Noah Thompson’s sneakers scraped the cracked concrete of Benjamin Harris Elementary’s playground, their rubber soles catching on a jagged edge as he dribbled his battered basketball. The sun was barely up, but he was already lost in the rhythm of the game, the thump of the ball echoing off empty walls. This court, forgotten by most, was his sanctuary—a place where hope flickered, even as the city around him seemed to forget.
He didn’t know that he was being watched.
From a black SUV parked discreetly across the street, Michael Jordan surveyed the scene. He saw the rusted hoops, the faded lines, the weeds pushing through the pavement. But he also saw Noah’s determination, the way he moved with purpose despite the court’s flaws. It reminded Jordan of his own beginnings—nights spent shooting on chain nets, mornings spent chasing a dream no one else could see.
Today, he was here to do more than just watch.
As Noah lined up another shot, the SUV door opened. Out stepped a tall man in jeans and a dark jacket, his face shadowed by a cap. For a moment, Noah froze. He’d seen that stride in highlight reels, that unmistakable presence that filled arenas. His breath caught as the man picked up Noah’s ball, spinning it in his hands.
“You’re here early,” Jordan said, his voice gentle but commanding.
Noah nodded, words caught in his throat. “Every morning, sir.”
Jordan glanced at the court, then at Noah. “How many kids play here after school?”
“Dozens,” Noah replied. “Even with the cracks. We take turns—sometimes three games at once.”
Jordan smiled, a glint in his eye. “What if we could make this court into something special? Not just new hoops, but a place that could change lives?”
Noah’s heart pounded. Before he could answer, the schoolyard began to fill. Kids whispered, teachers stared, phones appeared. The greatest basketball player of all time was standing on their forgotten court.
But Jordan wasn’t here for a photo op. He was here to listen.
He asked about summer nights, about the games played under car headlights when the court’s lamp burned out. He listened to Sophia Lewis describe teaching her little sister to shoot, to Mason Rodriguez recalling stories his grandfather told about the old championship teams. Principal Martinez, who had fought for years to save the court, stepped forward, her voice trembling as she spoke of its importance.
“This court,” Jordan said, “reminds me of where I started. Not the fancy gyms. Just concrete, a hoop, and a dream.”
He turned to Noah. “Tell me, what does this place mean to you?”
Noah looked around at his friends. “It’s like our town square. The only place where everybody feels safe. Where everyone belongs.”
Jordan nodded, his gaze sweeping the court. He pulled out his phone. “Tony, get the team down here. Full crew. Tell the Foundation Project Phoenix is launching early.”
The whispers grew. What did it mean? What was about to happen?
Jordan addressed the crowd. “This isn’t just about basketball. It’s about building dreams. A learning center for homework help and college prep. A tech lab for sports science and analytics. A community space for meetings and events. Training facilities for athletes and for those who want to learn about sports medicine, coaching, management.”
He paused, his voice rising. “But this only works if you’re all in. This isn’t a gift. It’s an opportunity. And it matters only if you’re ready to work for it.”
As the day unfolded, Jordan met with students, teachers, parents, and community leaders. He listened as eighth-grade girls described organizing their own league when no one else would. He heard from Coach White, who still mentored kids for free. He took every story to heart, weaving their dreams into his vision.
Plans took shape. The new facility would cover not just the court, but the abandoned lot next door. There would be adjustable hoops for younger kids, specialized lighting, surfaces designed for safety. The learning center would have state-of-the-art computers, a sports science lab, a community kitchen. Local artists would create murals, telling the story of the neighborhood’s past and future.
Jordan’s team moved quickly. Surveyors mapped the court, architects sketched out possibilities, and community volunteers offered their skills. By sunset, the old court hosted one last tournament—Jordan himself joining games, passing the ball, laughing with kids who would remember this day forever.
Three months later, Phoenix Rise stood where the broken court once was. The transformation was stunning: a gleaming facility with a main court that glowed under innovative lighting, walls adorned with murals, a scoreboard doubling as a movie screen, reconfigurable bleachers. But it was the details—the preserved messages from the old backboard, the library with books on basketball and business, the sports science lab—that made it special.
