Mortal Reflections on “The Last Dance”

posted 7.28.20

I’m eight episodes into “The Last Dance,” the Michael Jordan/Chicago Bulls docuseries that recently made the jump from ESPN to Netflix. I’m hooked. I wouldn’t call myself a dedicated fan of the Bulls or Jordan, but I’m fascinated by the personalities and conditions that give rise to the superhuman achievements documented in TLD.

“The Last Dance” refers to the theme Chicago Bull’s coach Phil Jackson gave to the Bull’s 1998 season, a nod to the open understanding that despite an exceptional track record, both the coaching and team would be “rebuilt” by the Bull’s organization at the end of the season. Michael Jordan, who led the Bulls to six NBA championships, is the gravitational force around which the series revolves.

The documentarians were granted extraordinary access to their subjects, especially during the ‘98 season (apparently it took years for Jordan to consent to releasing the footage). This, combined with the present-day interviews, makes for a thrilling, behind-the-scenes foray into professional basketball and the psychology of players performing at peak levels.

Through the backstories of the phenomenal trifecta of Jordan, Scottie Pippin and Dennis Rodman, who formed the beating heart of the team from 1995 to 1998, the series examines the alchemy of raw talent, laser focus, herculean effort, and, in some cases, luck needed to join the ranks of the athletically exceptional.

Witnessing this level of perfection is the stuff of myth, even to the players themselves. Larry Bird claims that his first electrifying encounter with Michael Jordan on the court was really “God disguised as Michael Jordan.”

There is certainly something god-like about these players. Their awesome stature, speed, grace, and power — not to mention the telepathic connection they share on the court. These outsized qualities inspire a degree of devotion in fans reminiscent of the pantheon in ancient times.

But our enchantment with these athletes may transcend worshipping from afar. There is some evidence that watching the game, and the players, triggers an empathetic response in our brains that makes us feel as if we are the ones responsible for that buzzer-defying three-pointer.

A mirror neuron, as defined by Wikipedia, is “a neuron that fires both when an animal acts and when the animal observes the same action performed by another. Thus, the neuron "mirrors" the behavior of the other, as though the observer were itself acting. Such neurons have been directly observed in human and primate species, and birds.” (“Mirror Neuron," n.d.)

There are conflicting theories on why mirror neurons exist, but the net-net is that for a moment we gain entry to the Garden of the Gods. And without all those back-breaking hours of practice.

Of course there is another, perhaps more cynical, angle to our fascination with these players. Their sport occurs within the context of a multi-billion dollar industry, fueled by commercial advertising. I haven’t done the research, but I’d wager the vast sums involved place the NBA (and the NFL) firmly in the realm of global financial influencers. Top players earn millions through salaries and endorsements, often becoming cultural icons and influencers in their own right. Their public personas run the gamut — rock stars, philanthropists, sinners, saints, role models, and mavericks.

We are enthralled. But enthrallment has an underbelly, including a rabid desire to consume the life force of our gods. There is a fascinating photo of Jordan in episode 6 of “The Last Dance.” Shot from above, it captures a dense circle of reporters with Jordon at the center. Microphones, recorders and cameras are all trained on him, some seeming to almost touch his face. The photo conjures a sense of dread and claustrophobia, as if it were taken seconds before he was devoured by the media monster.

There are parallels with mythology here too. Consider the myth of the Year King, the Wicker Man, even the consumption of the Catholic host (back me up here Comparative Lit majors). The primal belief is that our gods must be sacrificed so that we may transcend the mundane and touch divinity. Or at least have a bountiful harvest.

If the players are the gods of TLD, head coach Phil Jackson is the high priest. Jackson incorporated both Native American and Zen Buddhist practices into his coaching as well as an almost esoteric-seeming strategy (to me, at least) called the triangle offense. Jackson’s true gift was his deep sensitivity for his players, and an ability to make space for the egos, foibles, and eccentricities of these titan personalities.  And the wounds.

The series suggests that Jackson willingly shared the coaching role with Jordan, whose crucible of demanding excellence spurred his teammates to push beyond their perceived limitations and evolve their gifts. It also led to rumors of tyranny and bullying. The reflections of Jordan’s teammates on the difficulties, and blessings, of playing during his reign are a study in leadership and the extremes of “tough love.”

And this is where we observe the god shedding his divine skin to reveal his human vulnerability. In episode 7, when asked if he thought his style of leadership came at the the cost of “being perceived as a nice guy,” Jordan replies, “winning has a price, leadership has a price.” He repeats what he’s said many times in the series, that his goal was always to win at all costs, and that often he “pulled guys along when they didn’t want to be pulled.” And then his expression shifts, his voice breaks, as if in that moment he is connecting with the enormous toll of defending the space of absolute excellence for himself and his teammates. And the many roads not taken in choosing the road to victory.

It’s easy to feel small in the face of god-like accomplishments. But I do feel there are aspects of “The Last Dance” that translate to the lives of mere mortals: the idea of fiercely protecting (and advocating for) one’s gift and/or passion, treating it as sacred, giving it at least as much time, care, and priority as the dozens of daily demands that hijack our time and attention. Can we erect a sacred wall around that thing we cherish, that makes our souls dance? Perhaps we’d be more motivated if we thought this dance was our last.