In the April 20 Chicago Tribune Sports section, I saw a thank-you note from Michael Jordan to basketball.

As Jordan and the rest of the basketball world look back on the career of the greatest player to step on the court, I think we all need to look back too. After all, we grew up in the Michael Jordan generation. Everyone our age that picked up a basketball was Michael Jordan. When you went out on the court to shoot around, you weren't Charles Barkley, Patrick Ewing or even the great ones like Bird and Magic. You were Michael Jordan.

You and your buddies would fight in PeeWee basketball to get number 23, because no other number mattered.

You'd jump from the free-throw line — even though you'd land just three feet later — and shoot the ball in mid-air to mirror his gravity-defying dunk in the 1987 Slam Dunk Contest.

You'd stick your tongue out. I think every MJ fan knows what this one is. Every time you go up for a shot — whether it was a layup, jumper or three-pointer — you had the tongue out like Mike did.

You tried those impossible turnaround jumpers that His Airness always managed to bury. You'd count down from three to pretend to hit that buzzer-beater like Jordan so often did to Cleveland. You'd shrug and shake your head after every jumper you made, like Mike did when he hit his sixth three against Portland in the Game 1 of the 1992 Finals.

You'd shoot — or more appropriately, miss — those free throws with your eyes closed as Mike would do from time to time to mess with his opponents, just to let them know — in case they didn't already — that he was unstoppable. He didn't even need to see the rim.

You refused to drink anything but Gatorade because that's what Mike drank. Then you memorized the "Be Like Mike" song and would sing it every time you went out on the court.

You begged your parents to buy you "Michael Jordan's Playground" and "Come Fly With Me" videos and then sat mesmerized in front of the TV for hours with your friends.

You swore that Mike could fly. He didn't just jump. He would glide and hang in the air for what seemed like seconds. He didn't fall back to the court — he landed.

When his dad was murdered, you said a prayer for him, and when he retired the first time, you cried. You stood up for him as he struggled through minor league baseball, because he was still the greatest athlete in the world, even if he couldn't break .200 with the Birmingham Barons or hit a curveball.

When he came back, you hated the number 45.

And when he drained that last jumper in 1998 against Utah to clinch his sixth title, you felt like a little kid. You celebrated like it was his first title, because all was right in the world again.

For the better part of two decades, he brought out greatness in all of us.

• An Era of Air