Two years ago, when Michael Jordan turned 50, Wright Thompson wrote a captivating piece on the man from Wilmington. Thompson documents the struggles Jordan has faced as he grows older,Jordan becomes further and further removed from his younger genius. To read it is to be confronted with a man who is flailing wildly for a sense of identity, struggling to understand what purpose he could possibly have now that he can no longer do what he feels he was made to do.

It hardly seems possible (is it a tryptophan-induced illusion?), but somehow Thanksgiving is in the past and Christmas will be here in less than three weeks. That sentence is not meant to cause widespread panic among our readers who haven't even begun to think about holiday shopping, though we would understand if it did. Thank goodness for the Internet, right?

I got my first job when I was 8, selling The Pilot (Moore County's local newspaper) to businesses near my home 50 or so miles south of Raleigh. The gig was super simple in those times: I bought each paper for 30 cents and sold it for 50 cents. For four years, I sold the paper three days a week, earning a profit of 20 cents on every paper I sold.