Raymond Felton remembers the sound of sneakers squeaking on the Bobcats’ practice court like it was yesterday. The team had just finished a grueling workout, sweat dripping, lungs burning, when the door swung open and in walked Michael Jordan. Not the owner. Not the executive in a tailored suit. Michael Jordan, the legend, the Tar Heel, the man who haunted every basketball dream.
Felton, a North Carolina native and lifelong Tar Heel, had grown up idolizing MJ. Now, he was the Bobcats’ starting point guard, drafted fifth overall, living out his childhood fantasy. He’d seen Jordan around the facility before—sometimes offering advice, sometimes just watching with that competitive glint in his eye. But this day felt different.
Jordan, then 43, still had that swagger, the kind that made everyone else in the room straighten up. He tossed his keys onto the scorer’s table and clapped his hands. “Who’s got next?”
The gym fell silent. Gerald Wallace grinned, Jeff McInnis nudged Felton, and a couple of rookies exchanged nervous glances. This wasn’t just a pickup game. This was a test.
“Let’s run some ones,” Jordan said, already peeling off his jacket to reveal a plain white tee and a pair of baggy shorts. He laced up his old Air Jordans, the ones with the faded logo and scuffed soles. The room buzzed with anticipation.
Felton was the first to step up. He’d played against the best—LeBron, Kobe, D-Wade—but this was MJ. Even retired, he radiated something different. Something almost mythic.
They checked the ball, and Jordan went to work. He didn’t move like the 28-year-old who had soared over Ewing or danced past Ehlo. No, this was a different kind of artistry. Two dribbles, shoulder fake, spin, fadeaway. Swish. Again. Two dribbles, pump fake, step-through. Swish. Felton couldn’t do anything but laugh.
“C’mon, Ray, you gonna let the old man cook you like that?” Gerald Wallace teased.
Ray grinned, but inside he was burning. He tried to get physical, bump Jordan off his spot. Didn’t matter. MJ’s footwork was poetry—every pivot, every jab, every hesitation. It was like he’d seen the move before Ray even thought of it. The ball snapped through the net again and again.
One by one, the Bobcats took their shot. Gerald Wallace, the team’s high-flying forward, tried to use his athleticism. Jordan just posted him up, backed him down, and hit that signature fadeaway over his outstretched hand. Jeff McInnis, a seasoned vet, tried to outsmart him. MJ just smiled, took two dribbles, and buried another jumper.
It wasn’t just the moves. It was the talk. “That’s all you got, young fella?” “You better call your mama, ‘cause you’re lost out here.” “You reach, I teach.”
The gym echoed with laughter, groans, and the relentless sound of the ball splashing through the net. MJ wasn’t moving fast, but every movement was precise, every shot deliberate. He barely needed more than two dribbles. He never rushed. He never panicked. He just…scored.
After a while, the games blurred together. No one remembers exactly how many times each player tried. But everyone remembers the result: not one active NBA player beat Michael Jordan that day. Not one.
Raymond Felton, exhausted and humbled, sat on the bench and watched as Jordan kept going. He wasn’t just playing to show off. He was competing. He was teaching.
When the session finally ended, Jordan gathered the team. “Listen,” he said, “talent is great. Athleticism is great. But you gotta have heart. You gotta have will. That’s what separates the good from the great. That’s what kept me in the gym when nobody was watching. That’s what still lets me win, even now.”
The words hung in the air. For a moment, they weren’t just a group of players and their owner. They were students, and he was the master.
Later, as the team cooled down and the trainers packed up, Ray approached MJ. “Man, you still got it. For real.”
Jordan just smiled, a glint of pride in his eyes. “Game don’t leave you, Ray. Sometimes the body slows down, but the mind—the mind never forgets.”
They talked a little about North Carolina, about the old days, about the pressure and privilege of carrying a legacy. Ray couldn’t help but ask, “You ever gonna let anyone win?”
Jordan laughed. “Not today.”
Word of the session spread quickly. The story grew with each retelling. Some said Jordan hit twenty straight fadeaways. Others claimed he called every shot before he took it. Some swore he played in loafers, just to make it fair. But everyone agreed on one thing: Michael Jordan, at 43, retired and running the team, was still the best player in the gym.
Years later, Felton would tell the story to rookies and veterans alike. “We all talk about the GOAT, but you don’t really get it until you see it up close. MJ wasn’t just a legend because of what he did in the Finals or the scoring titles. He was a legend because he never stopped competing. He never stopped believing he could win—no matter the odds, no matter his age.”
He’d pause, letting the memory settle. “That day, he reminded all of us what greatness really looks like. Not just the talent. Not just the skill. But the fire. The will. The heart.”
And somewhere, in a quiet gym or a packed arena, a new generation would lace up their sneakers, dreaming of the day they’d get to test themselves against the legend. Most would never get the chance. But for those who did, the lesson was unforgettable.
Michael Jordan wasn’t just the greatest of all time because of what he did at his peak. He was the greatest because, even at 43, he refused to let anyone take his crown—even for a single game of one-on-one.
