Part VI, November 2-November 8

The Bulls begin anew, a comeback against the Bobcats...NSC reunion in the great city of Atlanta...my first camp birthday...a Gould game-winner...the frightning Brett Favre...the generationally great Scottie Pippen...a windy day at Soldier Field meets Nathan Vasher, the orange streak...Taking the Purple to Pasadina, and an Israel surprise...Thanksgiving football...a menacing performance, and eight straight wins...Rowand and Damon, a question of loyalty...A message from Tony for Packers Week...a quarterback controversy?...a wacky bowl game...New Years at Ric’s and we say good-bye...

Ah, November. My favorite month. Yesterday was November 1^st, the start of the eleventh month of the year, the greatest month in the history of the world. My birthday falls in November, as does Mom’s. It is the peak of autumn, my favorite season. Baseball is over, which is sad, but football is picking up, and now the NBA begins, the Bulls opening their season tonight against Charlotte.

November also holds my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving, meaning all my friends will be in town. I hardly see Josh and Eric anymore, so along with being fun and festive Thanksgiving is now doubly important.

The leaves are changing, Indianapolis starting to feel a bit more like home. Just outside, the trees are filled with rich colors, reds and yellows and browns, and the temperature is such that the perfect level of comfort is inside the comfy confines of a big sweatshirt. Halloween was two day’s ago, Luke’s birthday. He was home celebrating with his family. This weekend is my birthday, and I’ll be celebrating in Atlanta with camp friends before returning to Indy Sunday morning, just in time to watch the Bears with Meghan. What a wonderful time of the year.

It’s also an exciting time in Chicago sports. First the Bulls go to the playoffs for the first time since 1998, then the Illini go undefeated until the last day of the regular season and get all the way to the national championship, then the White Sox shock everyone to win the World Series with a sweep, and now, with three wins in a row, the Bears are 4-3 and alone in first place atop the NFC North.

This has been great! We scrapped out a close one against Detroit three days ago, 19-13 in overtime on a Charles Tillman pick return. The Bears’ defense was terrific again; after six games they finally allowed a rushing touchdown. Very impressive streak. Kyle Orton continued to improve, throwing for 230 yards with a TD to Moose and no picks, and TJ—72 yards on 22 carries—kept on churning, but also got help from Cedric Benson down the stretch (3 for 35). I love the way that Lovie, Ron Rivera, and Ron Turner are managing this team; for once I don’t feel like I’m smarter than the coaching staff. The Bears will travel to Baton Rouge to take on the New Orleans Saints on Sunday, and then it’s home against the 49ers before a key game against 5-2 Carolina. The Panthers are by far the scariest team in the NFC, so it will be a good test for the Bears…

…but honestly, my mind is elsewhere right now, because the Bulls are about to begin their season with a game against Charlotte, and I’m pumped. This is the most excited I’ve been for a Bulls season since 1995 when Dennis arrived and Michael was around for a full year, and since I just realized just now that the ’95-’96 season was exactly ten years ago, I am now doubly pumped. Unfortunately, I can’t watch the game, because it’s on Comcast, and as I haven’t decided to plunk down the $19.95 for NBA radio online—although that seems like a must—I’ll be on the phone with Ben a lot tonight for game updates as he fills in anything I don’t get from watching the score updates on ESPN.com.

“The game preview online. It says it’s gonna be Du, Kirk, Noce, Darius Songaila, and Tyson.”

“Well, I was just thinking about it, and I trust Skiles. So yeah. But that’s a weird lineup.”

As the broadcast begins, Ben tells me that Ozzie is in the house. They keep showing him. He has begun his ascension into Ditka-status. Some soldiers who have returned home from Iraq sing the National Anthem. We stand and listen. Then come the starting lineups, and wouldn’t you know it…

“Oh my god,” says Ben in outrage. “They’re not playing the regular intro song.”

“I don’t know…oh, never mind. They’re just announcing the bench guys. Basden, Pargo…yeah, it’s just the bench. OK. Basden and Pargo are in suits. They’re not playing. Hopefully, this’ll just be for the bench.”

“I know. Malik Allen, Tim Thomas, Pike…oop, there’s Mike Sweetney. He’s not starting.”

