During the pandemic Netflix premiered “The Last Dance,” the story of the ‘98 Chicago Bulls final championship run. It hit at the perfect time. With NBA games suspended as the virus ravaged the country, fans were desperate for content, so they tuned in. But the documentary also picked up viewership outside of sports fans because of the figure at the center, Michael Jordan.
Most knew the name, even if they never watched basketball. He was someone so good at what he did that whenever someone in a completely unrelated field performed well, we called them the “Michael Jordan of X.” People love to watch excellence, even if it’s in an area outside of their normal interests, and after finishing the documentary, it was clear to all that the hype was true. The legend of MJ wasn’t nostalgia or rose-tinted glasses. He really was as great as everyone said. And, what stuck with viewers was not just the fact of his greatness, but how he achieved it. Michael Jordan became the greatest of all time by being petty as hell.
Several times throughout the retelling, Jordan referenced some slight from an opposing player that made things “personal.” Once this condition was met, anything was possible. He could will the absurd into existence—flip a mental switch and decide to score fifty. And that’s exactly how his peers speak of him. After one game Larry Bird, a Hall of Famer himself, said, “That wasn’t Michael Jordan. It was God in gym shorts.” We hear the phrase “mind over matter” repeated so often it becomes meaningless, but here was the adage in living form. Watching Michael Jordan it’s beyond clear that even though we’re all made of the same basic ingredients, some people are a world apart, built differently, so determined that they can impose their will on the world and reshape reality.
Time and again, some upstart would come for the king, and each time he would offer them a profound lesson in humility. Most who survived this beatdown swore off trash talking “Black Jesus” ever again. But, MJ’s competitive streak wasn’t all glory; there was a darkness to it. It was indeed a force he could call on to do the impossible, but in some sense it also owned him and used him as a vehicle. At times it seemed like a pathology or a Faustian bargain. His desire to win didn’t disappear when he left the court; it followed him throughout every aspect of his life. He wanted to win everything at all times, and he wanted it in the gnawing, stomach-turning way you’ve only ever wanted a handful of things in life. On the court this led to him punching Steve Kerr in the face, and outside the game, it led to a gambling habit.
How many conquests have been fueled by wounded pride and an obsessive need to prove oneself? How much could we owe to something so trivial? It’s more common than you might think. I last encountered it in “The Idea Factory,” a history of Bell Labs, the research wing of the former government-sanctioned telecommunications monopoly, AT&T. One section details the work of Bill Shockley. Early in his career at the lab, Shockley conducted pioneering research related to semiconductors, but at the onset of WWII, he was pulled away to help with strategy against enemy submarines. Then in 1947, shortly after the war’s end, John Bardeen and Walter Brattain, two of Shockley’s colleagues, had a breakthrough and developed the first working transistor. Shockley was seething. He had kicked off this research, laid the bedrock, and now with recognition on its way, he would be left out of the final account. This couldn’t stand. Determined to have his name on the trophy, he locked himself away, and when he emerged weeks later he had exactly what he needed to do so, the junction transistor, a step-change improvement over his colleagues’ initial point-contact design. So, when they awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1956, it went to all three men.
But as with Jordan, Shockley’s gift came with a curse. His ego didn’t just drive discovery and invention; it led him to very destructive ends. After leaving Bell Labs, he assembled an all-star team and started a semiconductor firm in what, due to the lab’s work, would become Silicon Valley. But he was an absolute nightmare to work for. He was deeply paranoid, convinced small mistakes were in fact employees trying to sabotage his work. It all came to a head when he demanded everyone take a polygraph test. This was the final straw. The “traitorous eight” left and went on to phenomenal success, building the wealth the Valley is now famous for.
From his time at Bell Labs, he was convinced of his own superiority and latched onto IQ as a metric to prove it. He forced his employees to take IQ tests, but much to his chagrin, there was no significant difference between his scores and those of his peers. Nevertheless, he became absolutely obsessed, and it made him unbearable. Old friends who came to discuss physics found themselves bombarded by long, racial tirades. It even seeped into his family life, and he derided his own children, blaming his first wife for being of insufficiently intelligent stock. His scientific contributions ceased, and he spent his final years in disgrace, promoting eugenics and harping on about the “dysgenic threat of negroes.”
The power of pettiness is remarkable. Michael Jordan clung to the smallest comments opponents made, and on a mission to make them repent, he transformed the game of basketball and made us reassess how good someone could actually be. And Bill Shockley’s bruised ego bent time itself, allowing him to condense years of scientific research into mere days. But when we consider what these men accomplished, we should also remember the flip side, the cost of a deal with the devil. These two men seemingly had very little choice in the matter. They were born with a demon on their backs, and they accepted its blessings and maledictions alike. But for the rest of us who are not born this way, but instead seek greatness, it’s important to be clear-eyed and fully aware of the forces we’re inviting in. So, when considering what you want in life, you should also understand who you’re willing to become.