I Beat the Odds_ From Homelessness, to the Blind Side, and Beyond - Michael Oher [33]
Even at seven years old, I was a big kid. I was taller and broader than the other kids in my class. I was bigger than most of my foster brothers, even though I was usually the youngest. I was almost as tall as some of my brothers who were four or five years older than me. But I wasn't an obese kid. I was carrying a little extra weight, but I was athletic and fast on my feet with my reflexes--and I was tough. I'm sure having five big brothers had something to do with my toughness. If you wanted to play with the older kids, you had to keep up and you couldn't be a crier. I had never played any organized sports, but people always seemed to think I should, so I realized pretty early on that I had a unique combination of build and talents.
I remember watching the NBA playoffs at my cousin's house. There were a bunch of us there--most of my brothers, some cousins--everyone was just packed around the TV as the Bulls tore through the Hawks, the Cavaliers, and the Knicks before making it to the finals against the Suns. I didn't know where any of those cities were: Atlanta, Cleveland, New York, Phoenix. I didn't even know where Chicago was, even though I was cheering for them like they were my hometown team. All I knew was that Michael Jordan was the most incredible athlete I had seen in my life, and the way he played ball just blew my mind.
It was late spring, which meant it was already hot in Memphis. I don't know if the air-conditioning was broken or if it was just because there were so many people in such a small room watching the game, but I felt like I was sweating as much as if I'd been out there playing with the Bulls, a feeling that probably helped to make my new dream seem that much more real to me.
The series against Phoenix had been crazy. Chicago was looking to win its third championship in a row--something that hadn't happened since the Celtics were on their streak in the 1960s--but Phoenix kept fighting back. In the first five games, Chicago scored 100 points or more, and in Game Three, Phoenix ended up winning after taking the game into triple overtime, with a final score of 129 to 121. It was nonstop action on the court and probably the most exciting thing I'd ever watched. The Bulls won the first two games, lost the third, won the fourth, and lost the fifth. I was completely hooked by how intense it was to watch these two unbelievable teams fight it out.
Then in Game Six, all of the drama came to a head. Chicago was determined not to let the series go to Game Seven, and they were leading by 11 points in the second quarter, 10 in the third, and 8 going into the fourth; but Phoenix turned up the heat and pulled ahead 98 to 94. In the last minute of the game, Michael Jordan got the rebound, drove it down the court, and scored to make it 96 to 98. There were 38.1 seconds left on the clock. Dan Majerle missed the shot for the Suns and the Bulls got the ball back at 14.1 seconds. In the best show of teamwork I had ever witnessed to this day, Jordan passed to Scottie Pippen, who passed to Horace Grant, who shot it over to John Paxson, who had hung back in the three-point zone. It was a perfect shot--nothing but net--and the buzzer sounded. The Bulls had just won the championship for the third year in a row, Michael Jordan was named the series MVP for the third time in a row, and I was now hooked on sports.
For the next few days, and then the next few weeks, I kept replaying those games (especially the final one) over and over in my head. There was Jordan, scoring at least 40 points in four consecutive games--even scoring 55 points in Game Four--and averaging 41 points per game