I’ve spent the last few days waiting for the press conference.

At a Chicago restaurant, somebody might have seen Michael Jordan eating a piece of cheesecake for dessert at 1:15 p.m. Saturday afternoon, before the Chicago Bulls defeated the New York Knicks in game three of the NBA Eastern Conference finals.

Could the cheesecake have slowed Michael down? Did the delayed sugar shock cause him to miss 15 of the 18 shots he took? Are New York cheesecakes better than Chicago cheesecakes and is that the reason Jordan got so angry at John Starks during the Bulls’ game three romp?

Tell me. I’m an inquiring mind. I want to know.

NOT!!

Poor Michael Jordan.

He is Elvis, circa the 1990s. He can’t go anyplace without attracting a crowd. He’s on TV more than Ross Perot. He’s more overexposed than Madonna.

There is nobody bigger.

I like Michael Jordan. I liked Michael Jordan before everybody and his brother jumped on the “MJ” bandwagon just because it was in vogue to like him. His commercials have made me laugh and, to be honest, no, I’m not sick and tired of seeing all of them.

In my opinion, he is the greatest basketball player of all time.

But, I feel sorry for him.

Granted, it’s tough to feel sorry for a good-looking gent who rakes in millions upon millions of dollars because he can shoot a basketball and has the charisma to charm the young and the old; the blacks and the whites; the males and the females.

Still, I do. I feel sorry for the man. I can’t help myself.

I still remember Michael Jordan, out on the left wing at the Superdome in 1982, firing up a jumper that hit nothing but the bottom of the net to give the University of North Carolina the NCAA basketball championship.

He was a 19-year-old kid who never could have guessed what was in store for him.

I remember when Jordan was in his second NBA season and injured his foot. He came back at the end of the season, against the front office’s wishes, simply because he wanted to play the game.

The legend grew…. and grew…. and grew….

Has there been anybody bigger in sports? It was never like this for Magic or Larry. Or Teddy Ballgame. Or Wayne Gretzky.

But, for Mike, that’s another story.

Michael Jeffrey Jordan was born Feb. 17, 1963. That makes him 30 years old now. He’s got a wife. Couple of children.

From everything I’ve seen and read, he’s got a mighty fine set of values about him.

Last week, he decided to use his day off from work to take his father and some friends to Atlantic City. To play a little blackjack. To relax. Anything, just to get out of New York City.

What happens?

Rumors start flying. One person tells another person who tells a friend who tells a reporter that Jordan was gambling at 2 a.m. with an 8 p.m. game the next night.

I’m surprised nobody tried to romantically link him with Marla Maples, another person who has frequented Atlantic City a time or two over the past few years.

I don’t care what Michael Jordan was doing on his night off.

How would going to Atlantic City – even if it was until two in the morning – affect his play at 8 p.m. the next night?

It wouldn’t!! And I don’t care about this type of story!!

One of his many commercials throws out the statement, “I want to be like Mike.”

I don’t understand why anybody would want to be like Mike, to live under that big a microscope, to always be under such scrutiny.

Michael Jordan is a person, just like you and me.

He puts on his sneakers one at a time. He has changed his baby’s diapers. He has stubbed his toe on a piece of living room furniture.

He is, after all, human.

Sadly, somewhere along the line, Michael Jordan was put on this pedestal and has not been allowed to jump off. He has been a good sport. He has played along. He has played the role of the hero and, in this day and age of rich egotistical jocks, he has been one hell of a role model.

But, please, let us put it into perspective. Until he parts the water of Lake Michigan and walks to Detroit to play the Pistons, let’s reconsider what we’ve done to the man.

Nobody is worthy of all this attention and adulation.

Be like Mike?

I’ll pass, thanks.