Michael Jordan hadn’t planned on stopping. He was in Chicago for a quiet business meeting, nothing remarkable, just a handshake and a signature. He’d told his driver he’d take it from there, waved off the entourage, and slipped behind the wheel of a rental car. Sometimes, he liked to drive alone—Chicago’s streets still meant something to him, especially in the golden haze of late afternoon.
That’s when he saw it: a cracked, faded basketball court, chain nets rusted stiff. Two figures moved across the concrete—a teenage boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen, and a man who had to be his father. Jordan pulled over, killed the engine, and leaned back in his seat. He couldn’t hear them, but he could read the body language.
The father’s arms chopped the air, sharp, insistent. The boy’s shoulders hunched, hands on his hips, frustration radiating from every movement. Words volleyed between them, silent but fierce. Then the boy fired back, something that made the father turn away, shoulders slumping—not angry now, just tired.
The ball skittered across the pavement, bouncing crooked until it rolled to the fence. The boy didn’t chase after it. He just sat on the edge of the court, head down, legs crossed. The father sat on the bench, staring at nothing.
Michael’s fingers tapped the steering wheel. He blinked slowly. Something about the scene pulled at him. Not because it was unusual—it wasn’t—but because he’d lived it. He remembered the court behind his own house, his father pushing him, not just to play but to be better, stronger, smarter. They’d argued, too. Some nights they went to bed mad, but the bond never broke. Not until the day it did.
He didn’t get out of the car. Didn’t roll down the window. Just watched.
Suddenly, the boy stood and shouted, “You don’t get it! Not everyone wants to be like you!” His voice carried across the empty court. The father stood, didn’t yell back, just nodded. The boy stormed off, heading home alone. The father sat, silent.
Jordan started the engine and pulled away, ignoring the guy walking his dog who shouted, “Yo, that’s MJ, ain’t it?” He ignored the kids with scooters, the phones pulled out too late. He didn’t explain the stop to anyone.
Back at his place, Michael poured a drink and stood by the window, staring at the city. He didn’t turn on the TV or answer his phone. The silence was better. He thought about the look on the boy’s face—the frustration, the helplessness. He’d felt that before, as a kid, as a man, even at the peak of his fame.
Later that night, he dug out an old box from the back of his closet—clippings, notes, photographs, a couple of VHS tapes. There was a photo: him and his dad, both sweaty and smiling on a court. He didn’t remember who took it—probably his mom. Next to it, a worn notebook, pages filled with sketches and plays. Near the back, an address written in his own handwriting. The same street where he’d stopped that day.
It hit him. That court wasn’t just any court. It was the first one he and his dad had played on outside their backyard. He’d forgotten, or maybe buried it deep.
The next morning, someone from his business team called about a meeting. Jordan said no. He was taking the day. He drove the same route, passed the court, but didn’t stop. It was empty, the chain nets swaying in the wind.
At home, he sat at his kitchen table, the old photo in hand. His dad’s arm around his shoulder, young MJ squinting at the sun. He could almost hear his dad’s voice: “You gotta want it. Not for me, not for anyone else. For you.”
He placed the photo face down. The boy’s voice echoed: “Not everyone wants to be like you.” He wondered if that dad had ever heard what the boy really meant. He wondered if his own father had ever heard him.
That night, Michael didn’t sleep much. He watched old tapes, including one labeled in his father’s handwriting—Mike, 13 years old, first outside run. The footage was grainy. His father’s voice in the background: “Hands up! Get low! Use your left.” Young MJ missed a layup, groaned. His father laughed: “Don’t run from the left.” The boy rebounded, scored.
Perfect moments, he thought, were dangerous. They made everything after feel like noise.
He wrote down the name of the boy he’d seen—didn’t know why, just felt compelled. He called a quiet favor, found out the boy’s name was Darnell Price, fifteen, played for the Southside Wolves. His dad, Raymond, had been a high school standout. Never made it past college ball. Worked at a body shop now.
Days passed. Darnell’s week was rough. He skipped practices, was benched by his coach. The house was silent. At a red light, his father finally asked, “You think I’m trying to live through you?” Darnell stared ahead. “Aren’t you?” Raymond didn’t answer right away. “I just don’t want you to waste it. Your shot. You got more talent at fifteen than I had at eighteen.” Darnell turned. “Then let me figure it out my way.” Raymond nodded, quietly.
