The year I turned 40, I began a self study, tracking events, behaviors, and occurrences for 365 days. This experiment inspired Project 40 – my life in numbers and stories.
Soundtrack: Tonight, DJ Quik
When I’ve got it bad for something, for someone, I can get nut-so. My adoration, when present, digs trenches, surpasses the clouds. My passion for products, for celebrities, for songs is at times obsessive, although perhaps unfounded in some instances. But enduring.
Until my infatuation fizzles out, grows stale, gets replaced. I’ve had a thing for cows, for Janet Jackson videos, cookies & cream milkshakes, episodes of Friends and Sex & the City, orange chicken. Cashiers at SuperMex, at Dominos, at Coffee Bean know I’ve come in to order a bean and cheese burrito on a whole wheat tortilla, a thin crust cheese pizza, an English Breakfast tea latte. Under my bed, I keep a shoe box filled with my most beloved Star Wars action figures and at my desk, you’ll find Lego bricks assembled to form my favorite ships, both from the Dark Side and rebel forces.
In the early 90s, Michael Jordan survived many years as my superstar love interest. In college, Mike was my untouchable crush, my adoration of him unbounded. He was my basketball player – not because I was a lover of the game and not because I was into his shoes. Simply, I was a fan of his story, of his greatness. And he’s pretty well physiqued.
As my freshman year at UCLA neared completion, he and the Bulls were in town for a little game with the LA Lakers. In fact, game five of the NBA playoffs landed smack dab in the middle of finals week at school. My dad would be on campus in three days to pack up my dorm room and take me back to Stockton for the summer. We watched the game on my dorm television – my two BFFs Ava and Jeannine along with Jeannine’s friend Letrice – and celebrated when the Bulls outplayed our home team Lakers at the Great Western Forum; and weren’t sure what the remainder of the evening would bring.
I don’t recall where the idea came from but, at some point, we decided to drive down to Marina Del Rey to greet the team fresh from their win as they de-bused – we’d heard they were staying at the Ritz-Carlton. Clueless and confident in our expedition, we didn’t think about the potential barriers, the issues we might face in getting on the property, that the team might possibly access a secret entrance to the hotel or change plans in order to thwart crazed fanatical college students from the area. We drove over headstrong, singing a spiffed-up version of DJ Quik’s Tonight: “Tonight! Tonight is the night – that we meet Michael. Tonight, tonight is the night for BJ Armstrong.”
Last minute endeavor it was but not without some preparation. Wanting to show up in something new (as if the team had seen me in all my other party attire), I borrowed a shirt from my friend Janine (a different one – one-n-no-e Janine), who suggested a sheer-sleeved cropped top of hers that I paired with semi high-waisted denim shorts (and not too high so my belly could still be bared – it was 1991!). This criminal act of fashion on my part would soon receive its due penalty in the form of teenage pregnancy for me, my clawed and scarred tummy skin kept hidden under lengthy shirts from age 19 until present. But on this particular night, my tummy couldn’t take being covered.
Not only did I prime my outfit for a suitable first meeting with Mike and the rest of the Bulls, but I also set myself up to document the whole episode. It’s clear that I’m a chronicler, but it wasn’t out of some personal mission of mine that I dared to record our evening. I’d not plans for becoming a documentary filmmaker or journalist or anything. I just wanted to show off to Stockton. To have evidence for my people back home in case I really did run into Mike. So I brought my video camera, an 80s-era VHS cam-corder that held giant slide-in VHS tapes. This is how I remember the DJ Quik verse, because I recorded our singing along on the way.
The Bulls’ bus hadn’t arrived before us; and upon our arrival, discovered that our gang was not the only ones wacky/desperate/obsessed enough to show up at the hotel. Outside the door, we chatted with other fans – to an older woman and her daughter who’d come to glimpse their favorite player Michael in the flesh; to a young man who actually went to the game (I was in awe of that simple fact). And a few others. But we weren’t fighting among a huge crowd for a spot. Twitter wouldn’t spoil our plans, alerting all of Southern California where the team lodged. When the bus finally showed, we’d have prime positioning.
