The First Draft of Michael Jordan's Hall of Fame Speech
- Tuesday, September 22, 2009 2:38 PM
- Written By: Brad Dickson
Thank you, I appreciate it. That appreciation doesn’t extend to everybody. It excludes Mr. Burton, the geezer who lived next door to my family in North Carolina when I was growing up. He used to chase me out of his yard and curse me. (Look to the heavens.) Hey, old man, look at me now! Your yard had crab grass, old man.
Speaking of old men, when I was a tiny tot Santa promised me a sled for Christmas and all I got was a matchstick car. I have the letter I wrote to Santa right here, dated November 30, 1967, to prove what I say. A week later, at the Wilmington mall, on the afternoon of December 14, Santa promised me the sled. (Turn to face the North Pole.) Hey, Claus, I’m a Hall of Famer now, so kiss my behind. What Hall of Fame are you in? You’re no saint, IMO.
Throughout my career I kept a photo of Santa taped to the inside of my locker for motivation. I’d look at it before big games, and imagine the man about to guard me was a jovial fat guy in a red and white suit.
Forget Claus. Folks, I always dreamt of this day, standing here, able to denigrate the little league coach who lifted me for a pinch hitter on June 3, 1971. He pulled me for Petey Schultz a guy with a .214 batting average! Over some stupid rule that every kid gets to play two innings? Hey, coach, I went on to play professional baseball,and once even got a hit.
Well, we’re not here to discuss my Little League coach. A man doesn’t get to the pinnacle of his profession without the will to win. And I certainly had that. (Pat self on back.) I’m glad I possessed the will to prove the naysayers wrong. I was drafted third out of North Carolina. Is Sam Bowie here tonight? Didn’t think so. It is the Hall of Fame, right? Heh-heh. Yes, old Sam, picked in the draft before myself. Do we have time for me to run down his career stats in their entirety? Well, we’ll save that for another speech.
I’d like to thank the people of Chicago with the following exceptions: Jerry Krause, Ed my old mailman, and the guy who forgot to plow my driveway after it snowed five inches on December 12, 1985, you know who you are. You forgot to plow the driveway of a Hall of Famer, chump. I paid you that month, did I not?
To all the young people watching, keep striving. Dare to be great. I say that to all young people except Hannah Montana. I don’t care about you, Hannah. I took my nephews and nieces to your concert on February 22, 2007 and you kept us waiting 44 minutes, 11 seconds for the show to start. Forty-four minutes, 11 seconds, Hannah. What’s up with that? I hereby publicly embarrass you.
In closing I’d like to read something. I hope I don’t get too emotional. (Put on reading glasses, and pull a paper from pocket for maximum emotional affect.) To the driver of the gray Oldsmobile, license plate number ZRT6Y3, who cut me off on the way from the airport, you’re a terrible driver. The worst! How do they even give this person a license? Isn’t there a test in this state? I was in my lane when all of a sudden this no-brain comes across the line ... well, what can you do?
Thank you again, folks. This is truly the greatest night of my life.
