Golfing with Michael Jordan

“Don’t tell me your name. Don’t try to shake my hand.”

“Here are the rules: You do not speak to me unless you are spoken to.”

“You’re not getting an autograph. You’re not getting a picture with me… I know you’re expecting a tip, but you’re not getting one. The only thing you’re getting from this is that you have the privilege of being with me today. Is that understood? Yeah? Okay? Let’s go.”

Seeing him in person was surreal. I’d seen him millions of times on screens, TV, billboards. I’d worn his jersey and his shoes. And here Michael Jordan was, on a sunny, cool spring afternoon, standing in front of me. So close I could smell his cigar.

And not only was he talking down to me, but Michael Jordan had just refused to shake my hand.

It can’t be understated how freakishly tall NBA basketball players are compared to regular-sized humans. Michael Jordan, too, more than anyone I’d ever seen, just seemed impossibly tall. Like taller than the tallest skyscraper.

He had a certain glow to him too. I’d noticed that with celebrities that’d played our course. Bill Murray certainly had it. But Michael Jordan had it more than anyone. Perhaps it’s the “it” that people talk about. That hard to define, “star” quality, and there really was something surreal watching Michael Jordan, Air Jordan, stand in front of me in plaid shorts, a purple polo shirt and gray tweed flat hat. The Jumpman himself, chomping on a cigar while eying, unsheathing and inspecting golf clubs.

Being starstruck, it took a second to register his refusal of my handshake. And that he possessed a character quality different than indifference. His demeanor was more one of disdain. It was evident in his lack of eye contact and the icy, antagonistic tone in which he spoke to me. And even more so with what he’d said.

The club had strict rules regarding workers around celebrities. If you asked for autographs, selfies, or fanned out on anyone famous, you’d be shown the door. Quickly and without severance pay. So it was odd he had given me these particular instructions. I’d driven for and carried clubs for other celebrities and found most cordial, if nothing else, and some quite garrulous, joking and roasting everyone, like Bill Murray.

But Mike was something else…

I was driving the golf cart and Mike was seated in the back. While smoking his cigar, I heard him speaking on the phone, talking what sounded like business, and his dialogue was full of curse words. This was prior to his Last Dance documentary, so I must admit that I was more accustomed to squeaky-clean Mike, McDonald’s Mike. Space Jam Mike. I couldn’t have envisioned Michael Jordan, in Space Jam, calling Bugs Bunny a “flaming faggot.” So it was just weird hearing MJ cursing like a drunken sailor. I guess it can be quite revealing to see how celebrities interact with others. How they talk when they’re not being coached by a publicist.

Going from hole to hole, Mike was playing like crap. He was shanking balls. Had balls plunging into the water. Balls in the rough. After each awful attempt, he’d erupt in more expletives, shouting creative combinations of four-letter words. If human beings had ratings, like movies, golfing Michael Jordan might have been rated NC-17.

This being his first time on our course and maybe not knowing its nooks and crannies, I could have provided a couple simple pointers, like I offered Bill Murray. But I was under strict instructions to keep my trap shut. And I did. And having heard about the way Mike made a bitch of the gangsta rapper Chamillionaire, in public, at an awards show, I was glad I kept silent…

I found it odd that Mike was golfing solo. He’d had a couple of big beefy security dudes with him, but they’d vanished before the first hole. Most celebrities have at least a few others with them, often a small army, but Mike was by himself.

Given his demeanor, status, he might not have many friends, aside from yes-men and hangers-on. It must be hard for Michael Jordan to make real friends, with his wealth and so many people wanting to take advantage of him. Like a lot of the ultra-rich, famous, he can probably only be friends with other rich people. But still, it was strange, watching him spend the afternoon golfing alone.

It was even weirder hearing him fart. Michael Jordan, gearing up to smack a golf ball, and he just lets a loud, wet one rip…

After he’d completed the course, I drove him back to the clubhouse where he was received by his security detail, my boss, and a few smiling businessmen in expensive suits. As he left the cart, he didn’t utter a word or even look at me. And he made good on his promise not to tip.

As he walked off, I wondered if he’d always been so inhospitable to his underlings. Or if his success, his outrageous fame and fortune had transformed him. After all, this is a person, especially with his freakish height, who can’t walk anywhere in public without paparazzi, people pointing and pestering him for autographs and selfies. And what a target he must be for scammers and lawsuits. That must harden the soul to some extent.

In a sense, that level of celebrity is Faustian… His life not really his…

While I envied his wealth, the freedom that much money could create, I didn’t envy his life, and I didn’t want to be “like Mike.”

It’s sometimes said that people “shouldn’t meet their idols,” and I could have done without caddying for Michael Jordan.

But when the Last Dance documentary was released, and so many pundits were shocked to see Mike cursing, speaking candidly, him lashing out at others… I, myself, was not… Nope. I wasn’t surprised at all.