“...nice hand for Deng, and here comes Ben. There you go.” He pauses, waiting. “And…” he waits, hoping, hoping, and then: “Ahhhhhh. There’s the music. Can you hear it?” Ben is holding his phone up to the TV so that I can hear the Bulls’ starting lineups. “Can you hear it?”

A year ago it was Antonio Davis addressing the crowd. Now it’s Kirk. “That’s cool, man.”

“(Quoting) and we’ll do our best to put a team on the floor that the city of Chicago can be proud of. That’s cool. Ozzie’s loving it.”

The game starts, and the Bulls are sloppy. A couple of quick turnovers, and Duhon gets rung up with two fouls. At the end of the first the Bobcats are up eight, 28-20. Things don’t improve in the second as the Bulls continue their sloppy play, running up turnovers and missed shots galore. Every so often Ben and I talk, with him groaning, and I’m almost a little bit happy that the game isn’t on TV here, although of course that’s a lie. Opening Day for the Bulls! Come on.

At the end of the half, Charlotte is headed to the locker room with a 59-40 lead. Yuck.

At the half, the Bobcats are shooting around 55% from the field. The Bulls’ scoring is evenly spread, nobody over six points.

It’s midway through the third now, and things still aren’t looking good. Luol just got a dunk to pull the Bulls within—gulp—19. I’m reminded of our opening game a season ago, when we went down 27 to the Nets before coming back, only to lose in double overtime. Could happen again. Nevertheless, it’s difficult to “watch” any game on ESPN.com with only score updates to keep you going, and it’s even more difficult to do so when your team is down twenty in the third quarter. I continue working on some freelance work. When the third ends, we’re down 89-68.

I’m on the phone with my dad, talking to him about a column I’m working on, and all the while I’m checking the Bulls. The lead is down to fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…I decide to stop checking, because they’re either going to come back or they won’t, and for some reason I feel like they have a better chance if I’m not looking. So I sit on the couch with Meghan, talking to Dad while she watches TV. The two of us hang up, I use the bathroom, and then my phone rings. It’s Ben.

“Yeah.” He’s out of breath. What a lucky bastard. “It’s been awesome. Pike has been going crazy, Duhon’s playing unbelievably. Everything’s been going well since Kirk went down.”

“Wow.” I run over to the computer to look at the stats. “Remember when Charlotte was shooting 55% at the half?” I don’t wait for a response. “They’re now shooting 42% in the game.”

“Peace.” I look at Meghan: “Baby, did you hear that? We came back from being down 20 or so!”

“Oh wow…ooh, he just got it. They’re announcing it. It’s his first career triple-double.”

“Duhon’s going to the line…oh, you gotta make both. He missed the first…OK good, he got the second. Bulls up five, 107-102.”

“Brezec layup, and a foul…free throw is good. Bulls up two…inbound…foul…Songalia going to the line.” Ben pauses, breathes, and thinks for a second as he takes in the scene. “I like him.”

“There you go! He made them both. We’re gonna win. Felton…three…nope…and another miss…Bulls win. 109-105. Wow. What a game. Red Kerr just called that the best Bulls comeback he’s ever seen.”

In what is becoming a fun but tedious trend, I spent yet another weekend out of Indy. Yet again, it was worth it. Since Hamer and Scott went to Michigan for their fall break, the Michigan guys decided to reciprocate by going down to Atlanta for their’s. When Robby and Heldman signed on to go, and then Frost said that he would come in from Syracuse, and Shmerling said that he would come in from Nashville, and I realized I was available and that my birthday was on Sunday…well, there was no way I wasn’t heading down. Along with having a mini camp reunion, I was also excited to be heading down to Atlanta, getting to see a city (and a state) I’d never seen.

