To the outside world, Michael Jordan was a larger-than-life icon — a global superstar draped in red and black, soaring through the air with grace and fury. But to those who shared the locker room with him, especially during the Bulls’ championship runs of the 1990s, MJ was something else entirely.
He wasn’t just a leader. He was a force — relentless, demanding, and unapologetically intense.
Former Bulls point guard B.J. Armstrong , who played alongside Jordan for nearly a decade, offers a rare window into what made that leadership tick. It wasn’t always pretty. It wasn’t always comfortable. But it worked.
Let’s break down what Armstrong saw — the good, the brutal, and everything in between.
The Artist Behind the Legend
Armstrong didn’t just play with Jordan — he watched him. Not just on the court, but off it. In the film room. In the weight room. In the moments no cameras caught.
“He loved the game of basketball,” Armstrong once said. “He was an artist who dedicated his life to the craft.”
That love wasn’t casual. It was obsessive. And when you live your life like that, you become vulnerable. Armstrong saw that vulnerability up close — the way Jordan broke down emotionally after losses, the way he carried pressure like a second skin.
No Room for Half-Hearted Effort
Jordan didn’t ask for much — just full commitment. If you weren’t all-in, you weren’t welcome.
Practices were brutal. They were more than drills and scrimmages — they were battles. Tempers flared. Fists flew. Steve Kerr and Will Perdue once nearly came to blows. Bill Wennington took verbal heat. Luc Longley learned fast that talent alone wouldn’t save him.
But it worked. Because Jordan never asked anyone to do something he wasn’t doing himself. He pushed harder, trained longer, and expected everyone else to follow suit.
As Armstrong put it: “There was no reason for him to do that other than there was this innate love he had for the game.”
The 1995 Comeback: A Fire Rekindled
After retiring to play baseball in 1993, Jordan returned to the NBA in 1995 — and not quietly. In just his fifth game back, he dropped 55 points on the Knicks at Madison Square Garden. That night wasn’t just a statement; it was a declaration that his fire hadn’t dimmed.
If anything, it burned hotter.
Jordan raised the bar even higher. Practices became war zones. Players were challenged daily. Toni Kukoc, Scott Burrell, and others quickly learned: You either kept up, or got left behind.
Building the 72-Win Bulls
The 1995–96 Chicago Bulls didn’t just dominate — they set a record with 72 wins. That season wasn’t without tension. There were grumbles. Arguments. Moments where it felt like the whole thing might fall apart.
But Armstrong believed in the process. He saw how Jordan prepared — studying film, rehearsing plays, drilling until muscle memory took over. That obsessive preparation wasn’t just personal. It was contagious.
It turned a group of talented players into a unified force. And it made history.
The Price of Greatness
Michael Jordan’s leadership wasn’t easy. It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t diplomatic.
But it was effective.
B.J. Armstrong understood that better than most. He witnessed firsthand how Jordan’s intensity, discipline, and vulnerability created champions — not just teams.
In the end, greatness doesn’t come from comfort. It comes from challenge. From pressure. From someone who refuses to settle.
And if you could handle that, you earned Jordan’s respect — and maybe even a ring.