This was probably the key highlight of our trip, and very possibly, the only reason why we would allow ourselves to be dragged all the way here to cold wet Portland for something that could've been done in Singapore.
And these were what made this particular trip especially meaningful...
... the athletes that came to the show. Every single one of them whose name appeared on the screen, I saw them all - all in one single stage. Even the Royal Airness himself.
It was kind of a farewell party for our retiring founder, Mr Phil Knight (or we secretly prefer to call him 'Uncle Phil' on a more personal note) - the man who inspired all the dreams of the people working in his empire (me inclusive, I hate to admit). The athletes were all flown in to honor him and to bid him a rather fond farewell - from where I was sitting, I couldn't quite tell if tears were flowing but emotions were certainly stirring.
I had a pretty good seat - two rows from the front of the ground-level stage. But my camera wasn't quite good enough to capture zoomed-in pictures of the superstars. Darn.
I didn't know all the athletes that came, nor was I fond of every one of them that I do know.
I wasn't too crazy over the footballers. Cantona was a bastard - I don't think I would explain his behavior but I would've liked to tell it in his stupid ugly face that he's past his prime and he should stop behaving like a prima donna. Rooney the hooligan looked stifled, trying to appear decent in a white tucked-in shirt. Ian Rush made a surprising appearance, though a tad too bored-looking. Maldini made almost all the girls scream their heads off.
Pete Sampras came, slight paunch in sight, and he gave a pretty touching farewell speech to Uncle Phil. I like him - Sampras, I mean.
Sergey Bubka, the pole-vaulter who was the best in bettering his own world records, appeared the most down-to-earth of them all, and gave his thanks too, in awkward English.
Mia Hamm, the queen of women's football, humorous and fiesty, seemed like the precious youngest daughter of the family, giving a very personal speech to the patriarch, topping it off with a bear hug.
Paula Radcliffe spoke like a dainty demure English rose.
I think Joan Benoit Samuelson teared.
Of course, all I ever cared about, and was waiting desparately for, were the basketballers. Actually, just Jordan.
Jordan was right there next to Moses Malone and Kobe the alpha-male. Kobe joined the family not too long ago - just before he got embroiled in that infamous rape case. How timely for us.
And there was also baby King James, next to Melo and Cynthia Cooper. LeBron is amazing and deserves to be standing up there with all the other great athletes, but that night, he just looked like a bored youngster, stuck on a precious Saturday night at a grown-up family outing he'd rather not have attended. Melo was just looking oh-so-damned-cool in his long braids.
This is the second time in my life that I've seen Michael Jordan in person. The first time, he walked out unexpectedly of a building in the campus while we were walking past it on our way to the cafeteria. We all stopped dead in our tracks, jaws dropped, staring at the 6-9 guard standing not more than 10 feet away from us. Just one of the perks of my job.
I just couldn't get enough of Jordan this night.
I know, seeing Jordan twice in your life is more than any kid could die for. But I would rather have had the chance to see him play a game on court, in his red 23 Bulls jersey, his supreme Air Jordans, his tongue dangling out, him flying towards the hoop, his finger-wagging. But all I ever will get to see is him in a suit. Twice.
It's been a long long while since I've had a crush. I've almost forgotten how it feels like. Ahh... the sweet memories of youth. The alcoholic effect from the free flow of booze lifts you up higher and floats you through nostalgia. It is fun, while it lasts. Harmless fun, that you'll probably never get anything out of.
The truth about dreamers is that however much the world around them changes, they never stop.
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