The figure cast in bronze atop a granite base soars toward the sky, a basketball at the end of its outstretched arm. The pose captures almost perfectly the illusion of Jordan: that he could fly. But down near the bottom, where the statue is affixed to the earth, is an inscription that captures the reality: "The best there ever was. The best there ever will be."
Not Michael Jordan. Even as he stood in the ballroom of a downtown Detroit hotel Monday for the announcement of his election to the Hall class of 2009, the same snowstorm that swirled outside blanketed a statue erected almost 15 years ago in front of the United Center in Chicago - The House That Jordan Built - a few hundred kilometres to the south.
What made Jordan that, and more, was not the string of NBA scoring titles, regular-season and finals MVP awards, not even all the championships he won. A few members of the exclusive club he will formally join upon induction into the Hall come September boast accomplishments just as outsized.
No, the real wonder of Jordan is that he always kept score. Not just in his head, not just on a basketball court, and not just some nights, but every minute of every day.
hot dogs, hamburgers, Wheaties, sunglasses, calling cards, underwear and the Internet in Salt Lake City, where another heart-stopping jumper swished through the net, securing his sixth title and sucking every last bit of air out of the state ... in Washington, when he came out of retirement the second time, age having diminished everything but his desire.
The room cracked up, but Jordan barely cracked a smile. His eyes were red and focused on something in the distance.
And it was in that moment, after chronicling nearly everything Jordan has done from the day he first turned up at practice 25 years ago in Chicago that I was reminded for better or worse, that whether it was a sublime gift or the cruellest sort of curse, he is still restless in a way the rest of us will never be.
