Mike on the Mic

This week has been a hard week. Slowly getting back into the swing of things at school can take a lot out of you, so I apologize for the lack of posting.

We are on the cusp of the High Holidays, and traditionally, as the song says"These are the days to say we're sorry, for all the things we've done that we can do better..." I have been joking around with my friends, saying that we should all get out as many transgressions as we can before the new year. However, it seems that someone shares this opinion of mine. Michael Jordan. As any NBA or Jordan fan knows, His Airness was inducted into the Hall of Fame last Friday, along with NBA greats David Robinson and John Stockton and coaches Jerry Sloan and C. Vivian Stringer. Robinson's speech was short, and from the heart, thanking many people that helped him get to NBA greatness. Like the Admiral, Jordan too, shared some heartfelt words. But these two orators could not have been any different. David Robinson is a sweetheart, arguably one of the nicest guys who walked the earth (I'm pretty sure the award for good sportsmanship in the NBA is named after him). Jordan is a competitor. And as Robinson's heart is big, MJ's heart is cold.

Listening to Jordan's induction speech was more than just disturbing--In a sense, it ruined my childhood. Growing up, I, like most kids, was a HUGE fan of #23. I thought that the Michael Jordan that existed off the court was a nice family man. For the love of God the man made Space Jam! It didn't occur to me that he was actually a total D-Bag. I mean, everyone has their own faults, but there's a certain way that you should act in public, especially when you're receiving a high honor. Upon his selection to be a member of this year's class in the HOF, he was a big annoyed. He didn't see it as it's a huge honor, but rather, the end of the line. He's done everything else, and now this is just one more accolade accrued, the final one. Apparently to the Air-Man it seems as if he'll soon be banished to the land of the NBA forgottens list, right up there next to Craig Ehlo (who he schooled so many times), Len Bias, and Sam Bowie (arguably the biggest flop in NBA history. Another honorary mention for that title would be Darko Milicic). When a normal person would be happy to be in the Hall of Fame, Jordan seemed anything but giddy about being there. So Mike decided that when getting the opportunity to speak at his "last hurrah", you know, the way everyone will remember him, to not just NOT thank anyone, but rather go on and on and on about those who flummoxed him and irritated him during his playing days. It was more awkward that Kanye West's a-hole move, when he stole the spotlight from Taylor Swift after she won her award at the MTV VMA's.

He was a womanizer, which isn't so commendable for a married man with children. He was a tough competitor, and there's nothing wrong with that. But there's a point when competition becomes too much, and you turn into a jackass.

For me, it's hard to accept this. Michael Jordan was my idol. He was my hero. I drank his drink, I ate his food, I watched his movie, I wore his apparel. I have the posters, the jerseys, rookie cards, everything. But none of that matters anymore. I don't know why I'm so hurt by seeing who the "real" Michael Jordan is, but I really am. I know Kobe Bryant and LeBron James are far from perfect and also total a-holes in their own right, but I let their play on the court overshadow my thoughts of them as individuals off the court. Friends of mine from Chicago would go to games of Jewish schools that would play against the schools his kids went to, just to catch a glimpse of him. But they always told me how he was so cold, and never would even flash a smile at these people. Another friend told me a story about how Michael Jordan ditched him during a photo-op. But I never thought that these accounts could accurately portray the man I and many other kids idolized.

Let me finish by saying how confused I am that Jordan never spoke out and said he was the best. Oh, he knew it. Muhammad Ali and Rickey Henderson both paraded around their respective leagues shouting that they were the best. When the media portrayed Jordan as the greatest, he just shrugged it off. But let's compare Henderson and Jordan. During their tenures as professional athletes, they both were elected to their sport's HOF. Henderson on the field was a haughty, out-spoken competitor. Jordan was quiet. But if you watched Henderson's induction speech for the MLB Hall of Fame earlier in the year, you would've never known it. These two sports stars are the total opposites. You would think that a player like Rickey, who went around exclaiming "I'm the greatest", (most notably when he was crowned with the record of most stolen bases) would act like a total ba'al gaiva, or be disgustingly arrogant upon his induction. You could not have been more wrong. Henderson shocked everyone when he finished his speech by saying "I am humbled", which was greeted with a roaring cheer from those present, and everyone legitimately seemed ecstatic for him. So you would think that a guy who seemed to be a humble guy on the court would make his induction speech just like Robinson's or Henderson's, right? You would've been disappointed, just like me. It made me realize that if this was the way that Jordan acted, I am certain that I would NEVER want to be "Like Mike". So thank you Michael, for essentially ruining my childhood.

Gone but not Forgotten

I just read this story on Aol.com that I really liked.

The story wasn't much of blip on the sports radar. A football coach in Alabama suffered chest pains during a game and died on the way to the hospital.

