On the night of the BULLS/CELTICS game the air was intoxicated with smoke. Michael Jordan had just caught a half court pass by Pippin. He ran slowly, each step building up intensity. Then when he got next to the top of the key he took one final step and bounded off of his right foot. The soles of his new Air Jordans pumped up and down in sort of a pattern as if he were going up an air staircase. With each he step his laces flew in opposite directions. His gigantic calf and leg muscles flexed. Three dribbles of sweat flowed down his face and slid into the crack at the right side of his mouth. Then he extended his skinny sweat covered arm and he glided. Cameramen flashed away hoping to get a sellable picture of his flight. He threw his ripling muscled legs and nearly touched his heel to his buttocks. After he jammed the ball into the iron hoop, he hung off the rim like he was trying to do a pull up, but stopped half way watching the crowd go crazy! I saw the vein in his neck almost seeming like it was coming from his ear. He gave the crowd a furled brow look and waited for approval. Nobody in the N.B.A. CAN FLY LIKE AIR JORDAN.n
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.