The Quiet Return: When Greatness Serves Something Bigger
Most of you read "Inside The Mind of Mojo" for investment insights, lessons from failure and success, or stories about mentors who shaped my path. You've read my posts about Steph and Kobe, about knowing thyself like Chris Bumstead, about my mentor who could check my confidence while delivering profound investment lessons in a crowded room. Today's post is different. It's about being unselfish and giving back. It starts with Michael Jordan's return to basketball in 2001.
In September 2001, three years after hitting one of the most epic walk-off shots in sports history to close out the Utah Jazz for his sixth championship, Michael Jordan announced his return to basketball with the Washington Wizards. Many thought it was a mistake that would tarnish his legacy. Maybe they were right about the basketball. But I don't believe he came back for the basketball alone, despite some of the speculation.
Michael Jordan returned to heal America after 9/11.
On September 11th, 2001, like millions of Americans, Jordan watched the Twin Towers crumble. I remember exactly where I was that morning—I was supposed to board a flight from San Francisco to New York City for work. I had just stepped out of the shower when my cell phone rang. It was my father, and his voice was almost hysterical, panicked in a way I'd never heard before: "Don't get on the plane! Are you at the airport?" It was maybe five minutes after the first plane had hit the first tower.
My father knew my travel schedule because whenever I flew to New York or Chicago for investment banking, he would sometimes arrange business trips to meet me. We'd have dinner together, share a drink in some hotel lobby before parting ways. But that morning was different. After hanging up, I walked outside and found myself in the middle of California Street with no one else around. San Francisco had gone silent. The whole world had stopped.
And somewhere, Michael Jordan was watching too.
Jordan didn't hold press conferences about his motivations. He didn't tweet about service or post Instagram stories about giving back. He simply announced his return and quietly donated his entire salary to 9/11 relief efforts and victim families. He brought his gravity, his competitive fire, his refusal to quit when things looked impossible—he brought all of these qualities to a moment when America needed to remember what resilience looked like.
Yes, he helped revitalize a struggling franchise. Yes, his competitive nature craved the challenge. But Jordan understood something deeper: that sometimes greatness means showing up not for yourself, but for what others need to see. Not the highlight reels or the accolades, but the simple act of suiting up when the world feels like it's falling apart.
This is what quiet leadership looks like. No fanfare. No expectation of praise. Just the recognition that when you have the ability to lift others, you do it.
Jordan's return wasn't about adding to his legend—it was about using his legend in service of something bigger. The man who made "I took it personally" legendary offered something even more powerful: his presence when America needed it most.
This story matters because it shows us the difference between performance and service, between building a personal brand and building others up. In our world of constant posting and virtue signaling, Jordan's approach feels almost revolutionary. He didn't announce his charitable giving on social media. He didn't create a foundation with his name on it. He didn't hold galas or give speeches about his generosity. He just showed up, played basketball, and quietly sent every dollar of his salary to families who had lost everything.
But here's the thing most of us do instead: we see the need and look away.
I catch myself doing this on Twitter all the time. Someone shares their investment struggles or career confusion, and within minutes there are dozens of replies from people who seem absolutely certain they have the answer - despite knowing nothing about this person's situation, experience, or goals. Anonymous accounts dropping definitive advice like they're dispensing universal truths. Sometimes I can't even tell the difference between genuine experts, well-meaning people who don't have enough information to help, and outright trolls who prefer watching car crashes to success stories.
My first instinct is usually to scroll past this chaos. Why add to the noise? Who am I to compete with all these confident voices? It's easier to assume someone else will cut through the bullshit with actual helpful guidance.
Most of us think this way. We see someone drowning in bad advice and assume "they probably have good help too" or "I don't know enough about their specific situation" or "there are already too many people trying to help." Jordan easily could have thought the same thing in 2001: "There are plenty of other celebrities and leaders stepping up. America doesn't need me."
But he didn't. And lately, I've been trying not to either.
I'm trying to be more like that. To reach out when I see someone getting bad advice, to offer help without expecting anything back, to show up quietly when it matters. Not by giving definitive answers like everyone else, but by asking questions, gathering context, helping people think through their situations rather than just telling them what to do.
Maybe you're thinking about someone right now too. Maybe this is the reminder we both needed.
The most radical act in our performative age isn't posting about your good deeds—it's doing them when no one is watching, when there's no story to tell, when the only reward is knowing you showed up when someone needed you to.
I'm going to try to be better. More unselfish. Maybe you will too.
I’ll be writing more on governance, activism and investment process. I’ve lived and breathed these for years. I’ve also written about tokenization, Formula One, the NBA, and sometimes just tell a story worth remembering. Stay tuned.
You can also find me on Twitter at @MrMojoRisinX and @BeWaterltd.