Part III, April 24-April 30

The United Center is rocking…the Christianity of baseball…Rough times in Washington…if sports really mattered…Gilbert Arenas as John MacClaine…a thank you note…a painful existence…my one true glove…Idiot sports fans at the Cell…the best batter in baseball…the best team in baseball…dinner with the parents: a secret revealed...

Granted, I wasn’t dressed or showered, nor had I eaten, and you can’t very well go to a basketball game without getting out of bed, but all that aside, I was ready. The last time I’d seen the Bulls in the playoffs, I was a sophomore in high school with little idea as to where I’d be attending college. Bill Clinton was president, Dave Wannstedt was coaching the Bears, and Sammy Sosa was in the midst of a record breaking month in which he hit twenty home runs and transformed himself from Sammy to SAMMY. Seven years and five Bulls coaches later,[1] the Bulls are back in the postseason, and I am going to see them.

After showering and eating breakfast, I head upstairs to look for my game day uniform. I’ve only owned one Bulls jersey in my day, a black Rodman jersey I got when he came to the team in eighth grade, and I can’t find it anywhere. Great. But I do have a lot of old Bulls t-shirts, and that seems like the way to go. My room was clean when I got here yesterday, (my parents for some reason decided that they would have to be able to walk through it while I was gone), but it is a condensed clean: you can walk around, but the closets are filled with old books and clothes, as is the storage compartment that’s attached to my bed, and now there are boxes packed tight with stuff that my parents took off the floor while I was traveling. It takes a while to get through everything, as I quickly look for any t-shirt from the glory days, and after searching the entire room I finally come to the last bag, a shopping bag that’s sitting in the back of my closet underneath a blanket that I put on my bed during the winter. I open the bag, and I feel like I’m looking upon the briefcase in Pulp Fiction. About ten t-shirts that I’ve saved, and right there in the middle is the one that I know I’m going to wear. It’s a black shirt from the third grade with pictures of Michael, Scottie, and Horace each dribbling the basketball accompanied by the phrase “Chicago Bulls’ Triple Threat.” Ball game.

“So tight!” as my brother would say, though the phrase takes on a literal meaning as well as the shirt is hugging the small gut I’ve acquired while on the road. But it’s perfect, and once I find an old black Bulls hat from the garage and the black Bulls shorts that I got with the Rodman jersey, I know I’ve found my game day uniform. I throw on a pair of red warm up pants over the shorts, lace up my shoes, and I’m ready.

Of course, at this point, it’s only 1:15 or so, and Ben’s not coming over till 2:30…

I go downstairs and grab the Tribune sports section and immediately begin pouring over every written word about the Bulls and this playoff series against Washington.

“Oh, that’s awesome! They’re gonna wear the black shoes!” I yell to no one.

“It says here that the Bulls are gonna wear black shoes for the playoffs, which is what they always used to do back in the day. White shoes during the season, black shoes for the playoffs.”

“Well, I just wasn’t sure if they’d do it, or if they’d remember to. It’s just cool to see that kind of tradition, ya know? Just like the old days.”

The phone rings, and Mom gets it. I continue reading the paper, while Dad sits on the couch enjoying his Sunday, reading the paper and watching the Cubs. We’re down 2-0 to Pittsburgh.

We put the tape in, and I’m brought back to the early days. All of the other championship videos focus solely on one season, but Learning to Fly looks at the rise of the Bulls, from Jordan’s drafting to the signing of Pax and drafting of Scottie and Horace and the trade for Cartwright to the struggles against Detroit and finally to the ’91 season. Just watching the video, I’m amazed at how emotional I still get at some of these scenes. During the sequence in which they recap the playoff losses to Detroit in ’88, ’89, and ’90, I grimace and shake my head in disappointment. After we go up two games to none, and they show a clip of Laimbeer looking up at the camera, his eyes glaring creepily through the small slits in his clear face mask, I shiver in fear. As Scottie talks in the interview and says that Detroit is going to “have to accept the beating we was giving them,” I get wide eyed and smiley. And as we finish off the series, I pump my fist and grin.

Ben rings the doorbell as we begin the finals against the Lakers. He’s wearing jeans and a red t-shirt that says “1991 NBA Finals Bulls vs. Lakers.” Perfect.

“Thanks man. You too.” Ben eyes up Pip, MJ, and Horace. “Triple threat? That’s a tight fit.”

I say goodbye to my parents, and they wish us good luck and tell us to bring home a victory, and we jump in my car, turn on the radio, and head out.

