Michael Jordan rarely slept in, but after a night of celebrating the 25th anniversary of the Bulls’ last championship with old teammates, he awoke in his Highland Park mansion feeling groggy and out of sorts. The digital clock read 10:37 a.m.—late for him. As he reached for his phone, he realized he’d forgotten to charge it. When the screen finally flickered to life, he stared in disbelief: 237 missed calls.
His kids, mother, business partners—even Charles Barkley and Nike executives—had all called, some over a dozen times. Most calls came between 11 p.m. and 4 a.m. Something serious must have happened, he thought. But as he scrolled through the call log, one entry stood out: an unknown number, just one call at 2:17 a.m., no voicemail, no repeat attempts.
Michael’s assistant Curtis, already in the kitchen, looked just as puzzled when shown the mountain of missed calls. “Nothing on the news,” Curtis assured him. Michael’s voicemails were all routine—family checking in, business as usual. No emergencies. No explanation for the avalanche of concern.
Throughout the day, Michael returned calls. His mother was fine, just worried. His kids, business partners, and friends had no real crisis to report. It seemed everyone had called because everyone else was calling. But that single, mysterious call nagged at him.
By evening, after a workout and dinner, Michael sat in his trophy room surrounded by reminders of his legendary career. He dialed the unknown number. Four rings, then voicemail—no personal greeting. He didn’t leave a message. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d missed something important.
The next morning, after a restless night, Michael received a text from the same unknown number:
*“Sorry I missed you last night. It’s about Coach Smith. Important. Call me back.”*
Coach Dean Smith. Michael’s beloved college coach at UNC, who had passed away years ago. Heart pounding, Michael called again. Voicemail. This time, he left a message.
He canceled his golf game with Tiger Woods, called his assistant, and soon found himself flying to Chapel Hill, North Carolina. At the Dean Smith Center, Michael met with Coach Hubert Davis and explained the mysterious messages. Together, they searched through boxes of Coach Smith’s personal effects. In a leather-bound journal from Smith’s final year, Michael found a yellowed envelope:
Inside was a letter from Coach Smith. It told a story Michael had never heard:
In high school, Michael’s story of being cut from varsity as a sophomore was legendary—how he’d used that rejection as fuel to become the greatest. But there was another boy cut that same year: Marcus Williams. Unlike Michael, Marcus lost confidence and never tried out again. He went to UNC, worked quietly as an equipment manager, and was befriended by Coach Smith. Later, Marcus became a teacher and devoted his life to mentoring kids who faced rejection, starting a program called “Cut but Not Forgotten” for those who didn’t make their school teams.
Coach Smith’s letter included a phone number and an address in Wilmington, Michael’s hometown. The number matched the mysterious call.
Determined to learn more, Michael tracked down Marcus Williams. He learned that Marcus had passed away three years earlier, but his mother, Clara Williams, still lived at the address. Michael visited her, and she welcomed him with warmth and sweet tea.
In Clara’s living room, surrounded by family photos, Michael learned Marcus’s story. Marcus had watched Michael’s rise with pride, never jealousy. Inspired by Michael’s comeback after being cut, Marcus started his own program for “cut” kids—helping them find confidence and joy in basketball, even if they never made a team. Hundreds of children passed through the program over twenty years. Marcus taught them that “getting cut isn’t the end of your story—it’s just the beginning of a different one.”
Clara explained that Marcus always wanted Michael to know how his story had inspired another kind of success, one built on compassion and community. Before dying, Marcus asked his mother to reach out to Michael when she felt ready. The mysterious call, the texts, the emails—they were Clara’s attempts to fulfill her son’s final wish.
Michael was deeply moved. He realized that for every Michael Jordan who turned rejection into greatness, there were countless Marcus Williamses who needed support, not just motivation. Both stories mattered.
Back in Chicago, Michael called an emergency meeting with his business team. He announced the creation of a new nationwide foundation: “Cut but Not Forgotten.” Its mission would be to support and mentor young athletes who didn’t make their teams, teaching them resilience and self-worth. Michael committed $10 million of his own money to start the program, with Clara Williams as an honorary board member.
At the foundation’s launch in Wilmington, Michael stood beside Clara on the same court where Marcus had coached. He spoke not just of championships and victories, but of the importance of lifting up those who fall short of the spotlight. He held up a photo of Marcus with his youth team, champions in their hearts if not in the record books.
That single missed call—out of 237—had changed everything. It reminded Michael that greatness isn’t measured only in trophies, but in the lives we touch and the legacies we inspire, often in ways we never expect.
“They can’t expect me to do what I did in New York every night”- Michael Jordan’s message to his teammates after his iconic double nickel game
michael-jordan
Everyone celebrated Michael Jordan’s 1995 55-point explosion at Madison Square Garden except, well, Michael Jordan. The game between the Chicago Bulls and New York Knicks on March 28, 1995, is one of the most iconic of Jordan’s career. More known as the double-nickel game, it proved to the world that Air Jordan was really back. But if his teammates thought they were getting the old MJ back, they were wrong.
Instead of celebrating in the locker room, Jordan confronted head coach Phil Jackson and spoke to him privately to express his disappointment with his teammates’ performance.
“You’ve got to tell the players they can’t expect me to do what I did in New York every night,” Mike told Phil. “In our next game, I want them to get up and get going — to play as a team.”
The new Michael Jordan
Although the Bulls won that game 113-11, Scottie Pippen and B.J. Armstrong were the only other players who scored in double digits with 19 and 16 points, respectively. Toni Kukoc scored only 3 points on 1-6 shooting, while the Bulls got 14 points from their entire bench.
With his teammates relying heavily on Jordan, Mike made half of the team’s 42 field goals in that game. He also accounted for 10 out of their 21 free throws and 48.6% of their total points production. The old Mike would have been fine with that because he thrived and enjoyed being a one-man show. But this was a different MJ.
“This was the new Michael,” Jackson wrote in his memoir. “In the past, he would have revealed in his triumph over the Knicks — and most likely attempted a repeat performance the following day. But he’d returned from his baseball sabbatical with a different perspective on the game. He wasn’t interested in going solo anymore; he longed for the team harmony that had made the Bulls champions.”
MJ came back from baseball with a different mindset
His critics called Michael’s baseball experiment a failure. But to him, it was the best thing that happened to his sports career. Jordan said playing baseball reignited his passion for basketball and made him value the journey even more.
“I realized I had kind of lost that in the realm of what was happening to me in basketball,” Mike said. “I was on the pedestal for so long that I forgot about the steps to get to that. That’s what Minor League baseball did to me.”
Jordan also realized the value of teamwork. He understood that if he was returning to the top of the mountain, his teammates had to want it as much as he did. The Bulls were eliminated by the Magic in the 1995 playoffs. But they returned with a greater purpose and had that record-breaking 1996 regular season. They also won a second three-peat.
