Michael Jordan hadn’t stepped foot in his old high school in years. He had come back this morning for a simple reason: nostalgia. There were whispers about naming the gym after him, or dedicating a new trophy case in his honor—he hadn’t really paid attention. On the drive, he pictured his teenage self roaming these same streets, chasing daydreams of varsity stardom. Little had he known then that those dreams would lead to a lifetime of success.
He slipped into the building through a side entrance and headed for the gymnasium. The hallways felt exactly the same: the squeak of rubber soles on polished tile, the faint echo of doors slamming somewhere down a corridor. He grinned at the trophy cases lining the walls—inside were dusty plaques and old photos of teams he used to face (and sometimes lose to) as a freshman.
Finally, he pushed open the gym doors. The air smelled of old varnish and sweat, a smell that plunged him straight into memory. The bleachers were the same wooden fold-outs he recalled, and the lines on the parquet floor had been re-painted but followed the same scuffs.
Michael paused at half-court, letting the past wash over him. He pictured the nights he’d sneak in here long after practice ended, determined to improve. He remembered the heartbreak of being cut from varsity as a sophomore, a frustration so deep it brought tears to his eyes—tears he tried to hide behind the tall bleachers. Then he remembered the voice that always told him not to quit.
A small sound reached his ears: the gentle whisper of a mop dragging across wood. Down at the far end, someone was methodically cleaning. He squinted. The figure was old, hunched at the shoulders in a way that suggested decades of bending and lifting. Each pass of the mop looked laborious, each step careful. But there was something familiar about him: the set of his posture, the way he paused every few moments to lean on the mop handle.
Michael blinked. It couldn’t be who he thought it was—there was no way. He took a few tentative steps forward, his sneakers squeaking on the floor, and called out softly, “Mr. Jenkins?”
The old man’s movements slowed. He lifted his head. Pale eyes, framed by deep creases, met Michael’s gaze. A hesitant smile tugged at his lips. “Well, I’ll be,” the janitor murmured, voice raspy with age. “I hoped I might see you again someday.”
Michael’s heart twisted. He remembered Mr. Jenkins from over three decades ago—the janitor who used to stay late, allowing Michael to keep shooting baskets after hours. Mr. Jenkins never rushed him out, never scolded him for staying past curfew. Instead, he’d offered encouraging words whenever he saw the teenager looking dejected.
“You’re…still here?” Michael managed to say, trying not to let his shock leak into his voice.
Mr. Jenkins nodded, though his hands trembled slightly around the mop. “Still here,” he confirmed. “Floors need cleaning, after all.”
Michael swallowed. He’d always pictured Mr. Jenkins as a retiree by now—happily at home, maybe living off a modest pension. But here he was, apparently in his eighties, doing the exact same job. “How old are you now, Mr. Jenkins?” Michael asked quietly.
“Turned eighty last spring,” the older man replied. He tried to inject some cheer into his tone, but there was a heaviness behind it. “Not all of us can afford to retire, you know.”
It felt like a punch to Michael’s gut. Of all the people he’d expected to see working here, Mr. Jenkins was not one of them. He recalled the janitor’s warm smile from back in the day, the words “Greatness don’t quit” echoing in his mind. Those were the words Mr. Jenkins had offered a scrawny sophomore when he felt like giving up on basketball altogether.
“How have you been, Mr. Jenkins?” Michael asked gently, stepping forward so he stood a few feet away.
The janitor shrugged, turning off the mop’s squeezer. “I manage. Social Security only goes so far. I lost my wife to a stroke years ago, and…” He stopped, maybe reluctant to let his struggles show, “I don’t have kids to rely on. So, I’m still working. A little paycheck helps keep food on the table.”
Michael felt his jaw tighten. It didn’t sit right—this man, who had quietly guided him with encouragement all those years ago, was now the one in need. “They don’t have you doing heavy stuff, do they?” he asked, glancing at the mop and the wringer bucket.
Mr. Jenkins gave a faint laugh. “Well, I do whatever needs doing. Sometimes I’m changing light bulbs, sometimes I’m hauling supplies. What can I say? The school district doesn’t worry much about an old man’s bones.”