Having driven around half of the country, moving in car from Chicago to San Antonio to San Diego to Seattle and then through the Rockies, I was amazed by the incredible feeling of detachment that came from flying someplace. I wanted to add another state to my check list, but flying felt like cheating. That magical Journey Through the Clouds seemed like, well, magic. I didn’t get to see the different landscapes, or drive through new states and over state lines, or feel the change in climate, or get a sense of the true distance. Instead, I jumped into a giant, flying, metal box, and we took off, and after about twenty minutes the captain announced over the loudspeaker that “on your right is Bowling Green, Kentucky” and instead of seeing the city limits and buildings and the faces of the people, I saw a big splotch of green between the clouds. And then we were there. Hopped off the plane and saw Hamer and Scott waiting for myself, Robby, Heldman, and Frost (we all got in around the same time, with Shmerling driving in from Nashville), and then we hopped into Hamer’s car and cruised to their house. I was in Atlanta, and I hadn’t expended a bit of energy or gas money to do it.

Still, it was a great trip. When midnight hit on Saturday night, the guys surprised me with a cake and a singing of the camp birthday song. That was awesome, since as a November birthday I’d always missed out on having a camp birthday, the ol’ Bully For Me in full. It was a special night.

Saturday night also had us hanging at an Atlanta bar, me begging the bar staff to turn one of the TVs to the Bulls game, which, gratefully, they did. The Bulls played well but lost 100-99 to the Nets. That was obnoxious, since I really can’t stand New Jersey. Kidd, Carter, and Jefferson (dislike, want to like, like, respectively) are a terrific fantasy team, but they’re not really a team, and I don’t like that they are considered an Eastern Conference favorite.

People seem to think—especially in the NBA—that all it takes to win a championship is the grouping together of two or three top flight players. For some reason this league does not play the copycat game that the NFL does. If something works for one team in that league, the rest of them go out and do it. Teams copied the Rams and their speed offense after ’99, and they copied the Ravens and their fat, strong defense after 2000. The zone blitz exploded in the mid ’90s, the 3-4 returned in the early part of this decade…this year the rage is “small ball,” short, burning receivers like Carolina’s Steve Smith or Washington’s Santana Moss dominating. Teams see success and want to copy it...

...yet not in the NBA, where San Antonio and Detroit have figured out that team hoops is what wins while everybody else scrambles to acquire another top scorer or seat filler. There are basic blueprints for success. Track back in any team sport and you’ll find one common element among all champions: a cohesive team where everybody knows his role. We’ve gotten away from that.

After another long Journey Through the Clouds, Meghan picked me up at the airport and we went home. It had been a great weekend, and now for the capper: cuddling up with my girlfriend to watch the Bears on my birthday. What could be better?

“That’s Azumah, right?” It was more of a rhetorical question. “23, right? I love Azumah.”

Meghan is routinely asking me questions like that now. We do number quizzes, and during the game I have her going rapid fire through the secondary.

She thinks for a bit, and then I see it pop into her head as she remembers me yelling it over and over and over again at the end of last week’s game against Detroit.

The Bears defeat the Saints 20-17 on a Robbie Gould field goal with six seconds remaining. We are now 5-3, two games ahead of both Detroit and Minnesota for the division, with Green Bay floundering in last at 1-7.

Yes, the Packers look awful right now, partially due to injury, partially to bad luck. Still, I am haunted by these horrific visions of Favre just taking over and dragging Green Bay to a 7-1 second half with two wins over the Bears, leaving the Pack 8-8 but streaking, and then having him basically dominate in the playoffs, somehow getting the Pack into the Super Bowl as a crazy underdog and sentimental favorite, since Favre will announce his retirement on Media Day just to charge up his team.

There are some guys throughout the years who are remembered by all fans, no matter what sports those fans follow. Michael, Babe, Aaron, Robinson, Gretzky, Wilt, Payton…these guys have all transcended their respective sports and generations. If you are a fan, there is no way to miss those names, no matter how old you are or which sport is your favorite. Mantle, Butkus, Magic, Orr, Montana, Russell…the names that make the sports world go round.

But then there are other guys, guys who live in the minds and imaginations of fans for a specific sport or a specific generation. These guys weren’t transcendent. They simply embodied their sport in a way only true fans could appreciate.

It’s easy to enjoy a 100 mile per hour Roger Clemens fastball, but only the true baseball fan takes pleasure in watching Greg Maddux pick apart opposing batters with pitches that move around the zone at 90 mph and hit the mitt with pinpoint accuracy. It’s easy to enjoy watching Randy Moss race downfield and before leaping over double coverage to snatch a touchdown pass that would have otherwise landed in the stands, but only the true football fan can enjoy Jerry Rice running a perfect slant into the soft part of the zone.

