Michael Jordan poked at his Cobb salad in a way that suggested longing. It had been a far-ranging interview -- nearly 5 1/2 hours long -- when the emotions came spilling out of him as through a garden spigot. Yes, he said, he missed Jerry Krause, or K-Dawg, as he called him. No, he would have never won that final championship without Bill Wennington. Yes, he wore his Hanes tight. Very tight. Then he leaned across the white linen tablecloth, poked his finger so close to my face that I could see the scar from the infamous cigar cutter, and whispered, "I'm coming back. This one's for Jahidi."

Okay, here's what really happened:

There was no far-ranging interview. There was no near-ranging interview. There wasn't even a Cobb salad. There was bupkus. For the most part, Jordan has been quieter than the Committee to Re-elect Congressman Condit. Oh, we tried. Made a run through the Wizards' PR office. Faxed a lame-o interview request to one of his trusted agents. Didn't matter.

Jordan is a little busy these days, what with kicking butt in the recent Wizards free agent and rookie camp now that his ribs have healed, being president of a team that hasn't won a playoff series since '82, and trying to decide if his body feels the same way about the comeback as his heart does. Everybody in D.C. is talking about it. Sure, the rumors took a day off for some Puckhead Nation buzz when the Capitals (of which Jordan owns a greater percentage than he does the Wizards) traded for Jaromir Jagr. But just wait 'til Jordan slips on one of those goofy-looking Wizards jerseys for real. In the meantime, we're still circling the "will he or won't he?" runways.

If you want to watch Jordan play small forward these days, all you have to do is earn a spot on the Wizards' roster, coaching staff or management team. Otherwise, you're stuck waiting in a distant hallway as a well-muscled, ponytailed MCI Center security guard shoos reporters away from the practice facility. "It's gonna be a while," says the guard, who looks as if he could pinch your head off with his forefinger and thumb.

It's going to be a while because Jordan needs a few extra minutes to sneak off the court and away from the local beat guys, who catch wind of the deke and dash down another hallway in search of MJ. Good luck. "The Package" -- that's the call name MCI security guards use for him on their walkie-talkies -- is long gone. That leaves Collins and No.1 overall pick Kwame Brown to explain just how Jordan plans to turn the Wizards into playoff material. After all, this is the same 19-win team that one NBA coach compared to those longtime Globetrotter stooges, the Washington Generals. "Against them," the coach says, "you just knew you were going to win the game."

Jordan knows it's true. That's why he is pushing his 38-year-old body to the point of exhaustion and beyond. He wants to play again -- Collins says that much, and Jordan says he'll decide by mid-September -- but there is a difference between whupping on no-name free agents and playing four NBA games in five nights. If he does return, it likely won't be a one-and-done deal. It probably would have to be two seasons: this year to push the franchise to respectability, next year to snare a Vince Carter-type free agent and reach the playoffs. Otherwise, what's the point?

Ted Leonsis, who owns a majority stake in the Caps and about 33% of the Wizards, has become big buddies with Jordan. About a week or so ago Jordan stopped by Leonsis' house for an actual far-ranging chat. That's when Jordan said he was waiting for an old friend to tell him whether to continue the comeback.

The friend? Basketball.

"Basketball always tells me the truth," Jordan told Leonsis. "It never lies to me. Whenever I need to work things out, I go play basketball."

Leonsis owns a calculator. If Jordan plays, the Wizards -- if you can believe it -- might become the toughest ticket in town. As it is, the lower bowl of the 20,000-seat MCI Center is almost completely sold out. Luxury suites get leased. Franchise value gets a steroid shot. "I hope that basketball whispers sweet nothings in his ear," Leonsis says.

Whatever it whispers, at least the Wizards aren't the same 11-car pileup of a year ago. Say what you will about Jordan spending more time in suburban Chicago than D.C., but the man isn't afraid to take the tough shots when it comes to this president of basketball operations thing. He traded Juwan Howard and his bloated, salary-cap-killing contract. He wrote big-money severance checks to veterans Rod Strickland and Mitch Richmond, and canned rookie coach Leonard Hamilton, but not before admitting he bricked that one.

Then he did what he should have done in the first place -- hired the well-respected Collins, who coached Jordan from 1986 to '89 and helped position the Bulls for their first championship run. He lucked out by defying the ping-pong-ball odds set by the NBA, and then had the stones to use that No.1 pick on Brown, the 19-year-old high school kid from Brunswick, Ga.

"He moved a contract [Howard] that nobody thought could be moved," says an Eastern Conference general manager. "He's given that franchise credibility, stability and direction. He's put his franchise in a position of hope."

Leonsis watched the lottery selection show on May 20. He saw Krause sit in glum horror as the Bulls, who had the league's worst record, get stuck with the No.4 pick. A few moments later, he saw NBA deputy commissioner Russ Granik announce that the Wizards had the first selection in the draft. Leonsis, who made his fortune on AOL stock, typed an e-mail to Jordan, who was on a golf course somewhere, too nervous to watch TV.

"I subscribe to the conspiracy theory," wrote Leonsis. "Way to go, Michael."

Jordan's e-mail reply: A smiley face.

Later that day, in a delicious coincidence, Krause and Wizards assistant GM Rod Higgins found themselves on the same flight from Newark to Chicago. Higgins was the Wizards' representative at the NBC lottery show, the same guy Krause cut when he played for the Bulls in the early to mid-'80s. Now Higgins was sitting in first class, in the leather seat directly behind Krause. Moments like this don't come very often, so Higgins pulled out his cell phone, called Jordan and talked to his boss about the No.1 pick, making sure to nudge Krause's seat with his knee. Jordan must have loved it.

