We should be sick of Michael Jordan. We should send him--his Italian suits, wagging tongue, faint mustache and gold hoop earring--straight back to the '80s where he belongs. This is a guy who's had his own shoe since 1985. Are we still watching Miami Vice and moonwalking and wearing skinny ties? Come on, people. Move on.
But we can't. Sure, it's un-American not to back the underdog, but even the hardworking, muttily named Utah Jazz (did Satchmo summer in Salt Lake?), with its working-class Mailman and great white hopes, couldn't drag us away from Jordan's charm. For a spasm of a...
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