael Jordan locked eyes with her. “What’s on your mind?” he asked gently.
She took a steadying breath, slipping a hand into her pocket to touch her folded note. “I—I lost my dad,” she began, voice cracking. “He taught me that every perfect shot is like a conversation with God, like a prayer.” Her eyes glistened with tears she refused to hold back. “But if God loves us, why did He take my dad away?”
A hush settled over the court. Jordan exhaled, visibly moved by the rawness of her question. He knelt so he was closer to her eye level, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I lost my father too,” he said, softly. “And I asked that same question.”
In the silence that followed, Sarah felt tears slip down her cheeks. “Did you ever find an answer?” she managed.
Jordan paused, gathering his thoughts. “I learned that love doesn’t end; it changes. It becomes part of everything we do. When I play basketball, I feel my dad’s presence. It doesn’t erase the pain, but it reminds me we’re never truly alone.” He held up the gold chain around his neck. “Every shot I take, every time I push my limits, I feel him cheering me on.”
Sarah’s tears blurred her vision. She thought of the countless evenings dribbling under the church lights, how she sometimes sensed her father’s voice guiding her. Jordan continued, “Maybe God doesn’t take our loved ones away to hurt us. Maybe they’re meant to guide us from a place we can’t see. Keep playing, keep believing. Your father’s not gone, Sarah—he’s right there in your heart, in every bounce of the ball.”
He held out a ball to her. “Let’s see your shot.” Her hands trembled, but she moved into the form her dad had taught her: knees bent, elbow tucked. She released the ball, and it soared in a perfect arc, swishing through the net without touching the rim. Cheers erupted around them, but to Sarah, it was as if she heard only her father’s proud whisper: “That’s my girl.”
For a moment, Sarah closed her eyes, soaking in the realization that maybe her father truly was still with her. She could almost feel his warm palm resting on her shoulder. She turned to Michael Jordan, blinking back tears, and managed a shaky smile. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He smiled back, ruffling her hair affectionately. “Thank you for reminding me why I still love this game.”
Later that night, Sarah wrote in her journal, telling her dad about the perfect shot she’d made. She explained that she still didn’t fully understand why he had to go, but she felt closer to him than she had since the accident. Maybe the answer to her question wouldn’t come in words, but in the hush of a basketball court and the hush of her own heart.
She ended her entry with the single line she hoped he could read from Heaven: I’ll keep playing, Dad. I’ll keep talking to God with every shot, trusting you’ll always be there to guide my hands.
Kobe Bryant’s Memorial Brought Out a Side of Michael Jordan I’d Never Seen Before
Yes, he’s crying, but it’s different this time. Kevork Djansezian/Getty Images
On Sept. 11, 2009, Michael Jordan took the stage at Symphony Hall in Springfield, Massachusetts, to be inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame. He talked for more than 23 minutes, starting out in tears while reflecting on his career. That brief glimpse of an emotional Jordan, eyes red, tear-stained cheeks, would become a viral meme. But despite those tears, the speech wasn’t particularly moving. It was harsh and cold, with Jordan using what should’ve been a celebratory moment to settle a few scores.
Jordan called out the high school coach who cut him and the guy who beat him for the final spot on the team. He brought up the NBA vets who froze him out in his first All-Star game, two of whom were in the audience. He said former Bulls general manager Jerry Krause wasn’t invited to the ceremony, a slight he punctuated by going on a diatribe about how organizations don’t win championships and that great players like him do—a twist on Krause’s earlier quote that suggested the reverse. Jordan even made a cringeworthy mention of his three children, saying he felt sorry for them because they had to live in his shadow.
In all, it was a perfect distillation of the competitive ethos that made Jordan one of the greatest basketball players ever, if not the greatest—and, in retirement, a distant and unsympathetic figure. On the court, he never failed to meet the moment. On the stage, he couldn’t say what needed to be said.
“Jordan spoke from the heart,” ESPN’s J.A. Adande wrote of that night in Springfield. “The thing is, his heart’s as cold as liquid nitrogen.”
Compare that unsentimental sequence of events with our most recent acquaintance with Jordan’s tear-streaked face, which returned Monday in an otherwise—and appropriately—bleak memorial service for Kobe and Gigi Bryant. This time, MJ couldn’t pass up the shot, even if it came at his own expense.