And the bus actually came, the team exiting to a steady stream of cheers and hollers. Off came Phil Jackson. Down stepped Craig Hodges and Stacey King and Will Perdue (who seemed surprised to be noticed when we shouted his name) and Bill Cartwright and my back-up favorite Bull, BJ Armstrong. Off came Scotty Pippen, who’d scored 32 points that night. And last was the man MJ himself, arms wrapped tightly around what’s called the Larry O’Brien Championship trophy, the first of six over his esteemed career.
Certainly other players have and continue to make history on the court, but Michael defies mere legendary status. And there’s almost no better example of overanalysis using statistics than in the world of sports. Numbers generated when two individuals, two opposing teams compete are ripe and ready for prognostication, prophesizing, prediction, and any other kind of “p” word that tries to shed light on who might win, who’ll break records, who will or won’t come through in a pinch. It’s almost unbelievable, the type of data analysts have at the ready when delivering the play-by-play; which means there are some lucky (in my opinion) bastards who get paid to pore over batting averages and points scored per game and free-throw percentages. There are volumes of books published that focus on the statistics of a single sport – fact books and encyclopedias and deep histories. And it never ceases to fascinate me, the way plain numbers can tell an athlete’s story, albeit just a sliver, as a player is so much more than her numbers.
Often, the numbers give much justice. I don’t have to look at his stats for me to recall how his playing moved me, but Jordan’s data support what he’s become as a symbol of athletic greatness. What the numbers don’t speak of are his style, his finesse, his soldier-like dedication to the sport of basketball. If somehow you’ve fallen in love with the game but never heard of Mike, here’s his statistical story. While he’s only 4th (ha!) in career points over his 15 seasons[1] in the NBA, he’s 87th in the number of games played. The three players who’ve so far bested him in career points – Kareem (my husband’s favorite), Karl Malone, and Kobe – were ranked 2nd, 4th, and 13th respectively in number of career games played, which means MJ was much more efficient in his scoring. So it makes sense that he reins number one still today, 14 years after retiring (for good), in average points per game at 30.12[2]. Not only could he score, but Mike did his job defensively too, ranking third in career steals. And since numbers mean little without comparison (in this case, a denominator), I’ll throw out a conservative count of how many players have had some time in the NBA: 3,000. Perhaps being third among a cohort of 12 or 20 or even 200 would knock some of the shine off of this rank. But being third of 3,000 puts him in the top 0.001% for steals. Those non-existent persons I spoke of who’d never heard of Mike would have to give him props with numbers like these, even without ever witnessing a dunk, a dribble, a shake, or one of his fall-back jumpers. Aside from his scoring, he’s fifth for number of free throws (okay, so he made a lot of attempts – ranked 9th overall, he took an awful lot of attempts) and 42nd with assists (an awesome feat considering his scoring dominance). There’s no denying his solid and forever presence in basketball history. And just plain old history. He’s an icon, indeed. Which is why, back in the 90s, I was desperate to meet him.
On that historic night, Michael took his time coming off the bus, eyes closed, his cheek pressed to the metal as he stood on the bottom step of the bus doorway. That simple moment proved great enough for me – that shot, that footage on my camera, being close enough to touch him when he walked by. But something descended upon us all, a kinetic energy and enchantment that got us – my girls, the young man, the mother-daughter duo, and a cohort of camera crews from local networks – moving. The small crowd pushed inside the hotel’s lobby with me holding my camera high above my head, all of us following Mike as he strolled through the first floor lobby until we reached a guarded bank of elevators, a security guard checking keys before letting anyone past his velvet ropes. The players and those fortunate enough to be deputized as members of their entourage would chill; they’d relax, they’d celebrate and they’d not make any more appearances, not until the next morning when ready to head back to Chicago via nearby LAX. But, still energized, we lingered in the lobby, just in case Mike decided to come back down again. Just in case BJ had an immediate need to get his sneakers buffed at the shoeshine, or Scotty forgot his toothbrush and so decided to descend to the lobby to purchase one. We also stayed for fear that if we dared exit the lobby, we’d not be let in again.
