They were legends, but they still have nightmares about him. His greatest rivals and teammates break their silence, sharing the shocking stories of Michael Jordan’s legendary cruelty, the fear he weaponized, and the terrifying obsession that made him the most dominant—and feared—player in history.

In the pantheon of sports legends, there are figures who are merely great, and then there are those who become myths. They are the athletes whose stories are passed down not just in record books, but in the hushed, reverent tones of those who witnessed their greatness firsthand. Michael Jordan, without a doubt, belongs to the latter category. For years, we have consumed the highlights, analyzed the statistics, and marveled at the championships. But what the box scores can never truly capture is the sheer force of will, the psychological warfare, and the almost supernatural competitive fire that burned within him. Now, years after his reign, fellow NBA legends, teammates, and rivals are sharing their personal stories, peeling back the layers of the myth to reveal the man who was even more terrifyingly dominant than we ever knew.

One of the earliest glimpses into this extraordinary drive comes from Michael Cage, a formidable player in his own right, who had the unique experience of rooming with a pre-NBA Jordan during the 1983 Pan American Games. Even then, in the nascent stages of his career, the whispers had already started. Cage recalls the 1982 tryouts, where players on other courts would stop what they were doing just to get a look at the kid from North Carolina. It was immediately apparent that Jordan was operating on a different plane of existence. “He was so far above the rest of us,” Cage remembers, a sense of awe still present in his voice decades later.

The practices were grueling three-hour affairs, sessions that would leave most elite athletes completely spent. For Jordan, they were merely a warm-up. After every practice, he would issue an open challenge to the entire team, taking them on, one by one, in games to seven. He would proceed to beat every single player. It was a stunning display of skill, stamina, and an insatiable hunger to compete. It was in those moments that Cage knew he was witnessing the birth of a legend, though even he couldn’t have fathomed the global icon Jordan would become. Interestingly, Cage notes that Jordan wasn’t a prolific trash-talker in the traditional sense. His intensity was his intimidation. He was so locked in, so focused, that opponents learned a valuable lesson: whatever you do, do not poke the bear.

That lesson is perhaps best illustrated by a story from Jordan’s first retirement in 1995. Scottie Pippen was hosting his All-Star benefit game in Chicago, but ticket sales were languishing. The moment Jordan, then deep into his baseball experiment, agreed to play, the event sold out instantly. Such was his gravitational pull. Pippen, perhaps feeling a bit playful, decided to stack the opposing team against Jordan. It was a fatal miscalculation. Jordan, feeling the slight, gathered his own teammates and issued a simple, chilling command: “Give me the ball and move out the way.”

What followed was a basketball massacre. Jordan, who hadn’t played professionally in over a year, proceeded to score between 55 and 60 points. He dismantled the team Pippen had so carefully assembled, a one-man wrecking crew fueled by perceived disrespect. As the final buzzer sounded, Jordan walked over to his longtime teammate and delivered a line that perfectly encapsulated his mindset: “Don’t ever stack the team against me again.”

This unrelenting focus was not just reserved for big moments; it was embedded in every single possession of his career. Teammates recall his bizarre but effective psychological tactics. Jordan, they say, played every game as if the score was perpetually 0-0. Whether the Bulls were up by 30 or down by one, he was trapped in the present moment, fighting for every inch. To ensure his teammates shared this mentality, he would institute “silly fines.” He would bait rookies into glancing at the scoreboard during a blowout, and if they took the bait, they were fined. It was his way of teaching them that the game is never over until it’s over.

This intensity extended even to casual pickup games. One player recounts an experience as a 19-year-old New York kid who idolized Jordan. He found himself in a game against his hero and quickly realized the television highlights didn’t do him justice. Jordan was simply unstoppable. In a desperate attempt to deny him the ball, the young player accidentally elbowed Jordan, cracking his ribs. The game should have been over. For anyone else, it would have been. But not for Michael Jordan. He received the ball one last time, rose up from the free-throw line, and drilled the game-winning shot. Without a word, he walked off the court. He would sit out for the next three months to heal, but the message was sent. Injury was an inconvenience, not a defeat.

Peers who analyze his game today point out that while he was listed as a shooting guard, Jordan often played like a center. He understood that the key to elite team play was “penetration,” getting the ball below the free-throw line. His office was in the post, where he would dissect defenses with surgical precision. To average 37 points a night in an era of brutal hand-checking and physical defense is a feat that modern players can scarcely comprehend. The consensus is that in today’s game, with its emphasis on freedom of movement, he would have scored even more. One former teammate, who spent four and a half seasons by his side, shared a final, telling detail. In all that time, through all the grueling practices and conditioning drills, Michael Jordan “never lost a suicide.” His engine, his drive, was simply unparalleled.

These are more than just anecdotes; they are the brushstrokes that complete the portrait of a true sporting icon. They reveal that the source of Michael Jordan’s greatness was not just his otherworldly talent, but a psychological fortitude and a competitive fire that burned hotter than any opponent he ever faced. He didn’t just play the game; he bent it to his will.