An urge to protest rose in Michael’s throat, but he held it back. Instead, he asked, “Do you have any plans to retire soon?”
The older man shook his head. “Lord knows I’d love to, but not with these bills piling up. If I don’t get each paycheck, I can’t cover my rent. And I’d rather mop floors than ask for handouts.”
Michael understood the pride. He felt respect for Mr. Jenkins’s resilience—but also a stab of anger at how unfair the situation was. Here Michael stood, a man of extraordinary success and wealth, face to face with the janitor who once told him, “You’ve got potential, kid—don’t let that fire go out.” And now Mr. Jenkins was trapped, still working at eighty because life had given him no choice.
A spark ignited in Michael’s mind. He’d spent his life believing that the best way to repay debts of kindness was through action. This was a debt he’d never repaid. He hadn’t even known it existed—until now.
“Mr. Jenkins,” Michael said slowly, “do you have a minute to talk?”
The janitor’s gaze flickered with curiosity. “Sure. Mop won’t mind waiting a bit.”
They walked off the court and into the side hallway, where sunlight slanted in through narrow windows. Mr. Jenkins leaned against the mop handle for support while Michael leaned against the wall. “I remember you used to talk me up when I was just a kid,” Michael began. “Told me not to quit even after I got cut from varsity, told me I’d never know how good I could be if I didn’t keep at it.”
“Those words ring a bell,” Mr. Jenkins said. A small, proud glimmer touched his eyes. “You turned out better than ‘good,’ if I recall.”
Michael almost laughed. “You have no idea how important your encouragement was to me. And now—I see you here, still working. That doesn’t sit right with me.”
The janitor’s cheeks colored. “Don’t you worry about me, son,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve made it this far. Can’t complain too much.”
But Michael did worry. He remembered countless nights: after hours, the lights half-dim, Mr. Jenkins at a corner of the gym with a broom or a mop, keeping quiet so Michael could practice in peace. He never chased Michael out, never told him to go home. And when Michael missed twenty shots in a row, Mr. Jenkins offered a calm, “Greatness don’t quit.”
“Let me do something for you,” Michael said, his voice firm but also gentle. “I can help you retire. You shouldn’t have to mop floors anymore.”
Mr. Jenkins pursed his lips. “I’ve never asked for no charity,” he whispered, pride and vulnerability clashing in his eyes. “Don’t want to be a burden.”
“It’s not charity,” Michael insisted, stepping closer. “It’s gratitude. You believed in me before I even believed in myself. That’s priceless.”
Mr. Jenkins blinked away tears he refused to let fall. “All I did was say a few words.”
“And those few words changed my life.”
The janitor stared at him for a long moment. Outside, the halls were silent, and a dust mote floated in a slant of sunlight between them. At last, Mr. Jenkins exhaled. “I suppose… if you’re offering… I can’t keep going like this forever. My back’s shot. My knees ache every night. I guess I’m not as young as I used to be.”
Michael’s features softened. “You deserve to rest. Let me see what I can arrange. In fact, I’ve got some plans already forming.”
Mr. Jenkins shook his head in wonder, a faint smile curving his lips. “If anyone else said that, I’d think they were joking. But you… I know you follow through.”
A grin tugged at Michael’s lips. “You bet I do. And if you tell me not to, I’m going to ignore you.”
For the rest of the visit, Michael stayed by his old mentor’s side, quietly taking notes on the situation. Mr. Jenkins lived alone, received a modest Social Security check, and had no real savings to speak of. The school district offered no pension for a janitor of his status.
By the time they left the hallway, Michael had a dozen texts out to his financial advisor and philanthropic contacts. His plan was simple: set up a fund for Mr. Jenkins—enough to cover his remaining years without worry. Maybe buy him a small, comfortable home with a paid-off mortgage. Ensure he had access to proper healthcare. It was the least Michael could do for the man who once said, “Greatness don’t quit.”
As they walked back into the gym, Mr. Jenkins paused, gazing at the glossy floor. “Might be the last time I see this place from a janitor’s perspective,” he murmured.