Bulls fans know these two groups very well, because from 1984 to 1998 we watched two men who defined those categories as well as any two teammates can.

Michael Jordan will be remembered. He’ll be remembered by basketball fans of every generation from now until they stop playing the game. He’ll be remembered by Americans as well as foreigners, by those who love basketball and by those who hate it.

But only people who truly love the game will remember Scottie Pippen, and in that way he will be ours in a way that Michael never can be.

I went onto the Bulls’ website today, and to my delight I found that what I’ve been waiting for since 1998 has finally come to pass: the Bulls are retiring Scottie Pippen’s number 33 jersey. Scottie is a Hall of Famer, a seven-time All-Star, a six-time NBA champion, a two-time Olympian, one of the 50 greatest players in NBA history even without their official say-so. And yet his retirement a year ago and subsequent number retiring has hardly raised interest around the league and its fans.

Anybody can enjoy MJ. It’s not hard to dig a guy who can dunk from the foul line and make professionals look like children. But for true basketball fans, Scottie was just as much a delight. If you know basketball and watched the Bulls during the glory days, then you knew what Scottie meant to that team. Michael may have been the star, but Scottie made everything work. It was Pippen who brought the ball up and ran the floor, allowing Jordan to conserve his energy for his half court game, and it was Pippen who routinely guarded the opposition’s best perimeter player, allowing Jordan to conserve his energy for his offense. Anybody could see Jordan’s value; it was obvious. There’s no way to overlook the value in 30 points and a game-winning shot, but it’s easy to overlook the value in 15 points, nine boards, seven assists, three steals, and a blocked shot. There’s no way to overlook the skill needed for a fast break dunk in traffic, but it’s easy to overlook the skill needed to bang with power forwards and beat point guards to loose balls.

Michael always got the glory because he was a clutch player with an unmatched sense of dramatic timing. But there will never be a perfect theatrical time for taking a charge or setting a pick, and when Michael was wiping sweat from his bald head while doing a post-game with Ahmad Rashad, Scottie was in the locker room icing his knees after another hard-fought full-on assed-out performance.

When people try to knock Pippen, one of the points they always make is that he never won any rings without Jordan. Pippen protectors then inevitably come back with “Well, Jordan never won any rings without Pippen.” I think that the true argument to be made is that they won six rings together. That’s more than Magic and Kareem, more than Bird and McHale, more than Shaq and Kobe, more than any duo in NBA history apart from Russell and Cousy, Russell and Havlicek, Cowens and Havlicek or any other duo from those ’50s/’60s/’70s Celtics teams.

Yes, Michael could have won a championship without Scottie. He could have won a couple. But he would not have won six. Take Pippen off the Bulls and replace him with a typical “second banana”—usually a low-post scorer—and they are no longer hands down better than Ewing’s Knicks, Drexler’s Trailblazers, Barkley’s Suns, or Stockton and Malone’s Jazz. Team Jordan with Barkley or Ewing, and either of those two guys would need to get touches down low, meaning fewer post plays for MJ. Meanwhile, Michael would be left chasing Magic, Glide, Stockton, and Gary Payton around the court.

Only three NBA championship cores since 1980 have lacked a Hall of Fame center: the ’90s Bulls, the Bad Boy Pistons, and the 2004 Pistons, although each of those Detroit squads had All-Star centers, Laimbeer for the former, Big Ben Wallace for the latter. That’s no surprise. Offensively, a center is right next to the basket, meaning lots of high-percentage, low-energy points. Defensively, they get to hang near the hoop; that lack of chasing the ball is an enormous energy saver for offense. Dominant perimeter scorers of the modern era rarely win more than one title without a big man. Magic had Kareem. Kobe had Shaq. Larry had McHale and Parish. Drexler had Olajuwon for his lone ring. Dr. J had Moses Malone for his. Nique didn’t have anybody, nor did Iverson, nor did Drexler in Portland.

