Michael’s black SUV rolled into the parking lot of Laney High School in Wilmington, North Carolina, the place where his basketball journey had begun. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow on the familiar brick building, evoking a flood of memories. As Michael sat in the car, his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. He took a deep breath, a mix of anticipation and nostalgia filling him.

“You sure you want to do this, Mr. Jordan?” his driver asked, glancing over at him.

Michael nodded slowly. “Sometimes you need to remember where you started to make sense of where you ended up.”

He adjusted his cap lower, hoping to avoid being recognized at first. Michael wanted to experience the memories of his youth before facing any attention. The school had changed over the years, new security cameras and modernized doors, but the school’s colors remained the same. He pushed open the heavy door, and the familiar scent of polished floors and faint echoes of student chatter filled his nostrils. The hallways were relatively quiet, save for a few students lingering after school for activities.

Michael made his way down the hallway, his eyes catching sight of the trophy cases. They were filled with his framed jersey, newspaper clippings, and photos of his championship-winning years. His gaze lingered on a section dedicated solely to him—mementos of his high school days, including his stats, signed memorabilia, and articles recounting his journey from Laney to NBA legend. He hadn’t been back here in almost a decade, but the memories were still vivid.

Pushing open the gym doors, Michael was met with the familiar scent of floor polish and rubber. The bleachers were new, and the scoreboard was modernized, but the soul of the gym was still intact. He could almost hear the echo of his footsteps as he scanned the space, recalling the countless hours he had spent here shooting hoops in the dark, running drills long after the others had left, proving to himself that he was more than just the kid who got cut from varsity as a sophomore. He had worked hard to get to this point, and his first loss had only fueled his determination.

Lost in thought, Michael’s attention was drawn to a figure at the far end of the gym. A janitor was slowly pushing a mop along the sidelines, moving with such deliberate care that it felt oddly familiar. Michael watched him for a moment before walking closer.

“Excuse me,” Michael said.

The janitor looked up, squinting, “You here for volleyball practice?”

Michael smiled. “Just visiting. I used to go to school here.”

The janitor gave him a knowing nod. “A lot of folks come back to visit. Must’ve graduated a long time ago.”

Michael hesitated before replying. “Class of ’81.”

The janitor whistled. “That’s going way back. I was already working here then.”

Michael studied him closely, trying to place the man. The worn uniform, the white hair, the slightly hunched back—it didn’t add up, but then the voice, the posture, the way the man gripped the mop handle with quiet determination, it all felt too familiar.

“Mr. Wilkins?” Michael asked, taking a step closer.

The janitor tilted his head and squinted again. “Do I know you, son?”

Michael’s chest tightened. He stepped closer, unable to stop the rush of emotions. “It’s me. Mike… Michael Jordan.”

For a long moment, there was silence. Then recognition hit the janitor like a wave. His eyes widened, and his voice was a mix of disbelief and awe. “Little Mike Jordan? Is that really you?”

Michael grinned. “Not so little anymore, Mr. Wilkins.”

The janitor shook his head in amazement. He extended his hand, but instead of shaking it, Michael pulled him into a hug. Michael could feel how frail the old man had become. His frame was thinner, his shoulders less strong than he remembered. When they pulled apart, Mr. Wilkins blinked rapidly, his eyes glistening with emotion.

“I can’t believe you’re standing right here. You—Michael Jordan—in my gym,” Mr. Wilkins said, voice thick with disbelief.

“I can’t believe you’re still working here,” Michael replied, his voice quieter now. “It’s been what, over 40 years?”

“43 next month,” Mr. Wilkins said with a touch of pride.

Michael’s smile faded, replaced by concern. “And you’re still working full-time?”

Mr. Wilkins shrugged, “Got nowhere else to be. The school still needs cleaning.”

Michael studied the man carefully, seeing past the wrinkles and gray hair. He saw the man who had once believed in him when no one else did—the man who had opened the gym doors early so Michael could practice, long before anyone knew who he was.

“You remember how you used to let me in early to practice?” Michael asked, a spark of memory lighting in Mr. Wilkins’ eyes.

“Sure do,” Mr. Wilkins said. “You were always the first one in, last one out. I had to practically kick you out so I could go home for dinner.”

Michael chuckled. “My mom used to get so mad at me for coming home late, but it paid off, didn’t it?”

Mr. Wilkins gestured toward a massive mural of Michael soaring through the air in his Chicago Bulls uniform. “Look at you now.”