Michael rested a hand on his shoulder. “No more pushing a mop. We’ll get you squared away.”
A teardrop glittered in Mr. Jenkins’s eye. His shoulders shook with quiet emotion. “I never imagined someone would remember me after so long, let alone… do all this.”
Michael’s throat tightened. He thought of how, decades ago, Mr. Jenkins’s gentle words had lit a fire in him during a time he felt invisible and discouraged. It was a debt of kindness he could never properly repay, but this was a start.
“I’ll be in touch very soon,” he said. “You’ve done more for me than you’ll ever realize. Let me do this for you.”
“Thank you, Michael,” Mr. Jenkins whispered. “Thank you.”
Outside, the sun shone brightly on the old high school courtyard, the day suddenly brimming with possibility. Michael Jordan felt a weight lift off his heart. He climbed into his SUV, already dialing his phone to coordinate the details.
Because once upon a time, a high school janitor believed in a scrawny kid who couldn’t make varsity. And that simple act of belief had changed the trajectory of a life. Now, it was Michael Jordan’s turn to show Mr. Jenkins that true greatness—the kind the janitor had always spoken of—never forgets where it came from. And it never, ever quits on those who helped make it possible.
Michael Jordan Biography: Basketball Legend Felt Racist “Against All White People” While Growing Up
NBA Hall of Famer recalled being suspended from school for throwing a soda at a girl who called him the N-word
Michael Jordan didn’t travel the easiest of roads en route to becoming a college basketball star and an NBA legend.
And certain obstacles put a chip on his shoulder that, while it long since seems to have vanished, helped shape the athlete’s drive and competitive spirit moving forward, according to Michael Jordan: The Life, a new biography about the six-time NBA champion by sportswriter Roland Lazenby that hit shelves today.
Per an excerpt from the book, Jordan told Lazenby that he was suspended from school in 1977 after throwing a soda at a girl who called him the N-word.
“So I threw a soda at her,” Jordan’s quoted as saying. “I was really rebelling. I considered myself a racist at the time. Basically, I was against all white people.”
Lazenby told Sports Illustrated that it appeared that the root of Jordan’s animosity came from growing up in an area of North Carolina where the Ku Klux Klan once had a large presence.
“I’ve been to North Carolina hundreds of times and enjoy it tremendously, but North Carolina was a state that had more Klan members than the rest of the Southern states combined,” the author said. “As I started looking at newspapers back in this era when I was putting together [Michael’s great-grandfather] Dawson Jordan‘s life, the Klan was like a chamber of commerce. It bought the uniforms for ball teams, it put Bibles in all the schools. It may well have ended up being a chamber of commerce if not for all the violence it was perpetrating, too. A lot of the context just wasn’t possible to put it in a basketball book. A lot of it ended up being cut.”
Jordan’s story is “an economic story,” Lazenby continued. “It’s a black power story. It doesn’t come from politics or protests, it comes right off the Coastal Plain of North Carolina and out of the African-American experience.”
Courtesy Little, Brown and Company
Following the release online of remarks made by L.A. Clippers owner Donald Sterling in which he told friend V. Stiviano that he didn’t want her posting pictures of herself with black people on Instagram or bringing black people with her to Clippers games, Jordan quickly released a statement unequivocally supporting swift and decisive action from the NBA.
“As a former player, I’m completely outraged,” the NBA Hall of Famer said. “There is no room in the NBA—or anywhere else—for the kind of racism and hatred that Mr. Sterling allegedly expressed. I am appalled that this type of ignorance still exists within our country and at the highest levels of our sport. In a league where the majority of players are African-American, we cannot and must not tolerate discrimination at any level.”
After NBA Commissioner Adam Silver banned Sterling for life from further association with the league and encouraged other team owners to come together to force the 80-year-old real billionaire to sell the Clippers, Jordan applauded the “swift and decisive response.”
The recently remarried father of fivesaid: “[Stern] sent a powerful message that there can be zero tolerance for racism and hatred in the NBA. I’m confident that the league, our players and our fans will move on from this stronger and more unified.”
