COMMENTARY : Don’t Make Jordan Pay to Get No. 23 Back

The NBA decided Thursday to fine the Chicago Bulls $25,000 because Michael Jordan switched jerseys and wore No. 23. Also, since he refused to wear black sneakers like those worn by the rest of his teammates, it cost Jordan $5,000.

In theory, the total fines by the end of the playoffs could go as high as $600,000 if Jordan, without league permission, insists on keeping the Old Michael look that helped him to 38 points, seven rebounds, four blocks and four steals against Orlando on Wednesday night.

That sounds like lots of money, until you consider there are more than 200 million people in America. If we each chip in one-third of a cent, we can foot the whole bill. Let’s be generous. Let’s all give the NBA a whole penny.

Wake up, NBA. If Babe Ruth walked into Yankee Stadium, would Bud Selig tell him he couldn’t wear No. 3 because of some league technicality? Okay, bad example. Baseball could screw up anything. But the NBA’s supposed to be savvy.

Who could be mean enough to deny Michael Jordan the return of his own jersey number? Isn’t it obvious that this guy, who’s given hundreds of hours of pleasure to millions of people, desperately needs his old No. 23 back?

This flap isn’t about rule technicalities or Jordan expecting special treatment. It’s about one of the greatest athletes in American history having a crisis of confidence right before our eyes. What Jordan did Wednesday in Orlando was not a lark or a prima donna win or a psyche-out of the young Orlando Magic. It was a serious attempt by a legendary -- and worried -- athlete to recapture his greatness one more time.

On Sunday in Game 1, Jordan singled-handedly blew an important game against Orlando. With 1:30 left, he missed two free throws. With a one-point lead in the final ten seconds, he let Nick Anderson steal the ball, setting up a layup. Worst, with a chance to win at the buzzer, Jordan passed up a jump shot from the foul line. Kids drain that one in their sleep. In a split-second of subconscious self-betrayal, he revealed his dwindling confidence. Jordan passed the buck.

Afterward, Anderson stuck in the knife. “No. 23 could just blow by you. He took off like a space shuttle,” Anderson said. “No. 45 revs up, but he doesn’t really take off.” The gauntlet had been thrown down: You ain’t the man you used to be. How could Jordan take the floor on Wednesday and not wear No. 23?

At 32, Jordan returned to the NBA because he loved his game, missed his game and felt a responsibility toward its health. What he didn’t expect was that, when he came back to the game, the game might not come back to him. At least not all the way back.

For weeks, an all-points bulletin has been issued for the whereabouts of the most exciting basketball player in history. We’ve had more sightings of Air than Elvis. Once, after a man scored 55 points against the Knicks in Madison Square Garden, it seemed we finally made a positive I.D.

Unfortunately, we were mistaken. The old Michael scored 37 points a game and shot 50 percent. The new Michael scored 27 points a game and shot 41 percent in 17 games. That’s the difference between great and The Greatest.

Jordan wants back his old number as deeply as millions of people want the old Michael back. So far it doesn’t seem to be in the cards. We’re watching a slightly older, slightly rusty and marginally mortal Jordan. At his best, he’s as spectacular as ever -- shooting 11-for-13 in the second half of the Bulls’ win on Wednesday. However, those performances don’t come as frequently or on command.

Odd as it may seem, Jordan’s saga may be even more dramatic now that he’s suddenly vulnerable. More than any recent athlete, he evoked the word “superhuman.” Not a cuddly noun. Now, the “human” part comes to mind.

Failure has stalked Jordan in these playoffs. Skill isn’t enough any more. He needs the breaks, too. At the end of Chicago’s final first-round win over Charlotte, Jordan fouled Hersey Hawkins on a layup attempt. No call. The ref swallowed his whistle. The Bulls escape by a point. There was no Game Five in Charlotte. But there could have been. Michael’s cutting it closer and closer.

As these playoffs evolve, our new Jordan may become even more beloved than the old invincible one. Not more adulated. That would be impossible. However, the median age of those who pull for Jordan may become a few decades older.

With each passing playoff melodrama, as Jordan unties himself from the railroad tracks one more time, we understand that he has not just given us the gift of his basketball. He’s also become one of us. Well, a little bit.