Unlike their colleagues on the hard-news beat, who often deal with public officials who have to remain accountable to voters, sports reporters are in a compromising position: Franchises and athletes want publicity, but journalists who ask the wrong questions may lose their sweet spot on the gravy train. Only recently, the Washington Redskins slashed The Washington Post's season tickets from 279 to 12, due to dissatisfaction with the paper's coverage. In his incisive book When Nothing Else Matters, Post reporter Michael Leahy reveals a great deal about Michael Jordan's inglorious stint with the Washington Wizards, but he reveals even more about the back-scratching culture of sports journalism, which allows flawed figures like Jordan to balloon into false idols. For some pressroom sycophants—a.k.a. "Jordanaires"—access to His Airness in locker rooms, card games, and golf courses meant avoiding the hard questions. And during Jordan's painful three years in Washington, those questions needed to be asked.
After frosty relations with general manager Jerry Krause denied him a place in the Chicago Bulls front office—no matter that he led the team to six NBA championships—the retired Jordan looked for an executive position elsewhere in the league. He found a good fit with Wizards owner Abe Pollin, whose hapless young team was still searching for an identity, not to mention a few wins. Though Jordan tried his hand at managing the team, including drafting a notorious dud in raw high-schooler Kwame Brown, he quickly grew bored by the job and longed to return to his glories on the court. Now 39 years old and out of condition, with knees worn down by years of abuse, Jordan decided to suit up again and lift his dysfunctional team to glory, but his comeback proved less than dazzling. The competitive spirit that had made him so legendary became a major detriment: His knees couldn't take 40 minutes night after night, leading to flat jumpers in the short term and season-ending injury in the long, and his young teammates didn't respond well to his constant haranguing. What's more, he hired a yes-man in coach Doug Collins, who gave lip service to cutting Jordan's minutes, but always caved to the star's wishes.
Once Jordan hung up his skates for the last time, he expected to return to his throne in the Wizards' luxury boxes, but no longer cowed by his aura and never impressed with his managerial skills, Pollin quietly sent Jordan packing. Having caught him at the low point in his career, Leahy scrapes away at the vaunted Jordan mystique, revealing a petulant man-child whose womanizing, high-stakes gambling addiction, and uncharitable spending habits belied his polished commercial image. Though Leahy takes no small pleasure in bringing Jordan's ego down a few notches, When Nothing Else Matters reads like a tragedy of sorts, centered on a man who so lived for the game that he knows no other satisfaction. And without the affirmation he craves—from fans, from his entourage, and from reporters—Jordan retires a lonely man.