There’s lots of good stuff on, and it’s tough to pick what to listen to. The Bulls games are broadcast on AM 1000, but there’s no pregame right now because 1000 also does the Sox games, and they’re playing Kansas City. So we flip to WGN on 720 to hear Pat and Ron do the Cubs game. While watching Learning to Fly, the Cubs came back to take the lead 4-2. It’s now 5-2, with the Cubs trying to hang on and win. At the commercial, we flip to 670 the Score, and they’re talking Day Two of Bears draft coverage.

“…and in case you’re just joining us, we’re talking about quarterback Kyle Orton of Purdue, the Bears’ fourth round draft choice.”

There’s heavy traffic on the Kennedy—Bulls playoff traffic…awesome!—but it thins out a bit as a bunch of cars get off at Ogden. We decide to go all the way to Madison and head west from there to the stadium. On the ride there, the Cubs finish off Pittsburgh to hang on for a 5-2 win.

The stadium looks great. It appears on the horizon, massive, peaking out over the left side of the landscape and then quickly dominating everything else in sight. Men in bright orange shirts wave flags and direct fans into their lots, less expensive than the lots next to the United Center, but we decide to park across from the stadium. The traffic inches slowly forward, allowing us to see the hoards of fans donned in red and black excitedly making their way to the gym. We pull into a lot, packed in tight next to the cars that pull in just before us and just after us, and then out of the car and out of the lot and across the street and now we’re in the thick of Bulls fans, all ready for the playoffs. The glory days are still well represented—everywhere you look there’s a JORDAN 23 on somebody’s back—but HINRICH 12, CHANDLER 3, CURRY 2, and GORDON 7 are also in abundance. We walk past the Jordan statue, which is surrounded by the usual group of fans, gawkers and photographers and enthusiasts and tourists, and we weave between families with little boys decked out in their Bulls gear, too young to remember Jordan’s last shot and blissfully ignorant of the horrors of the Bad Boys, their faces aglow as they hold their parents’ hands and listen to their stories of guys named Jordan and Pippen and Grant and Rodman and get ready to walk into a Bulls playoff game as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening. The ticket windows are packed with hopefuls trying to get into the action, and scalpers walk among us with you need two? I got two slipping from their lips and then disappearing back into the crowd, but Ben and I have our tickets, and when we get to our gate we display them proudly, holding them up for the ticket rippers with big smiles on our faces. We are here.

“OH MAN!” I’m ecstatic. “Dude, we’re at a Bulls playoff game! We’re in the playoffs man!” Ben and I high five.

“I can’t make any decisions right now. Let’s get food. No, actually, let’s go to the seats. I wanna see the court. I’m kind of hungry though.”

We get up to the seats with about twenty minutes left on the pregame clock. The stadium is not empty, but it’s certainly not yet crowded. All around the gym fans are settling into their seats, and blowing up those moronic “Thunderstix” that they pass out as you enter the stadium.[2] I hate those things. So does Ben. There’s a little kid in front of us smacking the hell out of his Idiotstix, and normally I’d be focused on him in the same way that you can’t help but focus on a kid humming loud and off-key while sitting in a plane on the runway, but I’m so geeked up for the game that I hardly notice him. Fans continue to file in, and when the Bulls run out onto the court to start warming up the United Center comes to its feet, applauding our Bulls as they get into their layup lines. We get a kid behind us to take our picture, and then we head out for some food.

As we stand in line at the concession stand, I watch other Bulls fans walking around the concourse and I can’t help but wonder how many of them have been there with Ben and me over the past six years. Do they remember Kornel David or Cory Carr? Were they dismayed by the Elton Brand for Tyson Chandler trade? Did they see the years of tough play and disappointing defeats? In the end though, it doesn’t matter. This game means something to Ben and me, but that doesn’t mean that it can’t mean something else to other fans. Some people want to be involved for the whole ride, and other people can only get excited for the high points, and that’s OK. It’s just like the High Holidays. Some people need and want to go to services every week, and other people, for whatever reason, only go for Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. It’s just a question of what kind of a role Judaism plays in your life, just as this crowd is an example of what kind of role the Bulls play in their lives. And what this crowd really brings to light is what kind of role the Bulls play in the lives of Chicagoans. No matter what the Bears do, Soldier Field will always be packed. We are a football city. When the Bears go to the playoffs, even if it’s a surprise season coming off of a losing year like in 1994 or 2001, the fans at a Bears playoff game are all of the same people who have been experiencing the ups and downs with the team every Sunday. The schedule has something to do with it, as it’s obviously much easier to attend eight football games than it is to attend 41 basketball games, but even still, the city’s interest in the Bulls waxes and wanes with their performance. That’s just the way it is.