A perimeter scorer expends a lot of energy driving to the hoop and pumping jump shots, and a perimeter defender expends a lot of energy chasing guys around the floor. If that player is going to win title after title after title as his team’s primary scoring option, he’s going to need somebody to take care of the energy jobs that he would normally have to do, and that means finding a talented and selfless wing man who can handle the ball and defend at an All-Star level without demanding offensive touches. Try naming another player in NBA history who matches that description at as high of a level as Scottie Pippen. Scottie was the Bulls’ number one defender, number two rebounder, got his points in transition and on second-chance opportunities, and ran the offense. In other words, he did everything that allowed Michael to be Michael.

Don’t get me wrong; I love MJ. But a person’s appreciation and respect for Scottie Pippen always said more to me than his admiration of Michael Jordan. The Sports Guy Bill Simmons said it best in his Pippen Appreciation Column, when he wrote:

The first question is obvious. If you really follow the NBA in the way that Simmons does, then you understand what Scottie was about. The second question refers to his infamous 1.8 seconds, Pip pulling himself from Game 3 of the ’94 East Semis when Phil pegged the rookie Kukoc for the game-winner.

Should Pippen have pulled himself? Of course not. It was a mistake. But Pippen did not sit because he was not a leader. He sat because in 1994, he was the leader. He was an MVP that year, leading the Bulls to 55 wins without Jordan, and when his team went down 2-0 to the Knicks and had a chance to win Game 3, he wanted the shot. Instead, Phil called a play for Kukoc, and out of frustration, Pippen sat down. He regretted it, apologized, was forgiven by his teammates, and moved on.

Jordan was always known for that can’t-lose won’t quit must-win look in the eyes. Pippen had the exact same look. Scottie was a champion, a warrior, and in his own way, a leader, pure and simple. Anybody who views Pip as a “quitter,” who denies his ability to perform in big games, is short-sighted and foolish. There was Game 6 of the ’92 Finals, in which Phil called upon a lineup of B.J., Bobby Hansen, Stacey King, Scott Williams, and Pippen to make-up a fifteen point, fourth quarter defecit. There was Game 7 of the ’98 East Finals, in which Pippen and Jordan led the Bulls past Indiana with rebounds and free throws aplenty, single-handedly (as a single duo, if that makes sense) denying the Pacers a trip to the Finals.

There were a lot of them. A lot of greats. But Game 3 of the ’97 first-rounder against the Bullets...that’s the one that stands for me.

The Bulls led the series 2-0 but trailed by a point with twenty seconds to play. Pippen was hurting, and when his jumper clanked and bounced back into his hands, there must have been a flash in which he considered pulling up for another safe, mid-range J. The young Bullets had played a terrific game; what would it hurt to drop one and finish them off in Game 4?

Pippen driving hard to his left, skating along the baseline. Leaping. Dunking. Two hands flushing the game-winner through. Pip swinging upwards, and then falling, hard, square on his back. The warrior laying in pain. The Bulls sweeping the Bullets.

One day, years from now, I’m going to take my kids to their first Bulls game. We’ll walk up to the stadium, pass the MJ statue, mix in with all the kids and teenagers in their JORDAN 23 jerseys, take a look at the pictures of Jordan in the hallways, head into the gym. We’ll find our section, go to our seats, and look up at the rafters, rafters that hold six championship banners, and six personal banners. SLOAN, LOVE, JORDAN, JACKSON, KRAUSE, and PIPPEN. And while most people are looking at Jordan’s banner, I’ll be telling my kids about one of the greatest players in the history of Chicago sports.

“Well,” they’ll ask, “Jordan dunked, and Payton ran, and Banks swung, but what did Pippen do?”

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[1] In a connection I made much later on, the host of “GUTS” named Mike was none other than Mike O’Malley, who I’d initially caught on to as “The Rick” on those great ESPN commercials. (“Ivy never forgets.”) At the time, I didn’t know his name. I just knew him as “The Rick.” This was the days before imdb, or at least before I knew about imdb, and plus, it was just a commercial. Then a few years later he was in “The Mike O’Malley Show,” and I realized that he was the Rick. Then a few years after that, while watching a promo for “Yes, Dear,” I was shot back to “GUTS.” Why? I don’t know. So I went onto imdb, which was most definitely in effect by that time, and sure enough, Mike O’Malley hosted “GUTS.” No word on what Mo is up to these days.