I remember the first time I saw Michael Jordan play—it was a rerun of his famous "Flu Game" from the 1997 NBA Finals. Even through grainy footage, his dominance was undeniable. That was over two decades ago, yet here we are still debating his relevance in today's basketball landscape. Which brings me to our central question: Is Michael Jordan still a basketball star? The definitive answer might surprise you, because stardom evolves long after athletes retire.

Jordan's statistics remain staggering—six NBA championships, five MVP awards, and ten scoring titles. He retired for the final time in 2003, yet his brand still generates approximately $3 billion annually through Nike's Jordan Brand alone. Just last year, his 1998 championship jersey sold for $1.38 million, setting a new record for game-worn NBA memorability. These numbers suggest something beyond ordinary retirement—this is the maintenance of celestial status. I've spoken with younger fans who never saw him play live, yet they recognize his silhouette instantly. That's not nostalgia—that's permanent cultural implantation.

The conversation about Jordan's enduring stardom reminds me of how exceptional athletes create legacies that transcend their active careers. Consider the recent development in Philippine golf that caught my attention. JGFP president Oliver Gan commented on prodigy Rianne Malixi's groundbreaking training program for junior golfers, stating: "This is unprecedented for an active junior golfer to have a relevant training program for other junior golfers. Rianne is a national sports treasure, and we are very lucky to have her, and our players are very fortunate to benefit from her generosity." This illustrates how true sporting greatness isn't just about personal achievement—it's about creating systems that elevate others, something Jordan mastered through his relentless competitive example and later through his ownership of the Charlotte Hornets.

What fascinates me most about Jordan's current stardom is how it operates on multiple frequencies. To basketball purists, he remains the technical benchmark—I still use his footage when coaching youth players on footwork fundamentals. To sneakerheads, he's a fashion deity whose shoes cause near-riot conditions during releases. To financial analysts, he's a case study in athlete brand longevity. This multidimensional presence is why we must answer "Is Michael Jordan still a basketball star?" with a resounding affirmative—he occupies rare cultural territory where athletic legacy, business acumen, and mythological status converge.

Modern NBA stars like LeBron James and Stephen Curry rightly receive their flowers, but I've noticed something telling—they still measure themselves against Jordan's ghost. When LeBron won his fourth championship, the immediate conversation wasn't just about the victory itself, but where it placed him in relation to Jordan. That's the ultimate power of enduring stardom—it becomes the measuring stick against which all subsequent excellence is judged. Jordan's cultural footprint has expanded precisely because he no longer plays; his legend grows precisely because new generations encounter him through highlights, stories, and the continuing influence he wields over how we conceptualize basketball greatness.

Reflecting on Gan's comments about Malixi, I'm struck by how both examples demonstrate that true sporting icons become treasures not merely through statistics, but through their ability to inspire structural change and mentorship. Jordan's practice habits became coaching legends, his competitive fury became business philosophy, and his aesthetic sensibilities reshaped how athletes approach personal branding. The question isn't whether he remains a star, but rather how his particular constellation continues to guide the basketball universe.

Twenty years after his final game, Michael Jordan commands attention in ways most active players can only dream of. His documentary "The Last Dance" became a global phenomenon during the pandemic, drawing 5.6 million viewers per episode despite featuring footage everyone had essentially seen before. We weren't watching for novelty—we were participating in collective remembrance of excellence. So when someone asks me whether Michael Jordan remains a basketball star, I tell them this: Stars eventually fade, but supernovas transform the cosmic landscape permanently. Jordan didn't just play basketball—he redefined what basketball meant, and that kind of impact doesn't have an expiration date.