“I’ll have to look at another crying meme,” Jordan said, pausing to let the laughter and cheers wash over him. “I told my wife that I wasn’t going to do this because I didn’t want to see it for the next three or four years.”
Jordan turning himself into a punchline is damn near unprecedented, and would’ve seemed unthinkable in 2009. Maybe he has always possessed the capacity for tenderness and the ability to laugh at himself—but there was precious little evidence of it prior to Monday.
Jordan was the comic relief on a day when thousands filed into Los Angeles’ Staples Center for a somber spectacle that, as UConn women’s basketball coach Geno Auriemma aptly noted, was also “the greatest collection of talent I’ve ever been around.” The event opened with Beyoncé’s lilting vocal tribute, and Jimmy Kimmel emceed. Snoop Dogg was there. So was Alicia Keys and Spike Lee. Bill Russell was, too, as were several generations of Lakers royalty from Elgin Baylor to Magic Johnson to LeBron James.
Vanessa Bryant started things off with a moving tribute. Other speakers—WNBA great Diana Taurasi, Auriemma, and current women’s college star Sabrina Ionescu of Oregon—spoke of Kobe and Gigi’s shared passion for basketball. Lakers general manager Rob Pelinka, once Kobe’s agent, talked of his friend’s parental devotion. Shaquille O’Neal hinted at the complexity of his pairing with Kobe, a partnership that produced three NBA titles but still fell short of how many they felt they should have won.
But it was the warm and effusive GOAT who stole the show. Jordan talked affectionately about Bryant in a way we’d never heard him speak of his peers, coaches, or former teammates.
“Maybe it surprised people that Kobe and I were very close friends,” Jordan told the crowd. “But we were very close friends. Kobe was my dear friend. He was like a little brother.”
Soon, it was clear why this particular task fell to Jordan: Kobe, in his playing days, had mirrored the older Jordan to the point where their identities were forever linked—from their footwork to their speech patterns to the reverence they earned from their peers.
In retirement, Bryant developed a knack for talking about his drive and work habits and on-court greatness in ways that seemed inspiring, something Jordan had long seemed unwilling or incapable of doing. In that way, Bryant became their—and the game’s—emissary.
“Forget about the endorsements, forget about the rings for a second, let’s forget about ballet movements and all this other shit. Let’s forget about that,” Bryant told Bleacher Report in 2017. “The technique is what’s most important. Because that is what’s actually timeless, that the next generation can study and carry on and then pass on to the one after that.”
Bryant carefully crafted this workaholic image and eventually sold it, burnishing his own legend in the Oscar-winning animated short Dear Basketball in 2017.*
This was beyond Jordan. He’d rather challenge one of the players on his team to a one-on-one. He’d disappoint a gym full of children if someone could stoke his competitive streak. This attitude was later captured in a different meme, one that didn’t go viral. Jordan seemed fine leaving the proselytizing to the kid.
But Monday, surrounded by some of the game’s greats, it was only Jordan who could shed light on the dark corners of their competitive hearts.
“As we grew up in life [we] rarely have friends that we can have conversations like that,” Jordan explained of his bond with Bryant. “Well, it’s even rarer when you can go up against adversaries and have conversations like that.”
This was a Jordan I hadn’t seen before: unscripted, reflective, and forlorn. He has been retired 17 years and rarely, if ever, made the sort of public statement that did anything other than check a few boxes, disappearing into the owner’s box of the Charlotte Hornets.
Back in the spotlight Monday, he recalled a meeting in coach Phil Jackson’s office in Los Angeles about 20 years ago.
“I walk in and Kobe’s sitting there,” Jordan said. “I’m in a suit, and the first thing Kobe said, ‘Did you bring your shoes?’ No, I wasn’t thinking about playing.”
He also told a story of getting a late-night text from Kobe a couple months ago. “He said: ‘I’m trying to teach my daughter some moves. And I don’t know what I was thinking, or what I was working on, but what were you thinking about when you were growing up trying to work on your moves?’ I said, ‘What age?’ He says ‘12.’ I said, ‘12, I was trying to play baseball.’ ”
It was genuine and funny and endearing—the kind of anecdote that you could imagine Kobe Bryant telling to win over a crowd. Bryant became an all-time great by imitating Jordan. Watching that speech on Monday, I couldn’t help thinking that Jordan had learned a thing or two from Kobe too.