Just then, the volleyball coach blew her whistle, signaling the end of practice. The girls began gathering their water bottles and gym bags, heading out of the gym.

“I should finish up here,” Mr. Wilkins said, reaching for his mop. “Got the hallways to do before I clock out.”

“What time do you finish?” Michael asked.

“About 6,” Mr. Wilkins replied.

Michael hesitated before placing a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Do you think we could… could catch up when you’re done? Maybe grab some dinner?”

Mr. Wilkins looked surprised. “You want to have dinner with me?”

Michael smiled warmly. “Right now, you’re the most important person I want to see.”

Mr. Wilkins’ face softened, and he smiled back. “Well, in that case, I accept. But nothing fancy. These old bones don’t fit too well in those high-class places.”

Michael chuckled. “I know just the place. I’ll meet you at the front entrance at 6.”

As Michael walked back through the hallways of his old high school, his mind was already racing. Mr. Wilkins had always seemed old to him as a teenager, but now at 80, he was still mopping the floors of the school. Something about that didn’t sit right. By the time he reached his car, a decision had already formed in his mind. He didn’t know exactly how he was going to do it, but one thing was certain: Mr. Wilkins’ life was about to change.

At 6:00, Michael waited by the front entrance. He had spent the last hour canceling a dinner with business partners and rescheduling his flight back to Charlotte. Some things, he realized, were more important than business.

At 6:15, Mr. Wilkins shuffled out, dressed in a clean button-up shirt and khaki pants, his frame thin and frail.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Mr. Wilkins said. “Principal Jenkins wanted to chat when he saw me leaving all dressed up.”

“No problem at all,” Michael replied. “My car’s over there.”

As they walked toward the SUV, Mr. Wilkins’ eyes widened in awe. “We riding in that? The fanciest thing I’ve been in was my nephew’s Cadillac at his wedding.”

Michael opened the passenger door. “Hop in.”

As they drove through Wilmington, Mr. Wilkins pointed out the changes in the city—new buildings where old fields used to be, shops that had closed, the movie theater where he and his wife, Maggie, had gone on date nights, now turned into a clothing store.

“I was thinking we could eat at Katie’s Diner,” Michael said. “Is it still around?”

Mr. Wilkins’ face lit up. “Sure is. Been there since the 60s. You remember that place?”

“Best chocolate milkshakes in town,” Michael said with a smile. “My dad used to take me there after games.”

The diner looked exactly as Michael remembered it. Red vinyl booths, black-and-white checkered floors, and photos of local sports teams on the walls. By the cash register, he spotted a faded picture of his high school team.

A middle-aged waitress approached their table, and before she could say anything, her eyes widened. “Oh my goodness, are you Michael Jordan?”

Michael nodded politely. “Yes, ma’am. Could we get two menus, please?”

The waitress hurried away, whispering to her coworkers. Soon, the other staff and a few customers were sneaking glances at their table.

“Sorry about that,” Michael said, his smile warm.

Mr. Wilkins chuckled. “Must be strange being recognized everywhere you go.”

“You get used to it,” Michael replied, but then he shifted the conversation. “Enough about me. I want to hear about you, Mr. Wilkins. All these years at Laney High— that’s dedication.”

The old man shrugged. “It’s just a job. Someone’s gotta keep the place clean.”

“But why are you still working at 80?” Michael asked. “Most people retire long before that.”

Mr. Wilkins’ smile faded slightly. “Retirement’s for folks who can afford it, I suppose.”

Michael frowned. “You mean you can’t afford it?”

Mr. Wilkins stirred his coffee, his voice quiet. “Pension checks don’t stretch as far as they used to, and with Maggie’s medical bills… well, we get by.”

Michael absorbed the words, his jaw tightening. “Isn’t there any help available? A government program or something?”

Mr. Wilkins shook his head. “We don’t take handouts,” he said simply.

Michael recognized the quiet pride in his voice. It was the same pride that had kept Mr. Wilkins working all these years instead of asking for help. Before Michael could respond, the waitress returned with their food—cheeseburgers and the chocolate milkshakes they had both been waiting for.

Michael didn’t push the subject further, but as he ate, his mind was already working. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. And it was going to change.

As they ate, Michael pressed further, asking about Mr. Wilkins’ home. “What repairs does it need?”

“Well, always something,” Mr. Wilkins admitted. “Roof leaks when it rains hard. Plumbing’s old. Since Maggie’s stroke, we’ve talked about widening the bathroom door, but—” He trailed off, stirring his coffee.

Michael leaned in. “We’re going to fix that.”