Basketball Without a Rudder

I remember the nineties. Which in and of itself isn't terribly significant, I'll grant you. Unless, of course, you're a fan of the Chicago Bulls.

The last of their six championships was just over twenty-years ago. And thanks to the space-time continuum it is moving ever farther away. After last night's historic fifty-six point loss to the Celtics, number-six seems centuries—not decades—ago. 

It is said that nature abhors a vacuum, and yet it's hard to see anything but at the United Center these days.

The Bulls actually built a second title-contender, only to have it subverted by recurrent injuries to its best player and the prime of one LeBron James. When that window closed, another failed to open.

Things looked promising for a bit after the trade of Jimmy Butler, with three talented youngsters arriving from Minnesota in return. But the coach they were intended to play for is gone, and in his place one bent on restoring traditional franchise values (read defense) even if the roster doesn't quite skew that way.

President of Basketball Operations John Paxson and general manager Gar Forman represent a brain trust that would never keep Albert Einstein awake nights. Like the stock market, they zig and zag this way and that, hoping motion is a suitable substitute for planning.

Because there is no plan. There is no single, overarching scheme that guides what happens at 1901 W. Madison St.

The players know it. The coaches know it. And the fans, who routinely pack the UC like the Cub fans of yore packed Wrigley Field regardless of the results, appear to be on the cusp of a great understanding.

That is, if booing the local heroes is any indication.

The Bulls are the team your best player circles on the schedule because it either means a night off or an opportunity to pad his stats.

The Bulls are a car without a functioning steering wheel, with the road—not the driver—dictating the path. As the car weaves from one side of the road to the other, it's only a matter of time before it crashes.

Despite the abundance of young talent, the Bulls are one of the worst teams in the league.

A local columnist pointed out Jerry Krause's tenure yielded six championships in his sixteen years. In the same span of time, John Paxson and Gar Forman's has yielded none. 

Granted, creating a champion requires many things. A big, fat, can't-miss superstar. Luck. A plan. And unerring decision-making.

Jerry Reinsdorf once rescued the Bulls from the hopelessness of ownership-by-committee back in the bad old days of the early-eighties. Thirty-odd years later, he needs to rescue the Bulls again.

Only this time from blind loyalty and the hopelessness of his hand-picked management.

Remember the nineties, Mr. Reinsdorf?