It wasn't Nick Saban or anybody you'd know. It was Keith Howard, whose name you'll probably forget as soon as you click off this screen.

There are more pressing stories to get to, like Rich Rodriguez's tears or Joba Chamberlain's pitch count or whether T.O.'s ailing toe will make an appearance in this week's reality episode.

So if you're looking for a story that registers in our 24-7 news cycle, skip this. But if you want to read about a guy who really mattered, it would be my privilege to introduce you to Howard.

If you're lucky you already know him, or somebody like him.

"High school kids don't do what you tell them," he used to say. "They do what you live and do."

That makes people like Howard infinitely more consequential, if far less rich and famous than T.O.'s toe. Howard was more influential than most. He was the head coach in a small Southern town, where so much of life revolves around what happens on Friday nights.

"He was probably the most powerful man in the county," said Chad Martin, Lincoln High's defensive coordinator. "He was a legend, and not just in the sports sense."

Howard was born in Lincoln, Ala., pop. 5,486. He spent most of his 48 years there and seemed to know everybody in Talladega County.

"Black or white, rich or poor, he treated you like a brother," Martin said.

He knew football. The Golden Bears went 11-2 last season. But when he hired an assistant coach, he didn't ask what offense or defense they liked.

"He wanted to know if you were a family man and if you loved kids," Martin said.

Do that and they'd take a lot more than Xs and Os out into the real world. Nobody suspected last Friday night would be his final lesson.

Lincoln got on the bus and traveled 35 miles down state road 77 to Attalla, home of the Etowah Blue Devils. As the teams ran off the field for halftime, Howard told Martin he wasn't feeling right and the team doctor was going to check him out.

Martin wasn't overly concerned. Howard would get so worked up at games he'd literally chew right through his game plan. Once or twice a year he'd let Martin handle the halftime duties.

"Take 'em in and talk to them," he'd say.

Last Friday night was slightly different.

"Take 'em in," he told Martin. "They're yours."

Before walking away, he told Martin one last thing.

"I love you."

"I love you too, coach," Martin said.

As the team came out of the locker room, the chaplain handed Martin two teeth-marked folders full of game plan notes. Howard had handed them off right before getting into an ambulance.

Martin put on his headset and did what Howard had taught him. The Golden Bears had just forced Attalla to punt when the news crackled into Martins' ear.

"He coded."

A minute later, it was official.

"He's gone."

Martin took a few steps back and crouched down.

"I felt nothing. My whole sense of being just left me," he said. "My mentor, my boss, my best friend, the guy I leaned on for everything. He was gone."

Martin couldn't let that show. He remembered one of Howard's lessons.

"Lincoln football was here before me, and it will be here after me," he would say. "We're not the program. We're just a small piece of it."

Nobody in Talladega County would completely agree with that. The per-capita income is only $22,357, but Howard had begged, cajoled and fund-raised Lincoln High into a 21st century showcase.

He did not stop until the Golden Bears had an indoor practice facility. There were new baseball and softball parks. The past three years he'd rebuilt Lincoln Memorial Stadium.

Some nights Howard would turn on the lights and go to the top of the bleachers, just to gaze at the project. The finishing touch was field turf installed over the summer.

"He could get people to do stuff you couldn't imagine," Martin said.

In five years as head coach, Howard never had an assistant leave Lincoln. And they sure didn't stay for the money."He was your best friend, a role model, a counselor. Every school has those people, but he was all that wrapped into one."
-- Chad Martin

"He was your best friend, a role model, a counselor," Martin said. "Every school has those people, but he was all that wrapped into one."

By the middle of the second half, the news was spreading through the crowd. The team had not been told its coach had gone to the hospital, but with four minutes left in the game the players knew.

Martin didn't have to tell them to do anything. They simply remembered how Howard lived.

"They finished the game," Martin said.

They won 26-7, then everyone cried.

Howard is survived by his wife, Lisa, his 12-year-old daughter, Lindsey, 27-year-old stepson Matt Geier and who knows how many people he influenced along the way.

"There is a hole in the Lincoln community," said Terry Roller, the school's principal.

He's asked coaches and players from all over the county to attend Tuesday's memorial. They'll show up in their jerseys at Lincoln Memorial Field.

Make that Keith Howard Field.

They've already decided to rename it. The first game will be Thursday night.

"The thing that breaks my heart most is this was his vision," Martin said. "All the work he put in, and he didn't get to see it."

He paused, and I could tell he was trying not to let me hear him cry on the other end of the phone. All I knew was to say the obvious.

"I'm sure he'll still be there."

"I'm sure he will," Martin said.

Outside of Lincoln, Ala., nobody may notice. College football starts Thursday night, and there's always Matt Cassel's knee to worry about and Roger Federer's winning streak.

Those are the big stories, but they really just come and go.

It's the small ones like Keith Howard that really live on.