The Last Dance: We Who Love Michael Jordan


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The Last Dance: We Who Love Michael Jordan

The Last Dance, more than the last dance, was the last trip to an already extinct world.

A land of heroes and villains, of loyalties and betrayals, of winners and losers. A time of perfect scripts and unforgettable improvisations. From opinion leaders without marketing experts. Of puffy suits, bizarre colors and celebrities with hidden secrets.

We are the generation of tube television and landlines. We are the cassette that reads on side A and side B. The Walkman, film cameras, floppy disks, and spent VHS. We are the entire afternoons inside the club. We are the albums of figurines, the musical themes requested from the operator on the radio and the tickling in the belly when inserting the coin in the slot to hear the tone. We are the magic of the Commodore 64 and Arcade machines. It is our intertwined with theirs. Mafalda, Fontanarrosa and El Gráfico. Asterix, Lucky Luke and Tintin. We are the adrenaline of Doc and Marty’s time travel, the heart of Rocky Balboa, the wisdom of Miyagi and the terror of Freddy Krueger. We are also the piano of Charly García, the scream of Axl Rose, the transgression of Freddy Mercury and the painful goodbye of Kurt Cobain.

We are the fluorescent dyes, the rare new hairstyles, and the first inner tube sneakers. The shirts inside the pants, the gardeners and the washed jeans. We are the ones who could still wait. Those who did not know what was happening on the other side of the continent. Those who built distant stories with rumors and imagination.

We are the generation that wanted to dribble and hit the ball like Diego. That he was moved by Agassi’s cumshots, by Tyson’s fists, by Senna’s wrist.

We are the ones who love Michael Jordan. Those of us who play emulate his dribbling, his shots, and his feats. Those of us who calculate with an imaginary rule the irrational distance of a jump between the free throw and the hoop. Those of us who stick our tongues in the air and count in reverse, in the backyard of our houses, for the sole purpose of defusing the bomb that allowed us to be heroes of our childhood for one afternoon.

Do you remember what you once knew to be?

The Last Dance is just that: a memory. The beautiful story of the perfect return to a forgotten time. The commitment that invites us to review a contract signed with ourselves. A phone call to communicate with our younger self and ask him, please, to enjoy every minute, not to miss anything, to get out more. That staying up that night to live that adventure will be worth it. Take advantage, hurry, because it’s over. A journey of introspection to childhood and pre-adolescence, a ticket to get on the train to those golden years in which those who are no longer with us were still with us. In which everything seemed like a story told to perfection.

Times in which we still had everything to say, everything to do, everything to live.

With the world on standby, the diagrammed comeback was perfect. The gods of destiny conspired, because without distractions nothing and no one could contaminate the journey. To be exact, for the door of time to make sense, we used the weapons we had at that time: we had to wait. Like Morpheus with Neo, the instructions were clear. Take only two pills a week to fully live the dream of the perfect lap. The carrousel, then, spun for six days so that we can remove the ring on Sunday. For five weeks, the box where we kept the best photos came to life. The memories of that time were experiences. Again: of heroes and villains, of loyalties and betrayals, of winners and losers.

Those who have been very close to death say that before crossing the tunnel, there is a light so bright that it pushes and drags. They also say that life is presented as a video clip that passes at the speed of light. That we can see it all while waiting for the final judgment. We do not know if that is true or not, but what we do know now is that there is a formula to beat time and achieve immortality: a basketball, a red number 23 jersey and ten hours in a row to rebuild the best story ever. counted.

What time is it? Game Time!

Good, we are together again.


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