Now the heavy lifting begins. With or without Jordan, Collins faces another killer rebuilding project. But fixing things is Collins' specialty and the reason why Jordan called one day in April and said, "I need you to come in and get this right." Collins had been approached by other teams since he was fired by the Pistons in '98, but said yes to Jordan because they share the same competitive DNA, and because (let's face it) it was MJ on the other end of the phone. "I think Michael calling him meant more than anything," says Collins' son Chris, an assistant coach at Duke. "It's like Tiger asking you to be his partner in the Ryder Cup."

Contrary to urban legend, Jordan didn't get Collins fired from the Bulls in '89. If he did, this is a hell of a way to apologize. Collins helped develop the skills of Scottie Pippen and Horace Grant, to say nothing of Jordan. And MJ has always admired the way Collins runs a practice, coaches a game, evaluates talent and wrings the most out of young players -- exactly what the Wizards need if this hoops revival is going to have a chance. "I think the perception was that Michael didn't want me to coach the team," Collins says of their Chicago days. "I never felt that at all. I always felt we had a very good relationship."

Truth is, there are only three photos of an athlete other than Collins in his Phoenix home: one of Collins handing Jordan the '88 MVP trophy, one of Collins coaching Jordan in the '97 All-Star Game, and a five-frame sequence of Jordan hitting the winning shot against the Cavs in '89. It was Collins who asked Bulls equipment man John Ligmanowski if Jordan would sign a jersey for him after that final game against the Jazz. Ligmanowski disappeared into the Bulls locker room and returned later with a bag containing the jersey. Wrote Jordan:

"To Doug,
Thanks for the education. Michael"

Collins gets emotional just talking about it. Then again, Collins gets emotional ordering takeout. He and Chris talk every day. It doesn't matter what time -- midnight, 3 a.m., dawn. Every conversation ends with "I love you." As for his daughter Kelly, a fifth-grade teacher whom he says mirrors his own Type-A personality, Collins interrupts the interview for a brief hugging session with her.

Just wait until the season starts. Collins, who turns 50 on July 28, coaches as if he's on commission. He works the sideline so much that he used to sweat through his shirt, tie and suit jacket. Throw Jordan in the mix and the Wizards will lead the league in salt stains and hyperintensity. During the minicamp Collins stopped a sloppy practice session, which included Jordan on the floor, and told the rookies and free agents, "Look, guys, I'm not going to allow you to play this way. You want the coach to get upset, then yell at you so you'll play? I don't want to do that." Practice resumed and the level of play took a quantum leap.

Even Jordan, the five-time MVP, told Collins he might require some motivational pedal to the metal. "Coach," said Jordan during the minicamp, "if I play this year, I need you to push me. I've been out three years. On my own, it's not going to be that easy for me. You're here with me. I want you to push me in practices because I want to be as good as I can be."

So much for the questions about how this whole MJ/Collins thing might work -- at least in Collins' mind. "If Michael trusts you and respects you, he will never try to step over you and get in your way to do your job," Collins says. "He didn't bring me in here to be a puppet on the court for him."

Actually, the only one on strings these days is the high schooler Brown, who is trying to learn three different positions (small forward, power forward and center), memorize all the plays and figure out what he's going to do with the money from his three-year, $11.9 million contract. The last time Brown had a job was before his junior year at Glynn Academy in Georgia, when he earned $7 an hour working construction. He gets $7 per dribble these days. So far he's bought a black GMC Denali, pays $2,000 a month in calls back home to Brunswick, Ga., and plans to buy a house for his mom, who supported eight children by cleaning hotel rooms before her back gave out.

The Wizards thought about moving the pick or even choosing Tyson Chandler, another high school big man with all sorts of upside. Ask Brown who the better player is and you get a quick, "Who's sitting here in front of you?"

MJ might be the past and the present, but Brown is the future. That's why Jordan, twice Brown's age, played on Brown's team only during the minicamp, why he constantly talks to Brown during the workouts, why his first words to Brown on draft night were, "Welcome aboard, Rook." That's what he calls him, Rook.

Brown has followed MJ "since he had hair on his head." There was a Jordan poster on his bedroom wall, a pair of Jordan's early Nikes in his closet. "I remember paying a whole paycheck for those shoes," he says. "Tore them up in three weeks."

Now here he is, trying to make Jordan proud. At first, Brown was a mess. Missed assignments. Missed shots. But he's starting to figure it out. (He scored 27 points in his third summer league game.) He constantly asks Jordan questions, except the biggie. "I'm probably the only one who hasn't asked him, 'Are you coming back?'" says Brown.

Even if Jordan takes the comeback plunge, nobody in D.C.'s mayoral office is planning a championship parade route. With Jordan, the Wizards might be good enough to make a run at the eighth playoff spot. Without him, they're somewhere in the 20-win range.

"Michael will never fly by the seat of his pants," says Collins. "He might like to go to Vegas and take some risks. But when it comes to his profession, he does not gamble. He's holding the aces."

The answer will come soon enough. Collins wants him to play. Brown wants him to play. Leonsis wants him to play. David Stern wants him to play. NBC wants him to play. Jordan wants to play, but there's one problem. Mr. Basketball is taking his sweet time with those sweet nothings.

This article appears in the August 6 issue of ESPN The Magazine.