Seventy Points Strong

Field Note: Offering what little we have in a world that needs a lot.

The annual arrival of the NBA Finals each June brings a warm kind of nostalgia as memories of legends past flicker back across our screens and timelines.

And no legend looms larger this time of year than Michael Jordan. It sometimes feels like every day marks the anniversary of one of his classic Finals moments. Like The Shrug in Game 1 of the 1992 Finals, when he hit six three-pointers in the first half, culminating in that iconic shoulder shrug, as if to say, even I can't believe this.

But let's rewind to another night: March 1990.

Jordan dropped a jaw-dropping, career-high 69 points in a single game. Amid the fanfare, a rookie named Stacey King contributed just one point: a lone free throw. Unable to reach Jordan through the throng, a reporter turned to King for a quote. King grinned and replied.

"I'll always remember this as the night Michael Jordan and I combined to score seventy points."

It's a cheeky line, but there's something quietly profound in it too. A window into a deep human need: to belong to something larger. To find meaning in our small part of a greater story. Even if all we've got is one free throw.

Remember the classic feast in the Gospel of John. A young boy hands over his small sack lunch. Five loaves and two fish. And Jesus turns that modest gift into a meal for thousands. It is one of the quiet miracles of the New Testament, tucked into John 6. The boy's name is never given. He offers what he has, and somehow, that is enough.

There is something timeless in that kind of giving. And we never know what our small, faithful act might become in the hands of something greater. But don't miss this. That boy didn't need a title or a category. He didn't lead a movement or write a book. He simply offered what he had.

And yet, today, we often rush to name ourselves. To explain ourselves.

Have you noticed it? How eager we are to define others—and ourselves?

What's your Enneagram? Your Myers-Briggs? Introvert or extrovert?

And increasingly, I hear people say, with a certain weariness, "I'm just a realist."

Now, there's nothing wrong with realism. But sometimes, the tone hints at resignation. As if realism and hope are mutually exclusive. As if to dream is to delude yourself.

But that's not realism. That's cynicism in disguise.

This quiet redefinition of hope as foolishness is more than semantics. It pressures us to stop reaching, to give up before we've begun. And it's costing us something vital: the courage to believe in better.

Let's be honest: reality is rarely soft. For some, it's illness, cancer or the ache of chronic pain. For others, it's financial stress, fractured relationships, or that heavy silence that descends when the future feels out of reach.

And then there's the daily drip of uncertainty. The headlines. The roadworks. The rain. The phone call we didn't want. The minor aggravations that punch above their weight.

Like the delayed flight with no updates, it's the not knowing that drains us. We imagine worst-case scenarios. We spiral. But when the announcement finally comes. 'Two-hour delay' or even 'Flight cancelled.' Something shifts. We stop spinning and start planning.

Reality, no matter how inconvenient, is easier to face than endless what-ifs.

If that's true, then the habit of assuming the worst isn't just unhelpful; it's a self-inflicted wound. A way of compounding our hurt before the diagnosis and certainly before we've even begun to heal.

What looks like wisdom may actually be a cage. A prison.

So here's a thought: what if the real strength is not in hard-nosed realism or feel-good optimism but in hope with backbone?

Hope that sees the cracks but chooses to plant anyway.

Hope that isn't afraid to look foolish for believing in better.

We aren't called to survive. We are called to contribute. To join in the game. To give our free throw and trust that it matters. To hand over our small lunch and believe that, somehow, it might feed more than we could have possibly imagined.

We may not have sixty-plus points in us today. But we might have one.

And when offered with heart, that one is more than enough.