Eventually, Michael’s wife at the time, Juanita, arrived. She took time to stop outside the elevators for a chat with reporters. Despite my camcorder’s waning battery, I jumped right in there with the rest of the media, mid-riff bared. One reporter asked her about the team’s trophy, if she thought Michael’d ever let it go as tightly as he’d been holding on to it; if her spot in their plush hotel bed upstairs might be replaced by it. “For tonight only,” she said, sharing a laugh with the men and their microphones. “He and the trophy have already gone upstairs,” one reporter said.
“I’m headed right there now.” The group parted for her to move past. She didn’t need to pull out her key to show she was elevator-eligible, velvet rope lifted the moment she stepped towards it.
“Did you get her, Di?” asked Ava. “Dope hair, dope outfit?” Years later, we’d watch the tape and ask ourselves, geez, with all that Bulls money, what the fuck was she wearing?
With no one else to film, the reporters soon left, leaving us with the rest of the hopeful lingerers. So we roamed the halls a bit more, looking for what these days might be Snapchattable moments. Ava spoke on camera (mine) to Walt Hazzard, a former UCLA standout and LA Laker, interviewing him like she was a Sports Center correspondent as he talked about some of his fundraising efforts for scholarships. We took a picture with Kid ‘N Play. The Bull’s Stacey King came down in search of something or somebody – perhaps a little attention, as he had nothing but a towel wrapped around his bottom half. The most brilliant thing I could think to say to him was, “Hi Stacey.”
“Hey, how you doing,” he said, befuddled, as he seemed to try to make sense of me and my video camera.
From someone came word about a party in one of the Ritz-Carlton ballrooms. So a new mission hatched, one that involved us getting into this alleged party. The mother-daughter pair we met earlier had heard the rumor too, wanted in. If we went around back by the pool, the mother said, we could at least see the festivities in action. And so around back we went, the outdoor pool area bringing us down several feet, summer dryness having arrived early, barely a breeze to the evening. Through a set of glass doors just beyond the pool, we could see into the lower level of the hotel – where the elevators landed when dropped below the lobby. We watched folks dressed in their celebration t-shirts and hats, in their red and black, descending from these elevators en route to the party. The security guard out back was Ritz-Carlton cordial, telling us to take a look at the grounds, walk around the pool, take in the beautiful evening – but that particular area, a spot where we were able to get a good peek into the party space, was off limits. Only slightly defeated, as we’d managed to get in another glimpse of Scotty Pippen before being shooed away, we hung out poolside, not noticing that Ava had slipped off. When she returned, she held a cocktail glass.
Ava didn’t drink. She had, however, discovered an entrance to the downstairs reception area through the kitchen, the staff seemingly oblivious to the goings on, her venturing inside. She instructed us to follow her, to pick up a dirty, discarded glass from the kitchen’s sink as she’d done, and then mosey into the party as if we belonged, as if we’d been there all along and had just stepped outside for some fresh air. Or a smoke.
Mind you, I still carried the heavy camcorder, large as a stowable piece of luggage. But the happy vibe could shatter glass, an energy so frenzied and palpable that no one really cared about me or my big ass camera. We entered to find a string of players leaning along the wall, drinks held high as they shouted along to 2 Live Crew. While they sang “Heeeeyyy, we want some pussy,” I handed the camera to Ava, telling her to fix it on me and Jeannine as we stood in front of them, dancing along, Jeannine asking “Did you get me, Ava?”
Michael, in his championship t-shirt and Kente cloth cap, arrived later, cigar in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. He didn’t appear to be perturbed by my camera either, not even as I filmed him from just inches away when he took the floor for a bit of celebratory dancing.
We returned to the dorms giddy, buzzing, ready to tell our story, to show the tape to all who were already done with their finals. It was legendary, our night. Epic. I called out sick (hungover) to work the next morning, my last day of work at the UCLA Student Store. No regrets, no sorrow, no shame.
[1] Two of these seasons were with the Washington Wizards three years after retirement.
[2] In his last 2 years, his average points per game average decreased by 9.23. Imagine his overall average if he would have kept pace with previous years (the average points per game average for his first 13 years, while with the Bulls, was 30.68 – and yes, I’m talking about an average of averages).