Still, it’s exhilarating to hear the roar of the crowd when the lights go out at the United Center. You can really feel it: these fans are truly excited for this game and this team. “Aaaaaaaaaaaand now…” A.D., Noce, Othella, Chris Duuuuuuuuuuhon, and Captain Kirk are introduced to applause and cheers and lots of “whoooooos!” and the lights come on, the refs jump it up, and we’re underway.

During the game’s opening moments the fans are pumped up and yelling on every possession, but soon after things settle into a nice rhythm and the crowd settles down, only getting jacked up for big plays. I haven’t been to an NBA game since 2001, and I’d forgotten one incredibly obnoxious feature of today’s NBA: they never let you rest. At every time out, time I usually spend relaxed on my couch watching commercials or flipping around, I’m assaulted with some kind of cacophonous entertainment ploy like a mascot race or a break dancing contest or some other silly thing that asks for loud music and my attention. I don’t really care for this stuff, but it goes over well with everyone else, as fans cheer in celebration when Cuppy Coffee defeats the donut and the bagel in the Dunkin Donuts race. I guess the thinking is that we’ve paid so much for tickets, we may as well be pummeled with entertainment at every waking moment.

The Bulls trail by two at the end of the first quarter but quickly come right back in the second to take the lead. For a young team, the Bulls look like they’ve been playing playoff basketball for ten years. Paxson’s decision to draft players with big time college experience has been paying off all season, and at no time is that advantage more evident than today. What’s Game 1 of a first-round playoff series to Ben Gordon, a guy who helped lead Connecticut to the national title last year? What’s Game 1 of a first-round playoff series to Chris Duhon, a guy who became Duke’s starting point guard during his freshman season and helped them win a title, and then brought them back to the Final Four last season? What’s Game 1 of a first-round playoff series to Andres Nocioni, a guy who’s been playing professionally in Argentina and just this past summer helped lead his national team to the Olympic gold medal? Throw in Kirk Hinrich’s four years at Kansas, including two Final Fours and a trip to the national title game in 2003, and you’ve got some big-time experience on the court. This isn’t one-and-done Michigan man Jamal Crawford and a couple of high school guys; these are battle-tested players who have played big minutes in big time competition. Hopefully, the success of these Bulls will lead other GM’s around the league to mimic Paxson’s blueprint, because talented high schoolers with big-time college experience are nearly always better suited for the NBA than talented high schoolers with little or no college experience.

Behind Duhon, Gordon, and Othella, the Bulls begin to open up a big lead, and when Eric Piatkowski squares up and hits a three to push that lead to seven, the United Center explodes in cheer. But Washington comes back, and after they regain the lead at 52-51, Captain Kirk hits a jumper to end the half, and the Bulls go into the locker room with a one point lead.

Ben and I decide to walk around the stadium during halftime, mingling with all of the other Bulls fans. Ben buys a beer while I go to use the bathroom. It’s pretty relaxed, though every so often someone will yell “Go Bulls!” and get a few cheers. As I’m drying my hands, I see a young boy in a Bulls hat standing by the sinks, waiting for his father to finish up.

I find Ben and we settle back into our seats for the second half. After a jumper from Wizard All-Star Gilbert Arenas—Washington’s regular season scoring leader at 25.5 points per game was held scoreless in the first half by great defense from Duhon—Nocioni hits a three to put the Bulls up two.

“He was out for like thirty seconds or something at the end of the first half.”

Noce has been an animal on the boards, pulling down ten in the first half to lead the team. He also had eight points, and let out a scream you could hear from Argentina after every rebound he grabbed or basket he made. As the third quarter rages on, the emotion in the stands grows. Timeout entertainments are treated with less and less enthusiasm, the crowd anxious to get on with the game. A three point play by Arenas puts the Wizards up seven with nineteen seconds to play, and a Duhon layup ends the quarter with the Bulls trailing 82-77. There’s work to be done, and the players and fans are ready for the challenge. The Bulls walk off the court to the applause and encouragement of the crowd, which is now fully immersed in the game.

The Bulls open the fourth on a 13-4 run backed by ten points from Ben Gordon, who by now no longer surprises us with his fourth quarter magic. He cuts the Wizard lead to four on a jumper, and the crowd is with the team every step of the way. When Kwame Brown’s weak floater is blocked by Tyson Chandler, the crowd pumps its collective fist in celebration. When Duhon steals a Juan Dixon pass and heads down the court, the crowd stands up and awaits the bucket that we all know is coming. After Noce ties the game on a free throw, Ben hits a three to give the Bulls a lead they would never relinquish. Ben gets a steal and a dunk to put the Bulls up four, Noce hits a three to put the Bulls up five, A.D. hits a jumper to put the Bulls up seven, and after four straight missed free throws by Kirk and Tyson, Noce steps to the line and calmly hits a pair as the stands reverberate with chants of “No—ci—o—ni!” The final buzzer sounds, the Bulls win by nine, and the crowd stands and cheers and applauds the team. Game 1 is over. Final score: Bulls 103, Wizards 94.

