In the fall of 1978, the gym at Laney High School in Wilmington, North Carolina, was silent. The usual sounds—sneakers squeaking, basketballs thumping—were absent, replaced by a heavy anticipation. On this particular afternoon, a gangly sophomore named Michael Jordan made his way toward the bulletin board outside Coach Perkins’s office, his heart pounding.
He scanned the varsity basketball roster once, twice, searching for his name. It wasn’t there.
For Michael, the world seemed to narrow to a single, sharp moment. He had dreamed of playing varsity, of hearing his name called over the loudspeaker, of leading his team to victory. But the paper was clear: he hadn’t made it. His friend Marcus Thompson, taller and stronger, had. Michael, at barely 5’10”, was considered too small.
Most kids might have walked away, shoulders slumped, dreams deflated. But Sarah Foster, the school counselor, watched as Michael’s disappointment transformed into something else. Not anger. Not self-pity. Determination. A spark lit behind his eyes.
That evening, at home, Michael’s mother found him quiet and withdrawn. She sat beside him and spoke softly, “Use this, Michael. Let it make you stronger.”
He listened. And he decided.
The next morning, before sunrise, security guard Daniel Pierce found Michael waiting by the gym doors, basketball in hand. “Can I get some extra practice in?” Michael asked. It became a ritual. Every morning, Daniel unlocked the gym for him. Every night, janitor Lauren Anderson would gently shoo him out, Michael always asking for “just five more minutes.” But it was never just five.
Coach Robert Hampton, who led the junior varsity team, noticed. “Most kids practice until they get it right,” he said. “Michael practiced until he couldn’t get it wrong.” The empty gym echoed with the sound of his solitary determination—jump shots, layups, free throws, all performed again and again.
During the day, Michael’s teachers saw the change. His English essays shifted, focusing on overcoming obstacles and proving doubters wrong. His classmates noticed the quiet intensity. He didn’t talk about revenge. He talked about work.
That winter, while the varsity team played solid, unspectacular basketball, the junior varsity games became an unexpected sensation. Michael was unstoppable, scoring forty points a game, playing with a ferocity that made every possession feel like the NBA Finals. Word spread. Rival coaches and local reporters came to see the kid who’d been cut, now dominating every game.
But Michael wasn’t satisfied. He wanted more. The cut had ignited something in him—a need to prove, not just to the coaches, but to himself, that he belonged. The gym became his sanctuary. He ran sprints until his lungs burned. He shot until his arms ached. He studied the game, watching older players, analyzing every move.
Summer arrived, and while other students relaxed, Michael’s transformation accelerated. He grew nearly four inches, his body filling out with new muscle. Kevin Davis, who ran the community center, gave Michael his own key. “He was there so much, it just made sense,” Kevin laughed later. Michael’s workouts were relentless—sunrise to midnight, inside the gym and out. He played pickup games against older, stronger players, never backing down, always pushing himself.
By the time school resumed in the fall, Michael was unrecognizable. His former JV teammates stared in awe. “It was like he’d downloaded every basketball skill over the summer,” one said. But it wasn’t just his game that had changed. His academic performance soared. His teachers saw the same intensity in the classroom as on the court.
The first day of varsity tryouts, Coach Anthony Kennedy felt a hush fall over the gym as Michael walked in. This wasn’t the same kid they’d cut. This was someone transformed by rejection. In the first scrimmage, Michael attacked every play—diving for loose balls, driving to the basket, defending with a hunger that lifted the entire gym. The returning varsity players, who’d once seen him as a little brother, now struggled to keep up.
Practice became a battleground. No one wanted to be outworked by the kid who’d been cut. The team’s standards rose. Coaches redesigned drills to match Michael’s intensity. The culture shifted—excellence was now the expectation.
When the season began, the gym was packed. Rumors of Michael’s transformation had spread. The first game, he scored 42 points, grabbed 12 rebounds, and dished out six assists. The crowd buzzed—not just at the numbers, but at the way he played. Every movement had purpose. Every possession was a statement: “This is what you missed out on.”
Michael’s story became a legend at Laney High. Students referenced his journey whenever they faced setbacks. Coaches used his example to teach resilience. The JV coach, Timothy Wells, said, “Kids wanted to be like Mike—not just in skill, but in effort.” Even the school’s principal, Dr. Anderson, noticed the change: “He taught us all that rejection isn’t the end. It’s the beginning.”