That weekend, Darnell wandered back to the old court. The late afternoon light was long and gold. Michael Jordan was there, alone, shooting free throws. Darnell froze. MJ looked over, nodded. Darnell stepped onto the court. They shot around. No small talk, just the sound of the ball and the wind.
After a while, Darnell asked, “Why are you here?”
MJ glanced at the backboard. “First court I ever played on outside my house. My dad brought me here. He was tough. Too tough, sometimes. I didn’t get it back then.” Darnell took a shot. MJ rebounded, passed it back. “You will.”
Darnell lowered his arms. “I don’t want to be him.”
“Then don’t,” MJ said. “But don’t run from him, either. He’s trying.”
MJ walked to the bench, handed Darnell a folded paper—a photocopy of a letter his own dad had written him. Darnell opened it. When he looked up, MJ was already walking away.
“Wait!” Darnell called. “You’re just leaving?”
MJ didn’t turn. “You don’t always need to say everything. Sometimes you just show up.”
That night, Darnell read the letter again and again. The words stung: *When the crowd disappears and the lights go out, I hope you still know who you are—not the player, the man.*
The next game, Darnell played with a new focus. He passed more, forced less. They won by one, thanks to a last-second shot—not his, but a teammate’s. Afterward, Raymond clapped from the stands. That was enough.
Later, Darnell found a brown envelope taped to the fence. Inside was a photo of MJ and his dad on that court, and a note: *You won’t always make the shot, but you’ll always have the choice to make the pass. – MJ*
He carried it in his backpack from then on.
Years later, Darnell would wake his father early on a Saturday. “Let’s go shoot around,” he’d say. They’d play one-on-one, no scoreboard, just laughter and sweat. The court was still cracked, the nets still rusted, but something had changed. The silence between them was full now, not empty.
Michael Jordan never told anyone why he’d stopped that day, why he’d walked away without a word. He didn’t have to. Sometimes, the quiet is where the game really speaks.
And sometimes, just showing up is enough.
How Did NBA Legend Michael Jordan’s Father James Die?
Following James Jordan’s murder, the NBA great briefly retired and pursued a career in baseball, a sport his father taught him to love.
Michael Jordan #23 of the Chicago Bulls celebrates winning the NBA Championship with his father after Game Six of the 1993 NBA Finals. Photo: Andrew D. Bernstein/NBAE via Getty Images
The year 1993 was a big one for NBA great Michael Jordan. It marked his third-straight year that he was named NBA Finals MVP, a first in the league’s history.
But it was also a time of immense grief for the Chicago Bulls superstar. His father and biggest supporter, James Jordan Sr., was brutally murdered on July 23, 1993, a death that led to Michael’s brief retirement, which spanned from October 1993 to February 1994.
James’ death would irrevocably change his son’s life, altering his career path and the way Michael carried himself for the rest of his years. As Michael told the New York Times in 1994, “You never know, someone might be following you. I’m very aware of that. It’s second nature now.”
What happened to James Jordan Sr.?
James had been driving home from a friend’s funeral in the early morning hours of July 23, 1993, when he decided to pull over for a nap in his red Lexus, according to the Chicago Tribune. It was there on a highway in Lumberton, North Carolina around 2 a.m. that Daniel Andre Green and Larry Martin Demery, both 18, noticed their target. They later claimed they only wanted to steal James’ car, but ended up fatally shooting him.
The teens told investigators that they had planned to tie James up and leave him on the side of the road, taking his expensive car — a gift from his son, Michael — and other belongings in the process. Instead, Green shot the 56-year-old square in the chest, killing him.
“He awakened, and when he awakened the guy with the gun got scared and shot him,” said Robeson County Sheriff Hubert Stone at the teens’ arraignment in August of 1993, according to the Washington Post.
And while Michael had achieved fame worldwide by this point, with his father often joining him at games, Green and Demery were unaware that they had killed the star’s father. They only learned the victim’s identity after they had fled the scene and more closely examined what they’d stolen, including James’ wallet containing his driver’s license.
Michael Jordan stands on the court with his father James Jordan after recieving the MVP award in 1988 at Chicago Stadium in Chicago, IL. Photo: Getty Images
“I believe we killed Michael Jordan’s dad,” Green said, according to Robeson County District Atty. Johnson Britt’s opening statements at trial, the Chicago Tribune reported.
They then took James’ body to a nearby waste treatment plant with the intention of dumping it in a vat that would dissolve the remains. But the facility was locked, so they instead dumped James’ body in a swamp in South Carolina, Britt alleged.