We head into the bathroom, and it’s packed and jumping. The lines go all the way to the back, and people are cheering and yelling and continuing the “No—ci—o—ni!” chant. “Go Bulls!” “Alright!” “Noce was awesome!” “So was Gordon!” We use the bathroom, give the Bulls one more cheer with the rest of the restroom constituents, and leave. Out the door and down the ramps and out onto the street, passing Bulls fans with smiles on their faces and a jump in their steps. We sit in my car, waiting for our turn to drive, and then it’s out of the lot and down the block with the radio on, listening to Bulls post game and Bears draft coverage, and we drive back north on the Kennedy as the packs of Bulls fan thin out along the way. We pull up to Ben’s house, and stop.

How great is this city? I mean, seriously, how great is this city? Five teams in the Big Four, plus the Wolves, whose popularity just continues to rise, especially with the Blackhawks on the shelf. Ben and I embark quite often on long drives around the North Shore as well as Chicago, just cooling out and bumping the stereo, and whenever we cross Howard, Ben reminds me that “we are now entering the third largest city in these United States.”

It is truly a blessing to be in a city with a professional baseball team, because it means that a fan has 81 opportunities to head out to the ballpark. A single baseball game is minimal in the grand scheme, and yet a game is a game is a game, and it’s always great to go to a game. In fact, even though the levels aren’t amped at the ball park regularly—certainly nowhere near the level of a single NFL game, and less so than a single NBA game—the nature of the game gives it two unique advantages over an average single game in any other sport, with both advantages stemming from one player: the starting pitcher.

Arguably the most unique position in all of sports, the starting pitcher controls baseball on a day-to-day basis like no other player in sports. A Glendon Rusch-Jason Marquis clunker on Friday could be followed by a Mark Prior-Chris Carpenter gem on Saturday. Can you imagine the Colts playing Peyton Manning every fifth game, going with backups the rest of the time? Or what if the Heat only started Shaq at center once a week? That’s the effect that the starting pitcher has; he can change an otherwise average, normal game into event baseball.

The other advantage that the starting pitcher gives to the excitement of a baseball game is the ever-present possibility of Greatness. From the time a pitcher throws his first pitch to the time that the opposing team gets its first runner on base, there is a possibility of history being made. Other than bowling with its 300 game, baseball is the only sport that has a single standard for excellence and perfection, and the beauty of both is that perfection can be achieved at any time. Go to a football game, and you might see Jamal Lewis run for 295 yards; go to a basketball game, and you might see Michael drop 63 at the Garden…but these marks are not set against a fixed standard. They can be broken. But a pitcher can throw a no-hitter or a perfect game any time he steps on the mound, and that performance will stand up as part of a standard of excellence until the day that baseball is no longer played.

So along with the every day joy that comes from a trip to Wrigley, I was particularly excited today when Meghan told me that Don had four tickets to the Cubs-Reds game, a game that featured Mark Prior on the bump.[3]

The Cubs are 9-9 coming into tonight’s game, tied with the Reds and three and a half games behind the first place Cardinals. After missing the start of the season, Mark Prior is 2-0 on the strength of two quality starts. He has yet to allow a run. Woody, meanwhile, won yesterday, to pull his record even at 1-1, his ERA at a rather stout 5.79. Zambrano sits at 2-0, with a 3.04 ERA. So the three horses are moving along, slowly—slowly—but they are indeed moving along.

No matter the circumstances though, it’s always great to be at Wrigley. We take the El, shooting from Morse to Addison, packed tight in a car that resembles a train-bound frat party. Fans mixed with “fans,” all heading out for the same reason...kind of. Tonight is the first night game of the year, and when we get off the train, the lights are already on at the park. We walk past Harry’s statue, get our tickets ripped, and head towards our seats. Again, it’s great to be here, and when we walk up the steps from the corridors to the seating area, and when we see the field, the green, and the blue sky, and the Budweiser sign, just to see it all, right there...it’s not simply exciting. It’s soothing. It’s calming. It’s reassuring. We find our seats, get some dogs and some beers, and settle in.

The park is packed—of course—and as always, the place is crawling with a high number of “those fans.” A bit over-the-top cold? Fine. But even at my most empathetic and understanding there is no way to not differentiate between the two castes of Cubs fans that show up at Wrigley, if only for research and statistical purposes.

