Watching
ESPN's The Last Dance has been an experience simultaneously
invigorating and depressing.
Invigorating
in the sense that Chicago, for the first time since the WWII-era
Bears, was home to a bona fide, butt-kicking dynasty.
Depressing
in the realization that despite the fact that all concerned had done
their jobs to perfection, it was going to end in a blizzard of ultimatums, finger-pointing and rancor.
A
documentary of this type can't help but take you back to that time.
Like you, I was twenty-two years-younger in 1998 than I am today, and
it's impossible to feel it's not the late-nineties while immersed in
Jason Hehir's project.
If
I could choose a single decade to repeat, it would certainly be that
one. For the most part the economy was good. I had fallen in love
with the woman who would become my wife. And when a once-promising
job went south, I used the opportunity to move to a place I had
always wanted to live.
America
was a far-less bitter place, with the exceptions of the O.J. Simpson
trial and the Clinton impeachment. The partisan divide was but a
rivulet compared to what it is today and America was yet uninfected
by what came to be known as social media.
Okay.
On to The Last Dance.
Whatever
personality deficits Micheal Jordan may have had as a human being (he was sometimes cruel and downright vicious in his criticisms of teammates),
he was an otherwordly basketball player. The best description I ever
heard of him was that physically, he possessed the abilities of a
Greek god.
Mentally,
he approached the game like a walk-on fighting to keep his spot at
the end of the bench. He sought to validate himself each and every time he took the court.
It
was a daunting combination that suffocated opponents.
General
Manager Jerry Krause was Jordan's front office equivalent. While
Krause could be equally abrasive, he possessed a keen eye when it
came to evaluating talent along with an innate understanding of who
would complement the Bulls' roster and who wouldn't.
He
could also orchestrate a trade. I'll never forget the giddiness I felt
when he masterminded the Bulls' acquisition of Scottie Pippen and
Horace Grant in the 1987 NBA draft. I confess to not having scoured
the history of the draft, but I can't imagine another team ever added
two such significant talents in a single draft—let alone a single
round.
But
that wasn't all. Krause brought in John Paxson, a steady if
unspectacular guard who played a critical role in the Bulls' first
title. He selected Toni Kukoc in the 1990 draft, who became the
Bulls' best offensive option off the bench and won the Sixth Man of
the Year award in 1996.
Krause
also built the strong bench so critical to contending for an NBA
title. Over the course of the championship era he brought in
three-point specialists like Craig Hodges and Steve Kerr. Defensive
stalwarts like Randy Brown. High-quality role players like Bill
Wennington and Jud Buechler. And rescued Dennis Rodman and Ron Harper
from the NBA scrapheap.
And
let us not forget it was Krause who jump-started Phil Jackson's NBA
coaching career, even if it seems Jackson has.
So
it is nothing less than regrettable that Krause's personal
shortcomings dominated the era's conversation. Impaired by a need to
be one of the guys, it often positioned Krause as just another
hanger-on with his face pressed against the glass. It made him
vulnerable in a locker room dominated by a personality like Michael
Jordan's.
And
when it all began to unravel, Krause deepened the rift like a
backhoe, making several ill-timed comments that left no one any
wiggle room. The most-revealing moment thus far in The Last Dance
is of Jerry Reinsdorf admitting that when he asked around about Jerry
Krause, he was told to walk away.
Reinsdorf
hired him anyway.
In
light of his deft roster-building, it is sad that Krause is
remembered not as a highly-talented GM, but as a petulant
administrator. He's the guy who broke-up the Beatles. The one who
dismantled the era's most-beloved team when he didn't get the credit
he hungered for.
I don't even want to
touch his tragically mis-quoted statement about organizations.
Adding
fuel to the funeral pyre, the mis-quote was widely accepted by a
public drunk on its ardor for MJ.
If
you're thinking Greek tragedy, you're not too far off.
Last
but not least was Scottie Pippen. Born and raised in near-poverty in
small-town Arkansas, Pippen gravitated early towards basketball.
Following a freakish seven-inch growth-spurt in college, his career
took off. It wasn't long before the NBA began to notice.
But
his joy was tempered by a debilitating stroke his father had suffered
years earlier and by a brother also left paralyzed after a freak
accident in gym class. Pippen learned early how dramatically life
could change. However permanent the things in front you looked, they
could disappear in an instant.
Anything
could be taken away.
That
was undoubtedly the mindset that drove Pippen to sign a seven-year
contract early in his career, even against the advice of his agent
and his boss. While providing Pippen with the security he craved, it
turned on him once Pippen became aware of how vastly underpaid it
left him after he became one of the league's elite talents.
That
contract didn't just turn on Pippen. It became a millstone around his
neck and those of Bulls' management as Pippen became angrier and
angrier at their refusal to re-negotiate. Indeed, Reinsdorf is shown
in The Last Dance reiterating that he advised Pippen not to
sign, but that Pippen was bent on securing his future—and by
extension that of his parents.
You
have to ask what was the best way forward? Given the corrosive
effects it had on Pippen's relationship with the Bulls, would it have
been better for all concerned to have eaten a little crow and for
Pippen to acknowledge it was naive of him to sign such a long-term
contract so early in his career—especially against the advice of
his boss—and for Reinsdorf to have relaxed his no
renegotiations—ever rule?
