Sending a basketball, with a pass delivered one-handed and from waist-high, 60 feet over the head and into the hands of a streaking Karl Malone … the nuns next door slamming their windows shut as he cursed his brother in another vicious 1-on-1 driveway war … bolting, eyes moist, from reporters, unable to handle questions about his decision to retire … another excuse-me-Mr.-Fire-Marshal full house at Jack and Dan’s, with every eye trained to his every move on the scattered TVs … bowing his head to accept the gold medal in Barcelona – and again in Atlanta … stripping a helpless Gonzaga opponent at half court and turning it into a layup, back when you could walk into Martin Centre at tipoff and find a front-row seat … firing in the 3-pointer over Charles Barkley to send the Jazz to their first NBA Finals, and leaping into the arms of teammate Jeff Hornacek … and, forever, the short shors.