Let’s put it this way: the Cubs have become the Christianity of baseball, though without the corruption. Christianity has become a pop-religion of sorts, with the cross acting as a sacred symbol for some and a transient show-off piece for others. When you see a person with a Jewish star necklace, you know they are a committed member of the faith. But when you see a person wearing a cross on a necklace, it is unclear just how religious they are. The same can be said for a person wearing a Cubs hat. Bears hats for Bears fans, Bulls hats for Bulls fans, Sox hats for Sox fans, (and some gang members), but the people underneath Cubs hats range from the legit diehard flock to the trendy Cubbies/Wrigley lovers.

The game is a relaxing experience, as are most baseball games. Fans tend to match the attitude and emotion of the players and the circumstances, so your typical baseball game is met by fans with understandable levels of calm and reservation. We pace ourselves, staying even-keeled throughout and then getting ourselves appropriately pumped at the appropriate points.

The game is tied at two in the fifth when Neifi lines a single to right field, scoring Jose Macias. Next up is Derrek Lee, and the NL batting leader obliges[4] by ripping a two-run double to left, scoring Jerry Hairston and Neifi. 5-2 Cubs, with Meghan and I cheering wildly as Don tries not to smile. But he is a man who appreciates good baseball, and as exciting as a home run can be, a true baseball fan can’t help but enjoy a good display of moving runners around and in. Get ‘em on, get ‘em over, get ‘em in, as the fellas say.

Cincinnati scores one to pull it to 5-3, and then the Cubs blow up. Two runs in the seventh, first cotton candy, second cotton candy, a few more Old Styles, spotting the beer vendor who looks like Scottie Pippen, buying a round from him just for the novelty of it. LaTroy works a scoreless eighth inning, much to the delight and surprise of the Wrigley faithful, who continue to peg him as a fan unfavorite, and with good reason. Another hot dog, with ketchup—this bothers Don to no end—and then three more runs in the eighth to push the lead out to 10-3. Meghan and I are nearly slapping each other with glee, Don is sulking, and as we enter the top of the ninth, the game is all but over. Cubs’ reliever Chad Fox comes in to pitch, and we await the inevitable…

…which with most teams would be an easy victory, but no such feat awaits us. Is it the Cubs, this doomed organization? Or is it this team, this specific team, this 2003-2005 Cubs team, that leaves us all with a nervous feeling? I do not believe in the curse, not entirely, anyhow, but there is no doubt that the collective karma of Cubs fans and of the Cubs’ history makes it difficult to relax and get the easy outs. Indeed, Chad Fox nearly implodes. He walks two men, and then gives up a monster shot of a home run to Adam Dunn, the ball exploding out of the yard and landing on Sheffield. Fox then walks another man while recording only one out, and shortly thereafter he throws a pitch that nearly pulls his arm out of its sleeve. He leaves the game with the Nati back in the thick. 10-6 Cubs. Reds streaking. Cubs fans uneasy and unsettled. Fox injured. Don delighted. Meanwhile, Meghan’s least favorite player—perhaps in the history—is warming up: Mike Remlinger. The left-handed reliever trots out to the mound, as trainers help the beleagured Fox off the field.

“God damnit.” She takes a large gulp of her beer, psyching herself up. “He may as well pitch underhanded.”

The fickle fans at Wrigley seem much more pleased with Remlinger than does Meghan…or perhaps they are just pleased to have Fox out of the game, a guy who, incidentally, looks pretty badly injured. Remlinger’s season stats go up on the board as the P.A. announcer announces the pitching change. Seven appearances, 7.2 innings pitched, 0-1 with a blown save, and a 7.94 ERA. Don is smirking.

“You know it’s not good when you’re cheering because they just brought in a guy with an ERA a shade under eight.”

There’s nothing I can say. His team is clearly better than mine, his changeover is peculiar enough to throw me off, and I’ve never been much of a trash talker anyhow, save for a few scattered situations here and there over the years, and only when the perfect line has come to me.[5] Nothing to say here, though. And Don knows this.

“It’s too bad you guys can’t bring in Dustin Hermanson. Or Neal Cotts. Or Cliff Politte. Or Shingo.”

Shingo sucks. That’s all I can say. Our pen is brutal. Everybody knows it, including the guy behind us, who chirps in as Remlinger warms up.

Despite our skepticism, Remlinger does his job. He works a perfect inning, striking out one man and stranding the inherited runner. Cubs win…barely. Final score: Cubs 10, Reds 6. The fans are happy, though relieved. We stand, and head towards the aisle, and just before we head down the tunnel I turn back and take one last look at the field as the grounds crew begins their clean up duties. No matter what—no matter what—I will always love the sight of that field.