Pippen
never struck me as a jerk, and I'm convinced his periodic outbursts
and sometimes questionable behavior were fueled by his regret at ever
signing that contract. It would have been a big step forward for all
concerned had Pippen admitted to himself and his public he did so of
his own free will.
Which
might have happened had the Bulls not been the object of incessant
media attention. Speculation. And critique.
That
circus (I'm talking to you, ESPN) hammered home a narrative that
Pippen was grossly underpaid while the Bulls were raking in cash and
watching their valuation soar. I never heard a counter storyline
suggest that yeah, Pippen resisted all advice to the contrary and
signed the thing.
ESPN
and their ilk only cemented Pippen's take. And was undoubtedly the
reason he didn't have long-needed ankle surgery until a few weeks
before the 1997/98 season was to begin.
In
the end, these three personalities stirred the drink that was the
nineteen-nineties Chicago Bulls. And as professionally-able as they
were, it was their festering unhappiness in the face of so much light
that drove the Bulls to self-destruct.
And
yet the Bulls never would have been “The Bulls” had any of these distinct personalities not converged in Chicago.
Ironic,
no?
I
want to talk about the “Bad Boy”-era Detroit Pistons.
Talent-wise,
the era's Bulls were always the better team. They only lacked
post-season experience. All credit to Pistons' coach Chuck Daly for
devising a game plan that maximized the talent on-hand. But as NBA
Champions go, the Pistons were pretty mediocre.
Fans
like to remember their 1989 playoff run, which saw them go 15 – 2.
They like to brag about how their boys swept the fabled Los Angeles
Lakers out of the NBA Finals.
All
true. But after you take a closer look, not quite so impressive.
Both
of those losses were at the hands of the still-wet-behind-the-ears
Bulls. And that sweep of the Lakers? You realize that was
accomplished minus the Lakers' starting backcourt, which featured one
Earvin “Magic” Johnson, right?
Yes,
the Pistons beat everyone put in front of them. But no one should
gloat about beating a Lakers team missing two of its starters. It is
unseemly.
The
1990 champs weren't that impressive, either.
Three
of the Pistons five post-season losses were to the Bulls, who were
outscored by just twenty-one points over the seven-game Eastern
Conference Finals. Owing to his game-seven migraine, Scottie Pippen
ought to have been the Pistons' post-season MVP.
That
headache delivered the body blow to the Bulls the Pistons couldn't
quite muster.
The
Pistons did go 11 – 2 that post-season against teams not from
Chicago, so as far as the nation was concerned the Bad Boys were
pretty awesome.
But
to me? Not so much. Not when they went just 8 – 5 over two post-seasons against the Bulls.
Truth
to tell? Those Pistons teams were more fortunate than good.
Michael
Jordan's 1993 retirement was a shock. As a man twenty-seven years
younger, I was deeply saddened that after Chicago finally hosted a
dynasty, it was over. So suddenly. So bizarrely.
He
was just thirty, and appeared to have plenty of gas in the tank. I
wasn't ready to let go.
Not
so apparent were the mental stresses and the fatigue that eroded
Jordan's desire to continue. His father's murder was the final straw.
All
these years later, I believe Jordan did exactly what he should have
done. He didn't owe anyone anything. He had shared a giant piece of
himself with us. He needed time to recuperate. To heal.
Although
I didn't think so at the time, Jerry Reinsdorf's words were eloquent.
They cut straight to the heart of the matter and were focused
precisely where they should have been. Jordan deserved nothing less.
As
the 1993/94 season approached, people began speculating on Jordan's
impact and what the remaining Bulls could or would accomplish.
I
was shocked a second time when the Chicago Tribune's pack of
sportwriters issued their predictions. As I recall, not one of them
believed the Bulls would even post a winning record, much less see
the post-season.
I
was incredulous. Huh?
Even
more unfortunately, I was unable to place wagers with these
gentlemen.
I
couldn't understand how these professional observers of sport could
ignore the talent that remained on the team. The loss of one man was
going to send them plummeting to the darkest depths of the NBA?
Seriously?
I
knew those Bulls were going to win, and that there was no way they
wouldn't see the playoffs. One
leading motivation for this still-talented crew would the opportunity
to prove they could win without Michael. And everyone concerned
embraced it.
They ended up winning 55 games (just two less than the year before) and
pushed the Finals-bound New York Knicks to seven games before
conceding the semi-finals to them.
It
was a great series. After dropping the first two games in New York,
the Bulls won three of the next four, losing a heartbreaking game
five by a single point. In game seven at Madison Square Garden, the Bulls
ran out of gas in the fourth-quarter, wherein a four-point Knicks
advantage after three swelled to ten.
Monster
games by Patrick Ewing and Charles Oakley on the boards either kept
Bulls' possessions short or gave the Knicks second opportunities,
something not to be underestimated in a low-scoring game.
Then
it was over. For the first time in nearly three years, the Chicago
Bulls were no longer the defending champions of the NBA.
It
hurt. As their disbanding would four-years later.
