The world has always known Michael Jordan as a towering figure, a giant in the world of basketball, revered and admired by millions. He was the symbol of athletic perfection, a six-time NBA champion, a two-time Olympic gold medalist, and the epitome of success. Yet, behind the endless accolades, trophies, and public admiration, there was a man carrying a profound, unspoken grief—a grief that no victory, no matter how monumental, could ever alleviate.
It was July 23rd, the day that would forever be etched into his heart. Every year, Michael withdrew from the spotlight, retreating to a quiet, reflective solitude. He would shut off his phone, ignore any work or media obligations, and simply allow the day to pass as he honored the memory of his father, James Raymond Jordan, Sr., who had been tragically taken from him too soon.
That particular morning, the weather matched his mood—a storm had rolled in the night before, leaving the sky a heavy shade of gray, mirroring the sorrow Michael carried within. He woke slowly, wrapped in the warmth of a thin blanket, the fireplace crackling softly. The house was still, the silence only broken by the sound of rain tapping gently against the windows.
Michael rose from the armchair where he had fallen asleep, his steps slow as if the weight of the day was already pressing on him. He walked to a shelf lined with old photographs, a single frame catching his attention. It was an image of him and his father, sitting on a wooden bench, laughing together—a moment so simple yet so precious. Michael could no longer remember what had made them laugh that day, but the image of his father’s smile was forever etched in his mind.
James Jordan had been more than just a father to Michael—he had been his rock, his guide, and his first true believer. “You don’t have to be the best in the world, Michael,” his father had often said, “You just have to give your best every day.” But with his father’s death, Michael had always felt an unfillable void, a presence lost in the air, a laugh forever silenced.
Sitting there, in the quiet of his home, Michael felt the tears slide down his face. He had kept them hidden from the public eye for so long. But today, on this anniversary of his father’s passing, there was no audience, no cameras—just the memories that filled the room. “I’m not done, Dad,” Michael whispered to the air, as though speaking to the very soul of his father. “There’s something I still need to do, but I don’t know what it is.”
The feeling was overwhelming, almost like an unseen force pulling him somewhere. It wasn’t an escape—it was a calling. He knew, deep within, that he had to return to his roots, to the house where it had all begun. He would go back to Wilmington, North Carolina, to the place where his father had lived, to the home where memories still lingered in the walls and the air.
The next morning, Michael boarded a plane, not as a superstar but as a son yearning for closure, yearning to feel his father’s presence once more. The flight was quiet, a rare moment of peace for the man who had been forever in the public eye. When he arrived in Wilmington, he rented a car and drove to the old house, a place he had bought years ago to preserve the memories of his father.
Everything seemed smaller than he remembered, yet so immense in meaning. The house stood as a silent witness to his past, holding the echoes of laughter, of conversations shared, and of the love between father and son. The garden, though modest, had flowers that seemed to grow strong, as if waiting for someone to return. Michael stood for a moment, just looking at the house, before he turned the old key in the door and stepped inside.
The smell of the house hit him immediately—wood, old paper, and the faint scent of citrus from the cleaner his mother used to use. It was the same scent that had greeted him when he was a child, returning home from school with scraped knees and a light heart. Everything was the same, and yet everything had changed. The silence was thick, but it was comforting. The house had not changed, but Michael had.
He walked through the rooms, touching old furniture, the objects that had once been a part of his daily life. His father’s bookshelf still stood in the corner, its titles worn by time, sacred through memory. Michael smiled when he saw a well-worn copy of The Old Man and the Sea, his father’s favorite book, with a note scribbled along the edge of the cover: For Michael, persistence is stronger than luck.
But it was when he walked up the stairs that his heart began to race. At the end of the hall was his father’s old room. He stood there for a moment, his hand resting on the doorknob, before he opened it slowly. The room was covered in white sheets, but it was still recognizable. This was the room where his father had spent countless hours reading, reflecting, and dreaming.