As the season progressed, college scouts arrived, drawn by stories of the relentless kid who turned a cut into rocket fuel. Michael’s impact spread beyond the court. The school’s approach to failure changed. Teachers encouraged students to use setbacks as stepping stones, not stumbling blocks.
Years later, as Michael Jordan’s legend grew—six NBA championships, five MVPs, Olympic gold—people pointed to that varsity cut as the turning point. Sports psychologists studied his journey, finding in it a blueprint for resilience. Coaches everywhere told their players: “Don’t fear failure. Use it. That’s how Michael Jordan became the GOAT.”
At Laney High, the gym where Michael once practiced alone became a place of pilgrimage. Students and athletes stood where he had stood, drawing inspiration from the story that had changed their school—and the world.
For Michael, the cut was never just about basketball. It was about proving that greatness isn’t given. It’s earned, forged in the fire of rejection, and fueled by the relentless pursuit to be better than you were the day before.
And that, more than any trophy or title, is the true legacy of Michael Jordan’s greatest comeback.
“Absolutely Not”: Reggie Miller Rejects The Premise Of Michael Jordan Ever Getting Roasted Voluntarily The Way Tom Brady Did
Credits: USA TODAY Sports
The Roast of Tom Brady has led to multiple analysts and enthusiasts wondering if other sporting legends would agree to do the same. Dan Patrick seemed to be curious, wondering whether Michael Jordan would be a good enough sport to get roasted. Reggie Miller, without giving it much thought, rejected the idea of the Chicago Bulls legend getting berated by a 10+ people panel.
It was impressive that Tom Brady, unarguably the NFL’s GOAT, agreed to be part of such an experience. However, Reggie Miller didn’t believe that Michael Jordan would be interested in taking on such a venture. The idea of MJ’s close friends belittling him, as a joke, is not something that Miller sees happening ever.
Dan Patrick asked, “Could you see Michael Jordan doing what Tom Brady did last?”
“Absolutely not, there is no way. There is more of a mystique about MJ. There’s no way, for three hours, people taking shots. I was shocked when I first heard about it and then I watched it last night because really what a roast is about is your loved ones telling you how they really feel about you and disguising them as a joke,” Reggie Miller said.
However, if Michael Jordan would agree to get roasted, Reggie Miller would play the same role as Drew Bledsoe or Payton Manning did in Tom Brady’s roast. If the opportunity came knocking on his door, the TNT analyst would happily accept trolling His Airness.
“I guess I would be the Drew Bledsoe of that roast or Peyton Manning. I don’t know if I could be that close to him without maybe taking a swing at him,” Reggie said.
The Indiana Pacers legend is accurate in his statements. If history has taught us anything, it’s that Michael Jordan does get offended when told something that he doesn’t want to hear. Famously, Jordan cut ties with good friend Charles Barkley when the latter criticized his way of running the Charlotte Hornets. Additionally, Jordan’s inability to take a harmless joke is another reason he might not be the center attraction of a roast.
Michael Jordan has never really taken a joke on him well
Michael Jordan flourished as a player despite being heavily scrutinized by the media. Before the 1990s, Jordan was often attacked for not winning a championship. However, he used all the chatter to fuel his game and dominate the court. As a result, MJ led the Bulls to win six titles in an eight-season span. However, Jordan has never seemed to take a joke lightly.
Kevin Hart, one of the best American comedians, revealed an interesting story of the time when he was trolling Michael Jordan at his charity event in Las Vegas. Apart from roasting the five-time NBA MVP’s dressing sense, Hart also attacked Jordan’s physical appearance, taking shots at the latter’s mustache.
“I was like, ‘What age do you where it’s Ok to where your pants that high and nobody addresses it,” Hart said. “Y’all telling me I’m the only that thinks Mike’s (pants are) past the legal limit for waists.”
“He had like the little square mustache at the time. And I was like ‘What is that?’ I said it looks like a thumbprint, like you just smell something. And, like, nobody’s laughing, like they got to the point where nobody’s laughing,” Kevin Hart recollected.
While Jordan acknowledged the comedian after the show, that was the last time that Hart ever saw his “favorite player”.
“So I see him and I’m like, ‘What up, Mike? Hey!’ And he shook my hand and he squeezed it real hard, and he was like (in a terse voice), ‘You have a good day.’ I ain’t seen him since. He’s still my favorite player,” Hart told Jimmy Kimmel.
While Jordan couldn’t take a joke, John Salley revealed that there were many instances when he would hurt people with his ‘jokes’.
Even if Jordan swallowed a tough pill and decided to get roasted, getting a panel to troll him and possibly risk their friendship would be a challenging task.
