Not like Mike, Robinson wins
Buck Harvey
SPRINGFIELD, Mass. — Jerry Sloan choked up when he talked about his late wife. John Stockton choked up when he talked about his late mother.
Michael Jordan cried, with tears running down his face, after watching a video of his basketball career.
“The game of basketball has been everything to me,” Jordan said after he spent considerable time thanking all of those who had inspired him to crush them.
Take a bow, David Robinson.
At this time in your life, you have surpassed the greatest basketball player who ever lived.
Not that Robinson would see it that way. That was true earlier in the day, when Jordan had been sequestered in a wing of the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame — right next to the Michael Jordan exhibit.
Jordan emerged, with fans pushed back by security, and he walked toward the podium for his turn. All eyes in the audience turned in that direction.
Robinson, meanwhile, still was on the podium, speaking.
Robinson didn't notice. Had he, he wouldn't have cared. Robinson always reacted to what mattered to him, not to what mattered to others. That's why he was the perfect MVP, two-ringed scoring champ to be inducted with Jordan.
Stockton and Sloan fit, too. They've never been the kind of men bothered by a lack of attention.
But Stockton and Sloan were closer to Jordan in commitment to the sport. Robinson, in this group, was the outsider. That was clear in 1992, when Stockton, Robinson and Jordan joined in allegiance to both country and Nike.
Robinson and Jordan occasionally played golf between Olympic engagements, and Charles Barkley was a mutual friend. But when they closed the gym doors and scrimmaged, their differences were obvious.
Jordan said Friday that one day in Monte Carlo — attended by just a handful of media — might have been the best game he ever played in. There were 10 Hall of Famers going at it for pride.
Jordan said, privately, he couldn't understand why Robinson didn't live for this as the others did. Jordan called Robinson “The Negotiator” then because Jordan thought he analyzed too much.
Robinson cared about basketball. He liked winning, too, which made for a faith-based joke Friday night. Then, he asked if anyone in the audience had ever gotten on his knees to really pray for something.
To Robinson, that's what he did for Tim Duncan.
But Robinson always filled the lane with a contrasting set of priorities. That summer in Barcelona, for example, his Dream Team moment was personal. Once he went to the roof of his Barcelona hotel to play the saxophone with a jazz musician.
Robinson hadn't grown up loving basketball. He had grown to 7-foot-1. He'd been given the body and the athletic ability, and he worked this sport as he would a job.
Jordan breathed it. “Take away that little, round ball,” Jordan said of this year's class, “and we all would have struggled in life.”
Robinson wouldn't have. He would have been content as a naval officer, or as a mathematician, or as a preacher.
That was evident as he stood on stage in Springfield's Symphony Hall and spoke individually to his three sons. He didn't tear up, perhaps because he understood; as great as this honor was, it was just an honor.
Jordan, instead, can't let go of the game, and his list of perceived slights was laughable. The so-called freeze-out involving George Gervin in the mid-'80s was one. Jordan still hangs on that?
Jordan has held the Hall of Fame at a distance, because it signals an end. He admits he will never have anything that means as much.
“You may look up someday,” he said at the end of his speech Friday night, “and see me playing at the age of 50.”
Robinson?
He heads home to San Antonio, to his family, to his church, to his school.
As if life is just starting.