No one on the riverside boulevard tonight could understand what was happening. In just a few seconds, the sky seemed to be torn in two by a metallic screech, then a white flash of lightning swept across the low clouds. Right below, hundreds of fans standing outside the arena gate were still shouting Michael Jordan’s name when they suddenly fell silent. A thin, black column of smoke rose from the medical helicopter landing area. The ambulance sirens resounded loudly against the glass walls, sending a chill down the spines of everyone present.
Just an hour earlier, Michael Jordan had appeared at a private meeting with sponsors, his smile still bright as ever, his hands still signing jerseys for children. But after the final photo session, he suddenly stopped, his face pale, his chest gasping as if someone was squeezing it. An assistant shouted for a doctor, and the crowd immediately rushed forward like a wave breaking on a shore. “He put his hand to his chest and fell straight down, without a chance to say a word,” a witness with red eyes recounted. Paparazzi clicked their cameras wildly, flashbulbs flashing like an electric storm. Bodyguards formed a human barrier, shouting to keep their distance, but the cries and screams still pierced everything.
Medical staff rushed in within minutes, carrying first aid kits, oxygen tanks, and portable defibrillators. Michael Jordan lay motionless on the floor, his vest unbuttoned, exposing his chest. “I saw them doing CPR continuously, one holding the oxygen mask, one counting the beats, but he didn’t respond,” a fan standing in the front row said, trembling. In that moment, the shouts of “CPR! CPR!” rang out like a battlefield command. People no longer saw an invincible legend, just a human struggling for every breath.
The ambulance blared its siren and rushed away, cutting through the crowd like a hot knife cutting through butter. The escort vehicles turned on their red and blue lights, reflecting off the wet road in long, shimmering streaks. Michael Jordan was placed on a stretcher, covered with a silver blanket. Time seemed to slow down: fans were screaming and chasing after him, running and praying, their hands covered in rainwater and sweat. “Please don’t take him away… please don’t…” a girl knelt down in the middle of the white paint line, her voice breaking like broken glass.
At the city’s central hospital, the emergency corridor suddenly turned into a white trench. The ICU door swung open, cold lights shining on the tense faces of doctors. The monitor flickered continuously, the heart beat sometimes straight, sometimes broken, like a piece of music that someone had deliberately broken into pieces. “We are doing everything we can,” a doctor said quickly to the press, his voice hoarse with tension. Phrases like “severe arrhythmia”, “risk of recurrent cardiac arrest”, “need to be transferred to a specialist” popped out like bullets.
The helicopter crashed into an empty lot next to the highway, less than 4 km from the hospital. Fire raged fiercely, a column of black smoke curled like a giant fist choking the sky. Fire trucks rushed in, hoses spraying water straight into the sea of fire, but the secondary explosions continued to ring out, making the rescue work like walking on thin ice. A police officer at the scene confirmed that at least two people were thrown from the cabin, while others were trapped inside because the plane’s frame was bent.
Meanwhile, outside the hospital, the news struck the crowd like a bolt of lightning. Someone shouted: “The helicopter crashed!” – and the whole street exploded in tears. People held their heads, screamed to call home, and livestreamed shaking hands as if they had a high fever. The hashtag exploded globally in minutes: #PrayForMichaelJordan #StayStrongMichaelJordan #DontLeaveUsMichaelJordan . From New York to Paris, from Tokyo to São Paulo, news channels switched to breaking news. LED screens in the city center showed his photo in black and white. Colleagues, artists, politicians posted prayers. “The sports world was never ready for tonight,” a commentator choked up on live air.
Portable speakers
Michael Jordan’s family arrived at the hospital in utter silence. His mother was being helped away, her feet barely touching the ground. His wife held her two children, her eyes red but not crying out loud – a silence more terrifying than a scream. When they were taken to a private room, the entire hallway froze. An inside source said briefly: “The condition is extremely critical. We are waiting for confirmation from the rescue team.”
It was nearly an hour after the crash that the rescue team was able to get the victim out of the rubble. A second ambulance blared its siren and returned to the hospital. The ICU door opened again. The red monitor continuously sounded alarms. Doctors gave electric shocks, performed chest compressions, administered vasopressors, and raced against death as if they were in the final race of their lives. Those standing outside could only hear the sound of doctors’ running shoes and the chilling “code blue”.
Then the climax came like an invisible blade. A doctor walked out, his face exhausted, his hands still stained with dried blood. He looked straight into the camera, but his voice was broken: “We… did our best.” No need for another word, the whole world understood. Many fans collapsed right at the hospital gate, some fainted from shock. On social media, the word “Goodbye” flooded like a black wave.
Tonight, the city does not sleep. In front of the stadium, a sea of candles was lit in the rain. The orange-yellow flames flickered, reflecting on the wet road like thousands of crying eyes. Someone placed the legendary jersey number on the fence, on which was scrawled: “You are the reason we believe in the impossible.” No one knows what tomorrow will bring, only that an era has just broken with a dry sound falling into the sky. And the final question still hangs like a trail of smoke that has not yet cleared: Has Michael Jordan really left… or is it just a cruel test of fate?