If there is one disadvantage to winning back-to-back championships in any sport, it’s that eventually the extra games begin to wear on your team. After the 1992 season, in which the Bulls won a league and franchise best 67 games and won their second straight title, Michael and Scottie went off to Barcelona to play for the Dream Team in the Olympics. When they got back to camp in the fall of ’92, it was clear that they were tired. The ’93 Bulls got off to a good start, but didn’t dominate the way they had the year before, and at the end of the season they found themselves with the second seed in the East behind the rising New York Knicks, and third best overall behind the Barkley-led Suns. Most critics saw both of these teams as legit threats to the Bulls’ dynasty; Sports Illustrated predicted the Knicks and the Suns in the Finals. The Bulls were finished…

…or so they said, but what these critics and cynics were overlooking were the Bulls’ intangibles, the little end-game oomph that had carried them through so many tough spots. To be fair, the ’93 Knicks and the ’93 Suns were both terrific teams, among the best that the Bulls ever had to beat over the six title seasons, and indeed they were both legitimate title contenders. But the Bulls were still the Bulls, and as much as the professionals seemed to ignore that, I knew the full weight of what it meant.

The first step towards the league’s first Three-Peat[6] since the Eight-Peat Celtics was a first round match with the 43-win Atlanta Hawks. The Hawks had Dominique in prime Human Highlight Reel form that season, (29.9 ppg), but that was pretty much it, and the Bulls easily swept them in the best-of-five first round series. Then in the second round came the Cleveland Cavaliers.

It is sometimes forgotten that as much as Detroit dominated us—and, more importantly, floated above us no matter what we accomplished—that is how much we dominated Cleveland. It was that Cavalier core of Mark Price, Brad Daugherty, Craig Ehlo, Larry Nance, Ron Harper, and Hot Rod Williams that Magic Johnson predicted would be the “Team of the 90’s.” But we beat them 3-2 in the first round of 1988, then in ’89 the Cavs finished with a better record than the Bulls only to lose 3-2 once again in the first round, this time at the hands of “The Shot.” They missed the playoffs in 1991 but returned even stronger with 57 wins in 1992. That season they got to the Eastern Conference Finals, their furthest advance ever. What was their reward for that? The 67-win Bulls, who went through the Cavs in six games. But Cleveland responded, going out and signing New York Knick guard and self-proclaimed “Jordan-Stopper” Gerald Wilkins.

Wilkins seemed primed for the challenge of guarding MJ and putting the Cavaliers over the top in the East. But Michael and the Bulls stormed through the Cavs, winning the first three games of the series. The only game that was close was Game 4, in which Michael, backing down Wilkins in the waning seconds of a tie game, turned and lofted a beautiful shot that dropped through the net to win the game and the series as time expired.[7] Michael turned and put his hands up in the air, as if to say “we’re the best, and there’s the proof.”

Like Cleveland, New York had been bullied by the Bulls over the past five years. In 1989, the Bulls beat the Knicks in six in the second round. In 1991, the Bulls swept them in the first round. In 1992, the Knicks took the defending champs to seven games before bowing out. Now, with home court advantage over their bitter rivals, New York felt like their time had come. And unlike Cleveland, the Knicks meant business. They took the first two games of the series at home, extending their imposing home winning streak to 27 games. It was a disheartening beginning. The most annoying Knick of all, John Starks, was having a great series on both sides of the floor. Defensively, Starks had the job of guarding Jordan, and without a self-given nickname like Gerald Wilkins, Starks put on a masterful performance. Revealing Jordan’s dislike for smaller guards, and echoing Scottie’s defensive performance against Magic in the ’91 Finals, Starks banged with MJ, keeping him off-balance for the first two games of the series. And then, in Game 2, Starks unleashed one of the most incredible and frustrating in-game dunks in the history of the L.

As the Knicks looked to finish off the Bulls and keep their home court advantage, Starks moved to his right, and then exploded down the baseline, leaping to dunk a sideways tomahawk jam right over Jordan and Grant, with B.J. looking on. As the crowd at Madison Square Garden exploded in celebration, Starks stuffed the ball through the rim, spun down towards the court on his hands like Barry Sanders breaking a tackle, and then shot up to run down the court and high five his teammates. It was a statement play, one that announced the Knicks as a true force in the NBA and in the East. Had the Knicks won the championship, that play would have been the moment that Knick fans harkened back to as the spot in which their beloved Knicks went from runner-up to champion. But the Bulls were still the Bulls, and as much as the professionals seemed to ignore that, I knew the full weight of what it meant.

