The Last Dance and the Chicago Bulls

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.

Being Careful What You Wish For

It's confusing being a sports fan. Take the Bulls, for instance. 

Last fall, I was relieved the team had finally jettisoned the awkward acquisitions of Dwyane Wade and Rajon Rondo and sent Jimmy Butler packing for Minnesota.

Fine players to be sure. But not the ones who were going to replace Derrick Rose and Luol Deng and Joakim Noah. That star-crossed group had been dispersed to the four winds, and nothing the aforementioned trio did was going to make the Bulls contenders again.

Especially with an overmatched coach in a fractious locker room.

Gar Forman pulled off a sweet deal with the Butler move, receiving three talented youngsters in return: Kris Dunn, Lauri Markkanen and Zach LaVine. They showed significant promise for much of the 2017/18 season.

To the point where after a horrific 3 and 20 start, the Bulls actually played some good ball, going 24 and 35 the rest of the way (which included an impressive seven-game winning streak in December featuring victories over Cleveland, Philadelphia, Utah, Milwaukee and Boston).

With the fruit of what is rumored to be one of the all-time great NBA drafts as yet-unplucked, I was seized with mild panic. Were the Bulls getting too good too fast? I mean, shouldn't they pick-up DeAndre Ayton or Marvin Bagley III before they lay waste to the NBA Finals?

I needn't have worried. However nicely they were jelling, schisms existed. First and foremost the one between Bobby Portis and Nikola Mirotic, the result of a bitter training camp incident. It was bitter-enough that Mirotic insisted on being traded.

This was done, with the Bulls receiving a conditional first-round draft pick from the New Orleans Pelicans. Unfortunately, New Orleans went on a tear after Mirotic's arrival, going 21 and 11 and fighting their way into the second round of the playoffs despite the absence of rejuvenated center DeMarcus Cousins.

Ironically, that success served to drive down the value of the Bulls' pick, which I'm sure gave Mirotic great pleasure.

So in this most-bizarre of seasons that saw a young core getting its groove on in fine and fabulous fashion, this was not perceived as a good thing. Winning was in fact, losing. In the league-wide race to the bottom the Bulls were struggling to compete.

To compensate for the front office's success, starters sat. Curious DNPs littered box scores. Even more-curious injuries cropped up. Bad basketball happened. In ways you don't ever want to see, the Bulls (among others) attracted the attention of NBA commissioner Adam Silver.

He acted the only way he could in an attempt to preserve the league's integrity, fining Mav's owner Mark Cuban 600K for even broaching the topic of tanking. The remaining teams were advised they would be met with the swiftest and harshest response possible from the league office if losing-on-purpose evidence was unearthed.

Regardless, the sugar plum fairies of wingspan and multi-position athleticism continued to dance in GM's heads. Fueled by hype and social media, the 2018 draft has come to represent the Holy Grail; a GM's best opportunity to lead an NBA franchise out of the darkness and into the light of career-making contention.

This, of course, is not true. There are no guarantees in the draft. Hall of Fame-studded All-Star teams can be drafted from players chosen well after the first round in baseball, football, basketball and hockey.

It is perhaps the most wondrous aspect of our humanity that we resolutely ignore what others say we can or should achieve. Fourth-round draft picks upend conventional wisdom and become all-time greats. Can't-miss first-round picks fail and drift into obscurity.

Contrary to what the talking heads at ESPN and elsewhere say, the truth is that we just don't know. Tank if you want to, but a high draft pick is all you're guaranteed.

The next Ben Simmons and Anthony Davis are not.

Which brings me back to the Bulls. Their widely-disparaged selections at seven and twenty-one could net them a very talented starter and a reliable guy off the bench. The right pick could even pave the way to moving the defensively-challenged LaVine.

If not quite requiring shades, the Bulls' future is looking pretty bright—even without a top three pick. Micro-managing draft slots and stifling an athlete's natural urge to compete is dangerous stuff.

Can we just play basketball next year?