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I am 100 percent certain Michael Jordan is speaking to me, on the record, explaining why he's not returning to basketball. This isn't the third cousin of a pal of Jordan's sprinkler repairman, convinced he's preparing a comeback. Nor is it Charles Barkley, desperately needing the game and some love again and stuffing a wad full of wishful thinking into a writer's gullible ear.
It's Raw Mike, in his most recent elaborate interview, ruling out his Third Coming. Please listen, America. These are his words, the only ones that matter.
"No, I'm not coming back," Jordan says. "It's not happening. I have my days of `What if?' That's just natural, especially with the young talent out there and the success they have, from the Kobe Bryants to the Vince Carters. But it's nothing to the point that drives me to getting into the kind of shape to play basketball again.
"I've entered another walk of life. I'm content with that."
Now, why do so many people refuse to believe him? Is it because seven-and-a-half years ago, when he was numb from his father's murder and angry at the NBA commissioner for looking into gambling allegations, Jordan took a fantasy escape hatch to baseball? Is it because 17 months later he was playing basketball? There's a spooky cult of M.J. worship that thinks he's forever 32, a tie of the laces from dominating and winning another title. They must cling to his phantasm and believe in the pipe dream, failing to realize he's human and nearing the big Four Uh-Oh. Exasperating as the denial is, the reasons are understandable.
We're starving for someone like him. We're stumbling through Jordan withdrawal. We need our Michael fix.
And it isn't coming.