The final day of the 1991 regular season was a Sunday. NBC had Chicago hosting Detroit. I’d grown up following the NBA in the newspapers and only that year started watching games regularly. I’d be in church during the game, so I set it to tape. I’d seen Michael Jordan dunk a million times in highlight videos — the kind you could rent from the supermarket video section for $2.18 — but never in a game.
We were staying at my grandparents’ house. As the only son, I was given the back room for myself while my parents shared one room and my sisters another.