Michael Jordan’s presence in Milfield, a small town long forgotten by prosperity, began with a simple moment of rejection that spiraled into something far greater. It started when Jordan, alongside his nephew Darius, had traveled to Milfield to scout a promising young basketball player named Marcus Phillips. Exhausted from a long road trip, they stopped at the Pinewood Grill, an upscale restaurant, only to be turned away by the hostess, Mrs. Valerie Simmons. Despite empty tables inside, she refused them, citing the restaurant as “fully booked.” The reason was clear: they didn’t fit her image of what her establishment should serve.
Jordan, ever the composed figure, didn’t respond with the anger or publicity-shaming that many might have expected. Instead, he left the restaurant with Darius, whose anger simmered beside him. “They know who you are, Uncle Mike,” Darius had said, his voice rising in disbelief. Jordan’s calm, thoughtful response revealed a different kind of strength. “It’s okay, D,” he reassured, though the tension of the night lingered. He knew the rejection wasn’t a reflection of him but of the limitations of that small town, which had become a symbol of decay rather than growth.
As they left, Jordan made a call—a call that would set everything in motion. Within hours, he was already devising a plan not to destroy, but to build.
The next few days were spent quietly observing the town, learning about its struggles and its people. Milfield had seen better days. Once a thriving town thanks to a furniture factory, the economy had crumbled when the factory closed, leaving hundreds without work. Jordan saw this firsthand as he visited the worn-down gym where Marcus played, the aging community center that was running out of funding, and the empty storefronts that lined Main Street.
But there was something more, a flicker of hope that Jordan could see in the eyes of people like Rosa Martinez, the owner of a small diner, and Lionel Washington, the man who ran the community center. These were the people who didn’t let the hardships of the town break them. They kept their faith and dedication to the community alive, even when everything seemed to be falling apart.
One day, Jordan and Darius visited the diner, where Rosa served them homemade meals with a smile that had nothing to do with fame but everything to do with kindness. As they talked, Jordan learned more about the town’s struggles. The community was split—those who believed that newcomers could save Milfield and those who blamed them for the decline. Rosa, who had been saving to expand her diner, saw things differently. “We need to build something together,” she said, her words resonating with Jordan. “We need to show people that we’re stronger together.”
It was then that Jordan decided to make his presence count. Instead of taking his rejection personally, he would give the town a chance to rise from its own ashes. And so, the transformation began.
Over the next few weeks, the town buzzed with strange activity. Construction trucks pulled up to abandoned buildings, and workers started renovating the once-dilapidated storefronts. People began to talk, rumors swirling that Jordan was behind these mysterious improvements. But the truth was something bigger. Jordan wasn’t just investing in buildings; he was investing in the people who lived there. He had seen what others had missed: the spirit of community that had survived, despite the odds.
The culmination of this secretive effort came in the form of a grand unveiling. The streets were blocked off, the town buzzing with anticipation. Jordan stood before a crowd in the town square as the large screens that had been erected around the buildings began to lower, revealing what had been hidden. What once was a row of abandoned shops was now a shining beacon of hope: a new restaurant, new businesses, and a completely renovated Main Street. The centerpiece was a new restaurant called “23 Community Kitchen,” named in honor of Jordan’s famous jersey number. But it wasn’t just a restaurant—it was a hub for the town, a place where meals were served at affordable prices and where local youth would be trained in culinary arts and business skills.
The crowd erupted in applause, but the announcement wasn’t over. Jordan had plans to reopen the old factory and provide new jobs for the town. He introduced a slate of new projects—a youth sports complex, a job training center, and affordable housing for teachers and healthcare workers. These were the investments that would rebuild Milfield from the ground up, creating new opportunities for everyone in the community.
But perhaps the most surprising part of the unveiling was the inclusion of Mrs. Simmons, the very woman who had turned Jordan away from the Pinewood Grill. Jordan had offered her a second chance—she was given a role managing the office at the community kitchen. His message was clear: everyone deserved a second chance, and this town was about forgiveness, growth, and new beginnings.