The Lexus was found abandoned in Fayetteville, N.C. on August 5, at which point the Jordan family realized something bad had happened to the patriarch. According to the Los Angeles Times, the family hadn’t filed a police report at that point because James was often away on extended business trips.
Where was James Jordan Sr. found dead?
On August 3, fisherman Hal Locklear found James’ decomposing remains in what was known as Gum Swamp, a marshy wetland in South Carolina where locals catch catfish. The remains would not be positively identified as James until August 13.
“(The body) was just something I walked upon,” Locklear said to the L.A. Times. “I was walking the banks for 30 minutes before I found anything. … It’s dense right there. You couldn’t see it from the bridge. It probably would have taken a fisherman to find it. There is a swimming hole up the road from where I found it.”
Ten days after that, James was identified by dental records using impressions of his jaw and hands since the body had already been cremated, the Associated Press reported.
James’ dental records were unique in that he had extensive work done to repair his teeth, which would’ve cost more than the average South Carolina citizen could afford. So when Marlboro County Coroner Tim Brown saw news coverage about James’ disappearance, “I thought, ‘Hell, it could be the dental work, he could be one who could afford it,'” according to the Washington Post.
“What happened to Mr. Jordan was the kind of random violence that all the public are concerned and afraid of,” said Jim Coman, director of the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigations, the Chicago Sun Times reported.
James was laid to rest on August 15, 1993. Michael delivered a 15-minute eulogy at the funeral, which was attended by family, as well as Chicago Bulls teammate B.J. Armstrong and Dean Smith, Michael’s coach at the University of North Carolina.
“Dad is no longer with us,” read a message from James’ wife and her children that was in the funeral program, according to the Washington Post. “But the lessons which he taught us will remain with us forever and they will give us the strength to move forward with a renewed sense of purpose in our lives.”
How were Larry Martin Demery and Daniel Andre Green caught?
Around the same time that James was buried in a plot near his mother and father, police apprehended Green and Demery, thanks to the teens making traceable calls on James’ car phone. On August 16, the teens were charged with first-degree murder and armed robbery and held without bail, per the Sun Times.
Though Green and Demery surrendered to police, the FBI and North Carolina State Bureau of Investigations were able to determine their whereabouts through James’ phone, the Sun Times reported.
“One of the things that helped us the most was the car phone,” Capt. Art Binder of the Cumberland County (N.C.) Sheriff’s Department said. “They took (the phone), they made telephone calls, and we traced them.”
Larry Demery Photo: NCDPS
At the arraignment, it was further revealed that Green had led police to the site where they had buried Michael’s 1986 All-Star Game ring, worn by James at the time of his death, the Washington Post reported. Green also made a video of himself rapping while wearing the ring and a gold watch, both gifts from Michael to James, according to the AP.
Demery pleaded guilty to first-degree murder, armed robbery, and conspiracy to commit robbery in 1996, and was sentenced to life in prison, according to previous Oxygen.com reporting. He also agreed to testify against Green.
Green, meanwhile, took his case to court, with his defense team arguing that Demery was responsible for the murder and burglary, the Chicago Tribune reported. It was only after Demery showed up at Green’s home “all shook up,” that Green agreed to help him dispose of the body, the defense argued.
But Demery testified that Green was the one who pulled the trigger, fatally shooting James, who woke up right as the men were about to rob him.
“No sooner than the words were out of his mouth than Daniel shot him. I couldn’t believe he had done it. There had never been any discussion of hurting this man to get what we wanted,” Demery testified, according to the Greensboro News and Record.
Green was found guilty of first-degree murder, armed robbery, and conspiracy to commit robbery, and sentenced to life in prison in January of 1996.
By the time Green and Demery were locked behind bars, their fates having been decided by the courts, Michael was back to playing basketball after a brief stint on the minor league baseball fields.
Michael said that his father thought he’d be a good baseball player, striking it big like Black trailblazers Bo Jackson and Deion Sanders.
“He said, ‘You’ve got the skills.’ He thought I had proved everything I could in basketball, and that I might want to give baseball a shot,” Michael told the NY Times. “I told him, ‘No, I haven’t done everything. I haven’t won a championship.’ Then I won it, and we talked about baseball on occasion, and then we won two more championships. And then he was killed.”
In the years since the murder, Michael has said very little about his father’s killers. Instead, he’s focused on the impact that the death has had on his career, sharing that James was his “rock” in the 2020 docuseries, The Last Dance.
