My father called about an hour ago and told me that I have a brother. I don’t trust my father. Once, he returned from a trip in Italy, France, or Malta and gifted me a Polaroid of him standing near some kind of castle surrounded by palm trees, shaking the hand of a tall Black man wearing sunglasses and a hat – here, kid, a photo of me with Michael Jordan! I believed that the man shaking my father’s hand in that picture was the actual Michael Jordan. I showed it to my classmates, who absolutely refused to believe it (telling me the man doesn’t look like MJ at all or that it’s not him but Scottie Pippen). I held onto this belief until my early twenties. The first time Father came back from prison, I asked him – do you remember giving me that picture of you with MJ, was that really him? No, of course not, it was a joke, I thought you would get it.
Back in the day, Michael was God the Father for all jocks and teenagers who didn’t have authority figures. The first book I read in German was Michael Jordan’s biography. It talked about his academic years and his favorite kind of cigars. It even recorded MJ’s thoughts as he scored the winning shot at the 1982 NCAA National Championship Game. My whole room was plastered with posters of Michael Jordan. I was living in Germany at the time and was most likely suffering from kleptomania (although you could argue that many teenagers engage in petty theft). I never bought any of them: if I happened to see posters of Michael Jordan or magazines with photos of him, I’d swiftly pull them under my jacket or sweatshirt and take them home, where I enjoyed cutting out my idol’s pictures and gluing them to the posters on my wall.
On the basketball court, I would throw shots just like him, with my tongue out. Once, I leaned back and threw the ball over some boy’s hands and bit down on my tongue so hard I started hissing. Perhaps it was then I began to doubt myself – if I was biting down on my tongue and hissing like some kind of snake, could I truly ever be like Mike? Michael never hissed, and he probably never bit his tongue, either. But if memory serves right, I did score that time.
Around the time of Michael’s first retirement, my father went to prison for robbing a jewelry store. He had befriended and earned the trust of the owner of a well-known pizzeria in Kaunas, who also owned the jewelry store. Once Father just blanked out and entered the store, threatened the lady who worked there or said something to her, stuffed a bag full of expensive jewelry, and left. He would later brag to me that he buried it somewhere in a graveyard. I distinctly recall that he used to wear thick gold chains on his wrists and around the neck, and he would wear a carnelian ring with the Preišegalavičius family’s crest.
He was incarcerated for many years. Once during visitation I secretly smuggled him a pack of Marlboro Reds. Father never smoked, but he told me that cigarettes were a reliable currency in prison and that he could easily barter them for something. I believe he did.
I used to play basketball quite seriously in my teens and a little later. I spent much more time working on my rebounds than leaning back to take shots. I was pretty good. It’s symbolic that on the day that Father was released from prison, I played at a basketball match and scored fifteen rebounds, almost the same number of years he had spent incarcerated.
Perhaps I give Michael Jordan too much credit. I wasn’t the only kid to worship MJ or consider him a spiritual father of sorts. We all idolized his charisma, his smile, and his achievements on the court. “Be Like Mike” – it’s the slogan of that famous commercial featuring Michael. Actually, it’s a little funny that Bernie Pitzel, the guy who came up with the slogan for Gatorade, copied it from Rudyard Kipling’s Jungle Book, which contains the following words from a song: “I’m unlucky to be like you.”
Michael always caused a huge commotion wherever he went. Anywhere my father went, he always displayed his physical prowess or unruly character. He once punched the driver of a Hyundai that brazenly overtook us on the road, right in the guy’s teeth. Now, wherever my father goes, he is followed by sadness and apathy. Maybe it’s because of his meds. I can hear it when we call each other once or twice a year – I can hear the sadness in his voice. Every call with him feels like I’m falling into a pit, and when my phone rings, I debate giving it to someone else or scoring a point by tossing it in a dumpster.
The second time Michael returned from retirement and continued his career with the Washington Wizards, I was doing my fourth undergraduate year in German philology. On that same year, another case was brought against my father for a robbery. He decided to avoid the charge by “pushing the tanks,” as he used to say – by making it look like the crime was not premeditated but committed under a fragile mental state brought on by stress. That season, thirty-eight-year-old Michael Jordan would still earn about twenty-five points for the Wizards each game, while I would visit my father in a psychiatric hospital on Kuzma Street, as it was named back then, in Kaunas. That building now houses the Department of Painting of the Vilnius Academy of Arts.
I recall sitting in the reception, waiting for my father. Jordan was really lucky that day, earning forty-five points. Two orderlies brought my father out and sat him on a bench nearby. He tried to speak or to ask me a question, but his mouth just kept salivating – probably because of the meds. He looked very feeble, emaciated, like a gust of wind could blow right through him. It was the first time I realized that my father was mentally ill and must be heavily sedated. When I saw him sitting there, drooling all over himself, my growing despair got the best of me. I ran out of the room, rushing down the corridor, and tried to leave the building, but I couldn’t, because the doors didn’t have handles. A nurse asked if my visit was over before pulling a door handle out of her pocket; she opened a door for me, and then another door. At last I was able to step out into a bright light, onto sunny Kuzma Street in Kaunas. And I ran away screaming… The Washington Wizards didn’t reach the playoffs that season, and shortly after Michael Jordan retired for good.
Little by little, I forgot about him. Yet, unbeknownst to me, Michael would sometimes seep back into my life. That’s how I bought my first pair of Air Jordans and a Jordan Jumpman wristband.
What would happen if this fall or the next my father called me again? I bet he’d say: Hi, do you know who’s calling? Naturally, I’d say: Hello, Father! Your career inspires me. Do tell me, how’s life? It’s good, he’d say. We just finished the season, my points per game average is thirty-five. I was drafted into The First Team because of how many rebounds I scored on the hospital’s court. Are you still playing basketball, son? I am, Father, and rebounds are my thing, too. More of a team player, you know. I like to give others the opportunity and pass the ball to my teammates so they can throw again. That’s how my team works too, son – everybody has a role. There’s a guy here in the hospital, his name’s Denis. He’s covered in tattoos. There’re rumors from across the fence that he whacked somebody. We’re on good terms because we’re both good players. Who do you play against, Father? The orderlies. Three-on-three, son. It’s an emerging sport, very promising. They’ll have it in the Olympics, you’ll see. I know I’ll make you proud someday. But I’m already proud of you, Father. But you’ll be even prouder, son! I’m just waiting for the team to transfer my salary as agreed in the contract, they should pay me a whole year in advance. I’ll give you half of it. Father, I don’t need your money. But I want to help you, son – Father said once, as we ordered steaks with cheese at a café near the fountain on Freedom Avenue. Well, fine, Father. Maybe I’ll buy a car then. Very good, son, pick any car you like – green, red, just not a sports car, I care about you, son.
That same year, he went to prison for the third time. Since then, I keep hearing stories about new siblings that I apparently have. I keep hearing that Michael Jordan is the richest athlete in the world and that he owns a basketball club. I keep hearing news about my father, too: apparently, a group of gypsies scammed him out of a two-bedroom apartment that he owned in Jonava, leaving Father without a penny to his name and with nowhere to go. And suddenly, on a Sunday, he calls me: Hello, son, it’s Michael. Wanna hang out?
The essay was originally published in Lithuanian
in the magazine Literatūra ir menas