As Michael moved through the room, he found something strange—a small toolbox tucked against the floorboard, slightly raised. His curiosity piqued, he pushed the board aside and found a metal safe hidden beneath. The lock was simple, and with a gentle push, it opened. Inside, there were seven envelopes, each one numbered by hand in his father’s unmistakable handwriting.
Letter One: For when you are lost.
Michael’s heart skipped a beat. It was as though his father had known this day would come. As though he had left these letters, these final messages, for Michael to discover when he needed them most. He held the first envelope in his hands, pressing it to his chest before he opened it. The letter read:
“My son, if you’re reading this, then something inside you brought you back here. Sometimes the world will give you a standing ovation, but you will still feel lost. If you’re lost, Michael, know that it doesn’t make you less. It just makes you human.”
The words hit Michael deeply. He sat there for a long moment, absorbing his father’s wisdom. He had spent so much of his life chasing success, but perhaps what he had been searching for was not the next trophy, but the quiet wisdom his father had always imparted to him.
One by one, he opened the letters, each one guiding him through different stages of his life. And as he read, he began to understand—he wasn’t lost. He was simply in a space between who he had been and who he was becoming.
The final letter, more worn than the others, was the most powerful of all. It spoke of a legacy that would live on, not in the public victories, but in the quiet moments of strength, kindness, and perseverance. It spoke of the power of helping others, of seeing the invisible, and of making a difference where it truly mattered.
That evening, Michael stood at the community center, where he had been invited to speak to young people who, like him, had struggled and faced adversity. He spoke of his journey, but more than that, he spoke of his father’s legacy—how his father’s love had shaped everything he did, and how he now understood that his true purpose was not just to be a champion, but to be a guide for others, just as his father had been for him.
In that moment, Michael realized that he wasn’t just fulfilling his own dreams. He was fulfilling a promise made to his father. And through his father’s letters, he had discovered that the true legacy was not in the trophies, but in the lives he could change.
As he left the event, a young man named Daniel approached him. Daniel, a quiet, determined young man, reminded Michael of his younger self. And as they spoke, Michael knew that this was just the beginning. Through Daniel, Michael saw the legacy of his father continuing—not in grand gestures, but in small, powerful moments of connection and guidance.
With his father’s watch on his wrist and the knowledge of his father’s love in his heart, Michael Jordan knew that he would continue to honor his father’s legacy, not just through his fame, but through the lives he touched.
The folks at the blog Letters of Note have gotten hold of a charming, and grammatically flawed, love letter written by an 18-year old Michael Jordan to a young lady named Laquette.
In the handwritten (in cursive!) note, penned as Jordan sat in high school chemistry class, the future NBA legend apologizes for a misstep and concedes, “I made you look pretty rotten after the last night.” His Airness also addresses a romantic issue that many basketball players deal with when he admits he is “finally getting use [sic] to going with a girl much smaller than I.”
You can check out Letters of Note’s full transcript of the love letter below:
Michael Jordan
My Dearest Laquette
How are you and your family doing, fine I hope. I am in my Adv. Chemistry class writing you a letter, so that tell you how much I care for you. I decide to write you because I felt that I made you look pretty rotten after the last night. I want to tell you that I am sorry, and hope that you except my apologie. I know that you feelings was hurt whenever I loss my necklace or had it stolen.
I was really happy when you gave me my honest coin money that I won off the bet. I want to thank you for letting me hold your annual. I show it to everyone at school. Everyone think you are a very pretty young lady and I had to agree because it is very true. Please don’t let this go to your head. (smile) I sorry to say that I can’t go to the game on my birthday because my father is taking the whole basketball team out to eat on my birthday. Please don’t be mad because I am trying get down there a week from Feb. 14. If I do get the chance to come please have some activity for us to do together.
I want you to know that my feeling for you has not change yet. ← (joke) I am finally getting use to going with a girl much smaller than I. I hope you my hint. Well I have spent my time very wisely by write to you. I hope you write back soon. Well I must go, the period is almost over. See you next time around, which I hope comes soon.
With my Best Love
Michael J. Jordan
