Michael Jordan was driving home after a long day of charity work. The Children’s Hospital in Charlotte had kept him busy, with hours of signing autographs and posing for photos with children. His hands were sore from the constant motion, and his smile felt forced, though he didn’t mind. Helping sick kids was one of the most important things in his life. But now, all he needed was some quiet time.
As he turned onto a back road that led him through the small towns of North Carolina, Michael felt a sense of peace. The landscape was familiar, the same rolling fields and country roads he grew up on. He had always found solace here, away from the bustle of fame and media.
His car’s radio hummed softly, playing an old soul song that matched the calm of the evening. Michael was eager to get home, kick off his shoes, and relax. But as he passed through a small town called Milfield, something caught his eye. A worn-down basketball court sat next to a community center. It was old, cracked concrete, rusty hoops, but it wasn’t the condition of the court that stopped him. It was the lone figure on it.
An elderly man stood at the free-throw line, his back slightly hunched, taking shot after shot. His movements were slow, almost methodical, but Michael noticed something in his posture — determination. The ball bounced off the rim again, and the man shuffled slowly to retrieve it. Michael found himself slowing the car, pulling over to the side of the road.
Maybe he could spare five minutes, just to watch.
He stepped out of the car, and the old man didn’t seem to notice. Michael walked closer, his sneakers crunching on the gravel, the sound breaking the silence of the evening. When the old man finally turned, Michael saw the wear of time on his face — deep lines around his eyes, a slow, deliberate pace to his movements. Yet there was a sense of pride in the way the man held himself.
“Evening,” the old man said, barely looking up.
Michael smiled. “Mind if I watch?”
The man shrugged. “It’s a free country.” Then, without missing a beat, he dribbled the ball and took another shot, this one bouncing off the rim. “Been so close for 60 years,” he muttered.
Michael approached the court, standing just a few feet away. “Your elbow’s a little wide,” he said, watching the man’s form. “Try keeping it in a bit more. You might have better luck.”
The old man turned to face him, his eyes widening as recognition dawned. “Well, I’ll be… Michael Jordan’s giving me basketball advice,” he said with a soft laugh.
Michael smiled. “Just something I noticed.”
The man introduced himself as Harold Wilson. He’d watched every game Michael ever played, he said, his voice rich with years of memories. Michael nodded, smiling, and suggested Harold adjust his elbow again. This time, when Harold shot, the ball hit the backboard and dropped perfectly through the net.
“Well, how about that,” Harold said, genuinely surprised.
Michael could tell there was more to the story. There was something about Harold’s persistence that intrigued him. He could see the determination in his eyes, the drive that was more than just a passion for basketball. “You’ve got good fundamentals,” Michael said. “Someone taught you well.”
Harold nodded, his face softening. “Used to be better. Time takes things from you.”
As they talked, Michael learned that Harold had been coming to this court for more than half a century. He’d coached high school basketball, led teams to state championships, and yet, this one shot, from the same spot on the court, had eluded him. The one shot he had missed in a championship game decades ago, the shot that had haunted him ever since.
Harold had promised his old coach, Coach Miller, that one day, he would make that shot. Coach Miller had missed the same shot in his own championship game, years before, and had asked Harold to make it — not for a win, but to prove that it was possible. But Harold had never succeeded. He had come back to this court, day after day, year after year, hoping to make the perfect shot, to break the cycle of failure that had been passed down through generations.
“I’ve been trying for sixty years,” Harold said, his voice quiet. “But it’s more than just basketball. It’s a promise. For Coach Miller. For me. For this court.”
The next day, Michael arrived early. He had a feeling that something important was happening here, and he didn’t want to miss it. He watched as Harold arrived with his old ball, worn and faded from decades of use. The small crowd gathered again, families and former players who had come to watch Harold one more time.
“Do you want me to ask them to leave?” Michael asked as Harold seemed uncomfortable with the growing audience.
Harold shook his head. “No, they mean well,” he said, his eyes scanning the crowd. “They owe me nothing. I owe them everything.”
And so they practiced. Harold shot again and again, the ball falling short or bouncing off the rim, but each shot brought him closer. As the sun began to set, the crowd grew quiet, sensing that this moment was coming. Michael watched as Harold took his final shot of the day, his form perfect, his focus unwavering.
But the ball didn’t go in.
“Five more days,” Harold said quietly, as the crowd offered encouragement. Michael stayed by his side, offering support. He could see the wear in Harold’s face, the toll that this long journey had taken. But he also saw the glimmer of hope. They still had time.
And as the days passed, Michael watched Harold’s determination grow. The shots became closer, more consistent. And then, on the final day, the sun was just right. Harold stood at his spot, the ball in his hands, his old body bending as he shot the ball. It sailed through the air in a perfect arc, and for a split second, time seemed to freeze.
The ball hit the rim, bounced up, and fell in.
For the first time in 60 years, Harold made the shot. The crowd erupted in cheers, and Harold stood there, staring at the basket, disbelieving. Tears filled his eyes as the weight of decades of disappointment and determination lifted from his shoulders.
“You made it,” Michael said softly, clapping him on the back.
Harold nodded, a smile spreading across his face. “I did. After all these years, I did it.”
The crowd surrounded him, offering congratulations and cheers. Harold had finally completed his journey. But it wasn’t just about the shot. It was about the promise he had kept, the legacy of his coach, and the generations of players he had mentored. And as Michael watched Harold, he understood that sometimes the most important shots in life aren’t the ones that make highlight reels — they’re the ones that heal old wounds, fulfill promises, and connect generations through a single perfect arc of a basketball in flight.
Michael Jordan Will Present the Late Kobe Bryant at Hall of Fame Induction
When Kobe Bryant is posthumously inducted into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame next month, he’ll be presented by the greatest basketball player of all time, and Bryant’s childhood hero; Michael Jordan.
Jordan has been in the news recently for his incredible philanthropy in starting a series of health clinics to serve uninsured people in his home state, and now he’ll be taking the stage again at the Hall of Fame to have the final word on another one of the game’s all-time greats.
Bryant tragically passed away in January of 2020, when he was enjoying retirement by living his best girl dad life. He left a giant hole in the basketball world, one that the GOAT himself tried to sum up at Kobe’s memorial service.
Now, Jordan will speak on Bryant’s behalf again, as he’s enshrined and immortalized into basketball history. Bryant is the big name of the Hall of Fame class, but he’ll also be inducted along with giants Tim Duncan and Kevin Garnett. Each member is supposed to select a previous inductee to accompany and present them to their peers during the ceremony.
Kobe’s family was left with that choice, and wasted no time in selecting MJ, who was Bryant’s hero. He also modeled his game off Jordan, and the two grew closer over Bryant’s last few years.
At his memorial, Jordan said Kobe was a ‘dear friend’ and like a little brother to him, and that when he died ‘a piece of me died too.’
He was the most moving speaker at the memorial (out of many great tributes) and basketball fans will get the tissues ready again in May when Jordan pays tribute to another one of the game’s all-time greats, a person we lost too soon, and a dad who died on the way to coaching his daughter’s team.
