I am supposed to write about Michael Jordan.

He’s coming back you know.

Although he never stated it explicitly, Monday Jordan announced to a small group of reporters he’s returning “For the love of the game, nothing else.”

Expect a formal announcement next week.

Normally, this would produce a horde of media.

In-depth sports analysis would follow.

ESPN Classic would put Jordan’s biography on a 24-hour loop.

Peter Jennings would shove the rest of the news after the break and lead with the Jordan story.

The only way this story would be bigger, is if in Jordan’s background Monday, Babe Ruth’s black magic, his death falsely reported for 53 years, healed Muhammad Ali’s Parkinson’s.

I am supposed to write about how big a Jordan fan I am.

Right now in the corner of my childhood bedroom, a laminated poster of Jordan lies on the carpet curled around itself.

Spread it out and Jordan is mid-flight, tongue wagging, arm cocked, a second before he wins the 1988 Slam Dunk Championship with a jam from a shoelace inside the free throw line.

I am supposed to write how I wanted to be like Mike.

I walked pigeon-toed like he did. Chewed gum like he did.

Drank Gatorade.

Ate Wheaties.

Dunked on my six-foot tall hoop like he did.

I even got some Hanes before switching back to the more comfortable Fruit of the Looms.

But even as resplendent as he was throughout my formative years, Jordan and his story seem insignificant this week.

I don’t know if sports should be played this weekend.

I lean toward no.

Maybe because, underneath rubble, people are still filling with September air. Maybe because, underneath rubble, people are not.

Or maybe it’s because my cousin died in a car wreck last week.

People are still mourning, I’m still mourning, and perhaps postponement is best.

Perhaps not.

My views are changing.

What I write now may not be the way I feel as you read this.

Perhaps it is best to move on.

Provide hope, in some minuscule way, for those who grieve.

“That is why athletics are important,” Brian Glanville, a British sportswriter wrote.

“They demonstrate the scope of human possibility, which is unlimited. The inconceivable is conceived, and then it is accomplished.”

Games will be played so our country can move on.

So something can be accomplished. Games will not be played because some of us are not ready, or in some cases of travel, able, to move on.

Travel is not a problem in Iowa this weekend.

I could ride a Hawkeye back to Iowa City after the game if it’s held. (And if Iowa State wins, I just might.)

But that’s not the point.

What is, as former North Carolina State head coach Jim Valvano said in response to Glanville’s prose, is this: “All these games, they mean nothing — and they mean everything.”

It is comforting, because amid all the horror this week, I am supposed to write about Michael Jordan.

Paul Kix is a junior in journalism and mass communications from Hubbard.