On the eve of the grand opening, Jordan gave Noah and his mother a private tour. He showed them the founders’ room, the community kitchen, the learning center. “This place,” he said, “belongs to you. To everyone who never stopped believing.”
Noah’s mother paused at a photo on the wall—her late husband, playing on the old court. “He used to say this place was sacred ground,” she whispered.
Jordan nodded. “It still is. That’s why we built from it, not over it.”
The next morning, the community gathered. Jordan spoke, his words carrying over the crowd. “This isn’t just a building. It’s proof of what happens when we see possibility instead of problems. When we refuse to let forgotten places stay forgotten.”
Phoenix Rise would be run by a board of community members and professionals, programs free for local youth, funded by the foundation and partnerships. It wasn’t charity—it was investment.
The opening celebration was electric: clinics, coding demonstrations, healthy cooking classes. NBA stars played alongside local kids, but the real stars were the community members who had made it all possible.
As the sun set, Jordan announced that Project Phoenix would expand to ten more cities, and a scholarship fund would send local students to college each year. The crowd erupted. Noah, sitting with his mother, felt tears on his cheeks. Jordan caught his eye and nodded—a silent promise.
That night, as the celebration wound down, Noah took one last shot on the new court, surrounded by friends. The ball arced through the air, swishing through the net. The sound echoed—a promise kept, a future begun.
Phoenix Rise would become more than a court. It would become a beacon, proving that when a community believes—and when someone with vision helps them build—the possibilities are endless.
“They thought I was being given a chance to play” — The untold story of Michael Jordan being cut from his high school team
Michael Jordan getting cut from his high school basketball team is one of the most interesting chapters of the Chicago Bulls icon’s lore. That dark chapter in his career showed how an early failure only kindled the fire in him. Rather than give up his dreams of going to the NBA, being left out motivated him even more.
Most people know MJ was cut. However, not many fans know what happened afterward, particularly since his mother, Deloris Jordan, instinctively knew something was wrong when she saw his son.
“My mother was at work, so I waited until she got home, and then I told her,” Mike said in 1991, per the Chicago Tribune. “She knew before I said anything that something was wrong, and I told her that I had been cut from the team. When you tell your mom something like that the tears start again, and the two of you have an aftercry together.”
More heartbreak
After the season had ended, Jordan approached his coach and asked if he could join the team for the district tournament. Perhaps Mike had been working his tail off for months and wanted to see if the coach would give him a chance.
“The coach told me no,” Jordan said.”But I asked again, and he said I could come. But when we got to the tournament gym, he said he didn’t know if I could go in. He told me that the only way I could go in was to carry the players’ uniforms.”
“So that’s what I did. I walked into the building carrying the uniforms for the players who had made the team,” Mike continued.
Jordan’s desperation to make the squad proved lethal and caused more heartbreak. His parents were in the stands and knew of his intention. They were jubilant when they saw their son carrying the jerseys, not knowing he still wasn’t part of the squad.
“What made me feel the worst about that was that my parents had come to watch the tournament, and when they saw me walking in carrying the uniforms, they thought I was being given a chance to play,” said Jordan.
“That’s what hurt me. They thought I was being given a chance. But I was just carrying the clothes for the others.”
Mom’s advice
Deloris confirmed that she and Michael cried after being cut from the team. She understood how competitive her son is and how much he loves to play basketball. Rather than try all sorts of antics to appease the coach, she told her son there was no substitute for hard work.
“We both cried, ’cause I knew he wanted to really compete with the other guys. My words to him was, ‘If you really want it, you work hard over the summer,’ And he did that summer! That summer, he focused. He would practice all day. That basketball never left his hand,” Deloris shared in “The Last Dance”.
Being cut shattered MJ’s psyche, at least for a few days. But in hindsight, he realized that the pain was worth it. It set him up to become one of the best ballers of all time.
“It was good because it made me know what disappointment felt like,” MJ said. “And I knew that I didn’t want to have that feeling ever again.”