As the town celebrated, Jordan shared his final words. “This isn’t about revenge,” he said, his voice carrying through the crowd. “This is about remembering that we rise or fall together. This is about creating something positive that lifts everyone up.” He gestured to the crowd, to the workers, to the families, to the community. “We open doors instead of closing them.”
One year later, Milfield was nearly unrecognizable. Main Street was thriving once again, filled with small businesses and bustling sidewalks. The 23 Community Kitchen had served over 100,000 meals, and new jobs were created every day. Rosa Martinez ran the kitchen, and Trina, the waitress who had worked at Pinewood Grill, was now managing it alongside her studies at college, thanks to a scholarship from Jordan’s foundation. The gym was bustling with activity as Marcus, the town’s local hero, had gone on to play college basketball at Duke. His story had become the story of Milfield: a place where dreams could still come true, no matter the odds.
Jordan’s investments in Milfield had done more than renovate buildings. They had restored hope to a community that had lost its way. Through his quiet kindness, through his decision not to seek revenge but to lift others up, Jordan had given Milfield more than new businesses. He had given them the future.
And when the anniversary celebration came around, Mrs. Simmons, who had once refused him entry into her restaurant, was now an integral part of the town’s transformation. She had earned her second chance, and with it, a new beginning—not just for herself, but for Milfield as a whole.
As the lights of Main Street flickered on that evening, Jordan smiled to himself. He had opened doors when others had shut them. He had given Milfield something that couldn’t be measured in dollars or buildings—a renewed sense of community, the knowledge that the best revenge isn’t revenge at all. It’s the power to change a life, to change a town, and to build something that lasts. And in the end, that was all the victory he needed.
Michael Jordan: my image is precious to me, so I sued grocery chain
This article is more than 9 years old
NBA great tells jurors ‘I have the final say-so on everything that involves my likeness and my name’ in case against Dominick’s, which used his image in 2009
Chicago Bulls great Michael Jordan testified Tuesday that his image is precious to him, which is why he filed a lawsuit against a grocery store chain that used it without permission.
“I have the final say-so on everything that involves my likeness and my name,” Jordan told jurors. When his attorney asked him why he brought the case, Jordan said it was “to protect my likeness, my image.”
Dominick’s Finer Foods has acknowledged that it wasn’t authorized to use Jordan’s image without permission in a 2009 magazine ad. The jury will decide the fair market value of the infringement by grocery chain, which has since gone out of business.
Frederick Sperling, Jordan’s attorney, told jurors that Jordan’s name was worth at least $480 million to Nike and that each commercial use of Jordan’s name is worth more than $10 million. Sperling added that Jordan made $100 million from his identity last year, even though he last played in the NBA in 2003.
Steven Mandell, a lawyer for Dominick’s, has suggested that Jordan’s attorneys overvalued Jordan’s name. It might be worth $10 million in some contexts, he said, but not necessarily in a one-off ad.
Jordan, 52, displayed an amused discomfort with having to wear reading glasses while on the witness stand, jokingly saying “don’t look” when he put them on to read a page he was handed.
Jordan stood with his hands behind his back and smiled at the jury when they left the courtroom. Jurors have been able to submit written questions to witnesses, which are reviewed by the judge and the attorneys out of hearing of jurors. Only one juror question was submitted for Jordan and there was laughter from the gallery when the judge said it was juror question “number 23” in the case (Jordan’s jersey number).
The juror wanted to know why Jordan had said he would never have entered into a deal with Dominick’s even if the chain had asked.
With jurors back in the courtroom Jordan said, “it didn’t fit the strategy we operated on in terms of signing and evaluating deals.”
The ad, which ran in Sports Illustrated, congratulated Jordan on his Hall of Fame induction. The ad also included a $2-off coupon above a photograph of a sizzling steak.
