Bret and Bart Maverick

[CeltsSteve@AOL.com]

Jordan Cool When Chips Are Down
October 28, 2001 
By MIKE ANTHONY, COURANT STAFF WRITER 

MONTVILLE -- The first thing you notice is the swarm of people - bodyguards, 
friends, teammates - and smoke rising from the middle of the pack. Everybody 
is trying to catch a glimpse.

As the entourage occasionally parts, the most recognizable head in the nation 
appears. The bright lights above pit 21 in the Casino of the Sky at Mohegan 
Sun shine on it, leaving no question who it is.

Michael Jordan, black suit, cigar in mouth and drink in hand, sits at a 
reserved facedown blackjack table. He sits under a fake starlit sky provided 
by a dome above Wombi Rock, a towering bar adjacent to the high stakes 
section.

He is on the end, to the right of the dealer, the most important seat at the 
table. And he is focused.

Jordan leans back in his chair with those lucky enough to earn an invitation 
beyond the red rope. He slouches and peeks at his cards while debating to hit 
or stand. With each puff, the cigar smoke rolls across his face, leaving 
Jordan's demeanor a mystery for short moments at a time.

But it's no mystery that he is in charge. This is Jordan's arena, the other 
place where he refuses to lose.

Jordan sits beside Celtics forward Antoine Walker, who is dressed in gray 
slacks and a white shirt. Across the table is Wizards teammate and former 
UConn swingman Richard Hamilton, wearing a more casual brown suit.

The three already have played an NBA exhibition game at the Mohegan Sun Arena 
and attended a party at Jordan's restaurant.

It's just after midnight. The night has just begun.

A True Heavyweight

Earlier, the Celtics defeated the Wizards 107-93 behind Walker's game-high 32 
points.

Jordan shot 9-for-21 and scored 21. Hamilton had nine. Walker engaged in some 
trash-talking with Jordan. Later, they would work together, high-fiving with 
victories, wincing in defeat. For most of this night, they were on the same 
team.

After the game, Jordan donned his suit, smiled for the cameras and spoke to 
the media.

By 10:30, the high-pitched screams echoed throughout the casino as Jordan, 
accompanied by about 15 security guards, made his way up an escalator and 
toward his restaurant, Michael Jordan's Steakhouse. Cameras flashed as guards 
parted the crowd and Jordan knifed into the restaurant like a boxer making 
his way to the ring for a championship bout.

Fans tried desperately to get to Jordan. Some claimed to have party 
reservations. Others pleaded to be let in just for a moment. All were 
unsuccessful.

After Jordan disappeared into the dark restaurant, which is on the second 
level, almost directly above pit 21, security began clearing the area. Fans 
who inquired about finding Jordan later were told he would exit through a 
back door with a state police escort. Security made clear he wouldn't be seen.

He wasn't going to gamble, they said.

Disappointed fans cooperated and filed away. Security, which by most 
estimates assigned about 30 guards to Jordan's area throughout the night, had 
cleared the night's first hurdle.

But Jordan hadn't yet hit the floor, where few knew the two reserved tables 
beyond the rope awaited him.

Posting The Guards

Security guards, lining the railing around the pit, make sure no one stands 
to watch.

"Please keep moving," they say. "Got to keep moving. Can't stare at him, 
folks."

Several security guards and dealers acknowledge that Jordan started with 
$500,000. He and Walker began betting between $5,000 and $10,000 a hand.

Watching Jordan at first does little to help gauge his success. While 
emotional and intent, he is even-keeled. Other players look to him for 
guidance. At one point, Jordan stands and points across the table, seemingly 
directing traffic as he does on the court.

But he isn't making a spectacle of himself. Walker is. You think he is 
animated on the court?

As Walker, 6 feet 9, constantly stands to rise above those at the table, his 
arms flail and fists swing through the air. His loud voice, sometimes 
offering little more than an inaudible cackle, echoes throughout the room.

Jordan just smiles. Perhaps he is enjoying the entertainment because he 
apparently is not doing so well at the table.

Just after 2 a.m., Jordan stands up, and many onlookers think this is the 
end. Security begins its preparation to escort Jordan. He is only using the 
restroom, and not about to give up at the tables.

On the way, a fan approaches Jordan and gets a handshake moments before a 
guard shoves him aside. Jordan enters a "family restroom" alone. Nine guards 
stand watch, then surround him as he returns to the table where Walker is 
still whooping it up.

An hour later, with the crowd thinning, Walker goes to the restroom alone. 
His tie is loosened and he is a bit disheveled.

Someone asks, "Mr. Walker, any luck tonight?"

"Up and down, man," Walker says, making a wave with his right arm. "Up and 
down."

Jordan is down. Several guards and dealers in or near the pit say Jordan had 
lost the $500,000 he started with.

"Down half a million dollars," one said. "Half a mil!"

But, as he has been known to do, Jordan is about to make a comeback.

Late-Game Heroics

Alcohol is not served after 2 a.m., so as the night works its way well into 
Saturday, the mood is growing calmer.

"Antoine was a little fired up before," one of the dealers from Jordan's 
table said. "But even he calmed down a bit."

The dealer said every player was respectful, but the money at stake was 
almost unfathomable.

By this time - around 4 a.m. - the crowd surrounding the table has decreased 
considerably. Only the serious players and security remain. Jordan is still 
betting every hand, now up to $15,000 on each.

"Those guys are losing a lot of money," the dealer said. "I tried not to talk 
too much. I just looked down. They tipped, but I don't know how much. I 
didn't even want to look at the chips."

Just after 5 a.m., Jordan makes his second trip to the restroom, this time 
with five guards. An unwitting woman turns the corner of a row of slot 
machines, counting quarters. She looks up, and almost drops them.

"Holy [cow]," she said. "That's Michael Jordan."

At 6 a.m., platters of fruit and pastries are delivered, and the table has 
new life. But it's not the sugar.

Jordan is on a roll.

Walker, Hamilton and others are now playing sporadically. They look tired. 
But Jordan senses something. He begins playing three hands at a time, using 
stacks of blue chips, worth $5,000 each. With each hand, a table that lacked 
life an hour ago starts to stir. Walker stands again to cheer Jordan. 
Hamilton looks on, seemingly in awe.