The series went home to Chicago, and in Game 3 the Bulls wasted little time in dispatching New York. A twenty point victory in Game 3 was followed up by a ten point win in Game 4, one motored by MJ’s 54 points. The Bulls had tied the series, and now it was back to New York for the pivotal Game 5, back to the Knicks’ home court, back to Knicks fans and Knicks Nation and 27 straight Knicks wins at MSG. If the Bulls were going to get back to the Finals, they would have to win in New York.

This was a battle game in the truest sense. The Knicks were as determined to win as were the Bulls, and you had a sense that this time, they felt like they knew how to do it. There was no doubt in the minds of Patrick Ewing, Pat Riley, John Starks, Charles Oakley, or anyone else in the Knicks’ organization that they were going to finally overthrow the Bulls. Back and forth they went, until finally, as is the case in all key games, they came to the Defining Moment. The Bulls led by one point, and as the Knicks ran their half-court set, basketball fans in the Garden and around the country sat forward in their seats. It was pretty clear what was at stake here; if the Knicks won, they were a game away from the NBA Finals—and, more importantly, from dethroning the Bulls—with the knowledge that a loss in Game 6 brought the series home to New York for the deciding game. If the Bulls won, it was back to Chicago with a chance to wrap the series. Like “The Shot,” this play would be vital in the future of these two teams. Anyone who knew hoops and knew these two teams knew the significance of this possession and this game.

Marv Albert had the call. Classic. Bulls-Knicks and Marv, his voice ringing in my head: “The Knicks down by one with the ball.” (Doc Rivers brings the ball up and passes to Starks, who works on Jordan on the right side.) “Starks, played by Jordan. Ewing out to set a pick.” (Starks pumps on a shot, comes down, and then goes up for one before Jordan’s arms flash out, forcing the guard to dish to Ewing.) “Here’s Starks…changed his mind…” (Ewing with the ball at the top of the key, working on Stacey King…) “Plenty of time on the shot clock, down to ten, Ewing, for Smith…”

And here’s where it gets cool. Ewing stumbles, flinging a pass under the basket to Charles Smith, and just as he corrals it and begins to go up for a shot, the organ music at the Garden stops. It just stops. It was as if the organ player at MSG knew what was coming. The whole play has this great dramatic build, and then the music stops and the Bulls swarm, quickly surrounding him, and Albert keeping up with the call, almost as confounded as the overwhelmed Smith: “Smith…stripped, Smith, Smith, stopped, Smith stopped again! By Pippen! What a play by Scottie Pippen!” (Horace retrieves the loose ball, pivots to his left, and shoots a bounce pass to Michael, who heads up the court with the clock counting down. Jordan is met at mid court by four Knicks, who think they have him, until Jordan sees B.J. streaking beyond the defense…) “Final seconds! Jordan, for Armstrong!” (B.J. catches the pass on his left, and then defies the trailing defender with a right handed spin layup that drops through as the buzzer sounds…) “And the Bulls, have defeated the Knicks!” (…B.J. turning and throwing his arms up…Charles Oakley slamming the ball down on the Garden floor…Michael and the gang running to the locker room like bank robbers while Pippen hangs around for a postgame interview…the Garden is stunned…Marv trying to remain professional) “The Chicago Bulls, with a couple of spectacular plays, Scottie Pippen stopping Charles Smith…and the Bulls win it….and that last basket will count…”

And that was that. When the buzzer sounded the air at the Garden came seeping out. The Knicks, and their fans, were in shock, and they all knew that they had missed their chance to finish off the Bulls. Four straight times Charles Smith shot the potential game winning layup, and four straight times—two from Scottie, one from Horace, and one from Michael—the Bulls blocked his shot. No basket. No foul. No win.

The two teams returned to Chicago for Game 6, and while the Knicks were still in the game basketball-wise, in reality they never had a chance. They gave it a good shot, but by that point the Bulls had already won the series; Game 6 was just a formality. Scottie hit a three late to put the game away, and as the ball dropped through he adjusted his extended hand into a victorious “#1” finger. It was the capper, with the Bulls riding it into the Finals…

During the Bulls’ dominant run, there were lots of great games. Games I recall with a glowing nostalgia. Games that helped define this team. “Pax for Three.” “The Flu Game.” “The Last Shot.” “Pippen’s Dunk vs. Washington.” “The Fourth Quarter Comeback against Portland.” There were games that clinched titles and games that ended with winning shots. There were games against determined foes and games against frightened road blocks. But for me, there are two games that stand above all the rest: Game 4 of the 1991 Eastern Conference Finals, and Game 5 of the 1993 Eastern Conference Finals. Game 4 proved that the Bulls were a legit championship team, because by finishing off a sweep of the Pistons they were imposing their will upon the team that had tormented them. It was a statement opportunity, and the Bulls made a statement: they were the new sheriffs in town.

