Michael Jordan’s fingers tapped the steering wheel as he drove slowly down Maple Street, the neighborhood where he began his childhood. Though decades had passed and the world knew him as a basketball legend, the memories there were as vivid as ever. Some houses gleamed with new paint, others were crumbling with age, but every porch and sidewalk seemed to whisper the echoes of his youth.
He arrived at 1714 Maple Street, a modest two-story house with peeling blue paint and a porch that had seen better days. This was the house where Michael’s dreams came true, and where, at age nine, they were nearly shattered when his family was evicted. Now in his sixties, with gray in his hair and wisdom in his eyes, Michael stood in front of his old house, feeling again like the kid who grabbed his first basketball and promised himself he would never let life rule him again.
“This is it,” he murmured, getting out of his truck. “This is where everything changed.”
The neighbors, curious about the expensively dressed man in the most run-down house in the neighborhood, peered behind the curtains. Michael took a deep breath, walked along the cracked path, and climbed the creaking steps. He knocked on the door.
After a moment, the door opened a crack, chained from the inside. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it,” said a hoarse voice.
“I’m not selling anything, ma’am,” Michael replied politely. “My name is Michael Jordan. I lived here as a child.”
The chain slid back. The door swung open. An old woman with thinning white hair and huge glasses stared at him, her eyes widening in recognition.
“Oh my God!” she gasped. “You’re really him, aren’t you?”
Michael nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
I’m Beatrice Simmons. To most people, Mrs. Simmons. I’ve lived here for eighteen years. I never thought I’d have a celebrity on my porch.
May I come in? I’d like to talk to you about something important.
She led him inside, ducking beneath the low ceilings. The living room was cluttered with old furniture, piles of magazines, and three cats napping in the sun. The air smelled of mothballs and memories.
“Do you want some tea?” Mrs. Simmons offered.
“No, thank you, ma’am. I won’t take up much of your time.” Michael’s gaze scanned the room, leaving behind the decades to take in the couch his mother had covered in plastic, the old television his father had repaired, the bookshelf filled with books from his childhood.
Mrs. Simmons, this house means a lot to me. My family lived here until I was nine, when we were evicted. That day changed everything for me.
He sat down in an armchair. “I had no idea. The real estate agent never mentioned that the famous Michael Jordan lived here.”
“I wasn’t famous back then; I was just a skinny kid who couldn’t beat his brother at basketball,” Michael smiled, sitting on the edge of the couch.
“I would like to buy this house from you.”
