FIVE WEEKS BEFORE his 50th birthday, Michael Jordan sits behind his desk, overlooking a parking garage in downtown Charlotte. The cellphone in front of him buzzes with potential trades and league proposals about placing ads on jerseys. A rival wants his best players and wants to give him nothing in return. Jordan bristles. He holds a Cuban cigar in his hand. Smoking is allowed. “Well, s—, being as I own the building,” he says, laughing.