Well, Game 5 in ’93 was another statement game, and the four blocks on Charles Smith were the exclamation point. If there was one play in six years that best typified what this Bulls team was about, it was that play. On the road, everyone against them, everyone counting them out, and Scottie, Michael, and Horace would not let them lose. The Knicks were a great team in ’93, and they came back for another run Post-Jordan in ’94. But the Bulls were better, and that play showed why. It was the determination, the mindset, the feeling that no matter what it took to win the game, the Bulls were going to get it done.

There could be no doubt about the best team in the NBA. The best TEAM in the NBA. There could be no doubt. There could be no doubt that Michael Jordan was the best player in the NBA, as he would show in the Finals against MVP Charles Barkley. But there could also be no doubt that the “supporting cast” was just as important as “the star,” that while Michael was the leader, Scottie made it go, and together, together, those two understood better than any other tandem in the NBA what had to be done to win a championship, and through the two of them their teammates came to understand it as well. Charles Smith had the ball under the basket. He had four opportunities. The Bulls won all four. It wasn’t that Smith wasn’t trying; it was simply a situation that he could not win, because the Bulls were in control. Every time the ball came back to Smith, the Bulls beat him. And when the ball finally bounced clear, the Bulls took control and scored the knockout basket. It is that play above all the rest, above every Michael game winner and every title-clincher, it is that play that defines the six time World Champion Chicago Bulls. They came to New York as underdogs, a team whose time had come. They left New York as champions, with their will, not their skill, leading the way.

[1] Tim Floyd, Bill Cartwright, and Scott Skiles are the three official coaches the Bulls have had since Phil Jackson left, but Bill Berry was interim head coach for two games after Floyd was fired and Pete Myers was interim head coach for one game after Cartwright was fired.

[2] Personally, I blame the Anaheim Angels for this, though perhaps I should blame the Yankees for not beating the Angels before the World Series. It always comes back to the Yankees, doesn’t it?

[3] This is one of my new favorite baseball expressions. Baseball-specific vocab is great...pitchers who “scatter” three hits over seven innings, batters who “spray” foul balls and line drives, and outfielders who “camp” under pop ups.

[4] The use of “obliges” in terms of sports comes directly from my copy of Sports Illustrated’s 1993 Year in Sports Video; during Game 3 of the Bulls-Suns series, Phoenix needed a lift. The narrator then says: “And Majerle would oblige…” as he tells of Thunder Dan knocking down trey after trey for Phoenix. I always loved it, and it flows out of me even still.

[5] And it did, a year earlier, when Don took Meg and me to a Cubs-Reds game in late September. The Cubs won 12-5, and it turned out to be the final win of 2004 that meant anything. Bah. Anyhow, the Cubs had done something bad, and Don was yucking it up with another Sox fan in front of us. (This was, mind you, the first time I had ever met Don, my new girlfriend’s father.) Finally I got so fed up with them, I dropped this line: “You two should get a room in the cellar.” They both quieted immediately. I felt good. A week later, the Cubs were done. And thar ya go.

[6] In one of the weirder sub-plots in sports, the term “Three-Peat” was copyrighted by the Knicks’ head coach Pat Riley back when his Lakers were going for the Three-Peat in 1989. They did not, nor did the Pistons in ’91, and it all came back in ’93 when the Knicks and the Bulls hooked up for the East Finals. This created a weird win-sort of win situation for Riles: either his team would win the championship, or he would get residuals after the Bulls won. Ultimately, this led to the Tribune running a front page headline of “Threemendous,” with the Sun-Times coming up with the more bizarre “Three-Feat.”

[7] Jordan’s shot to beat Cleveland in ’93, AKA The Shot Part II, is one of my all-time favorite sports memories with my dad. This man has a way of always getting down on teams just before they do well, as in: “Well, that’s the game. There’s no way Sosa gets these guys in. He strikes out way too—oh! Oh! Home run! Cubs win!” That was pretty much how things went down in this game. I remember watching my dad just as much as I watched Jordan, and as Jordan backed Wilkins with time running down, Pops was going “Shoot it. Shoot it. Ya gotta shoot.” Wilkins poked the ball away with about four seconds left, and Jordan regained control, turned, shot, and hit. Dad: “Oh no! He lost the ball! They’re gonna lose—oh yes! Yes! Yes! He hit it!” Classic.