NBA: The Wizard of Wheeze

Well, the air is out of the bag, and probably out of Michael Jordan himself.

As he sat at the veritable lectern on Monday, waxing painfully unpoetic about his impending return to the NBA, he looked old. Dark lines under his eyes, a go-tee that seemed to be graying in the bright podium light and a voice free of all trace of childishness. This was an elder statesman returning to the floor of the Senate for one last rabble rousing invective.

There are variety of questions that accompany such a stirring event. First and foremost, how is the new, plodding, floor general, MJ, to be sold to the salivating public? Certainly not as Air Jordan.

Not only is the concept of air travel out of style these days, but MJ no longer flies. He even had to take a minute in his press conference to announce that he could still dunk a basketball.

The restructured MJ will likely man the offense at the top of the key much like a tank sergeant stands impressively atop his machine, pointing imperiously in the direction of the enemy. Or, he will ESTABLISH himself on the block, intent on trench warfare, backing and bullying until he can swivel slowly back, launching his fatal fadeaway.

Given the new nature of his game, maybe Nike ought to launch a new Jordan line -- "Ground Assault." Instead of the logo of Jordan in flight, legs split, a new mark would feature an implacable, muscular Michael, ass planted into a defender's solar plexus, backing toward the goal.

The Nike Ground Assault line would nicely contrast the silly Kobe Bryant campaign and its awkward attempt to make us think of Kobe as some kind of basketball Socrates. Or, the Allen Iverson campaign, the simple object of which seems to be to frighten white people. Shaquille O'Neal violently shaking a Nestle Crunch machine over his head doesn't qualify as a campaign, just a spectacle.

Ground Assault footwear would look more like basic training boots than sissy hoop shoes. Steel-toed, with thick rawhide laces, padding rising above the ankle, each boot would weigh 10 pounds. The tread would securely anchor you at any place of your choice on the court.

Feeling empowered by the sight of their aging icon elbowing and banging his way to the hoop, old men around the country would flock back to the courts, Ground Assault gear hardly visible in camouflage colors, and proceed to beat the living crap out of arrogant adolescent ballers everywhere. The message would ring through freedom's land: this is now the geezers' game.

Nike's tagline, emblazoned on ads and billboards across the land, could paraphrase Nolan Richardson and promise upstart hoopsters "two and a half-quarters of hell." Why bother playing 48 minutes when the damage can be inflicted in five wheezing six minute bursts?

My aching joints rally at the thought of it. In fact, I think I'll strap on my steel-toes and go kick some Reagan-era butt.