by Sam Smith
“Tex, this is gonna be trouble,” Perdue was adding to the chorus. “You’re gonna have to write another book. Everyone’s gonna want the triangle.”
That night, Mike Dunleavy went to a favorite restaurant with his wife. Just moments before he walked in, Jackson and his wife walked in and were being seated. As Jackson moved to his seat, a big round of applause grew. Jackson looked around and began to nod when he noticed Dunleavy. The applause was for the Lakers coach. The Bulls weren’t the heroes quite yet.
The scene reminded Jackson of a story he’d heard about football coach Don Shula of the Miami Dolphins. Shula vacationed at a remote retreat in Maine where he was sure he was unknown. One night, though, he walked into a movie and the nine people spaced out around the theater began applauding loudly. Shula was shocked and a little embarrassed. Could his fame have extended this far? He sat down and leaned over to a man sitting a few seats away and said, “I didn’t think they knew me here.”
“Hell,” the man shot back, “I don’t know who you are. But the guy said he wouldn’t start the movie until he had ten people in the theater.”
Jackson stopped by and chatted with Dunleavy briefly and then the two couples ate dinner across the restaurant from each other.
The next game would be on Wednesday, so the players had some time on their hands. Pippen went to do that appearance with Arsenio Hall and several players went to a James Brown concert. Jordan played golf when Jackson gave the team Monday off after a brief stop to meet the media in the morning.
On Tuesday morning, a weary Jordan, wearing sunglasses, was last to step onto the bus for the trip to practice. He climbed to the top step. “Good morning, world champions,” he said.
Jackson tried to curtail the celebration. He showed tapes of Games 3 and 4, and pointed out that in Game 3 the Bulls were a Jordan shot away from losing and in Game 4 the Lakers had so many open shots that they just missed. The Bulls could easily be down 3–1, he said. No one was buying it, but practice was as hard as it had been in months, with players banging one another harder than any had been hit in the Detroit series.
“Last practice for the season,” Jordan said. “Let’s make it a good one.”
On the threshold of his own personal redemption—he would gain the Finals’ Most Valuable Player award in a unanimous vote a few hours later—Jordan was as nervous as a kid facing his first day of school.
“I don’t know what to do,” he confided as he sat in his locker stall just before the start of Game 5. “I’m nervous. Should I pass? Should I shoot? I really don’t know what to do. We’re right here and there’s no guarantee we’ll ever be back. Who knows what this organization will do? I know what they said, but they wanted to make a trade as bad as I did. They just couldn’t do it. But we’re here. And now what do I do?”
What Jordan did to start the game was throw the ball to Paxson, who hit a jumper. So did Pippen, and Paxson hit another jumper. But both Bulls stars were nervous. Pippen hit just 2 of 9 shots in the first half, but Grant and Cartwright got 5 rebounds each and the Bulls were hanging in.
The consensus in the press room was that it would be over within minutes, that this would be a dolorous day in L.A. Worthy and Scott were both out. The Lakers started Terry Teagle for Scott and A. C. Green for Worthy. But the damage was being done by rookies Elden Campbell and Tony Smith. The Bulls had worried about Smith; he had beaten them in that February game after Johnson was hurt by penetrating and beating Paxson to the basket. And with Johnson on the floor, Jordan couldn’t help out. The Bulls were grateful the Lakers hadn’t gone to him sooner and had wondered why not throughout the series. He would hit 5 of 6 shots in Game 5. And Campbell was taking quick passes from Johnson, who would finish with a gallant triple double, and slamming around the late-rotating Bulls.
The Bulls were in a fight, trailing 49–48 at halftime. Jackson instructed his team at halftime to play their defense and the shots would come. Pippen finally started to shake loose, both rebounding and getting to the basket on the way to a game-high 32 points, the first time in the playoffs that a Bull other than Jordan would lead the team in scoring. But the score was still 80–80 after three periods.
With Green and Campbell doing most of the scoring, the Lakers took a 91–90 lead with 6:47 left. Time-out Bulls. The Forum crowd, much maligned by the Bulls in comparison to their home Stadium crowd, was playfully impassioned. Not only weren’t they leaving early, as was their reputation, but they were cheering through the time-out. They were all standing. Was this smug, cool L.A.?
Jordan had taken 5 of the Bulls’ 8 shots of the quarter so far. He had 26 points, apparently on the way to 40—and a trip back to Chicago for Game 6.
Jackson huddled with the coaches near the free-throw line while the starters took seats, as was the custom in time-outs. Jordan usually liked to peer out into the crowd during time-outs, but for the most part in these playoffs Jordan had been attentive. Jackson liked the eye contact he was getting from Jordan, and on several occasions just nodded to him in an unspoken “Okay, take over.” But Jackson didn’t like what he was seeing now. He decided to be sharp with Jordan.
He kneeled in the huddle and stared into Jordan’s blazing eyes.
“M.J.,” he demanded, “who’s open?”
Jordan looked at him and didn’t answer.
“Who’s open?” Jackson asked again.
“Paxson,” Jordan said.
“Okay, let’s find him,” Jackson said.
He clapped his hands and the team went back onto the floor.
Campbell, on his way to 21 points, slammed off a pass from Johnson for a 93–90 Lakers lead. Pandemonium. The Lakers had decided they would not let another team celebrate in their living room. It was just a matter of pride, Johnson had said earlier.
But Jordan found Pippen circling on the outside and Pippen dropped in a three-pointer to tie the game at 93.
Jordan stole the ball from Johnson, but Paxson missed. Jordan then stole the ball from Smith, and Pippen missed. “What the hell’s going on?” Jordan thought. Smith missed, and Divac then blocked Cartwright, but Cartwright recovered and passed to Pippen nineteen feet away. Good!
Perkins lined one off the front rim—he was becoming adept at this—and Jordan took the ball up and found Paxson in the left corner eighteen feet away. Good!
It was 97–93 Bulls with 3:24 left.
Perkins tried a three-pointer coming out of a time-out and missed. Pippen recovered for his game-high 13th rebound, and found Paxson dashing to the basket. Paxson laid the ball in for a 99–93 Bulls lead with 3:03 left. He would score half his 20 points in the final four minutes of the game.
By this time, Jerry Reinsdorf and Jerry Krause had been brought to a room opposite the Bulls’ dressing room to await the final moments. Sitting there was NBA commissioner David Stern. The three would go right into the Bulls’ locker room for the trophy presentation if the Bulls won. Krause was up, pacing. His face was turning deep red and his jowls were shaking. He was having trouble breathing. “Jerry, Jerry, are you okay?” said Reinsdorf.
Krause didn’t answer.
“Hey, it’s only a game,” Stern said.
“No it’s not,” Krause spit out.
Perkins came back with a driving bank shot, but Jordan weaved through the Lakers for a lay-up and a 101–95 Bulls lead with 2:27 left. Perkins was fouled and converted one of two free throws, and then Jordan passed in to Cartwright, who found Paxson lurking at the top of the key. Good!
Perkins came back with a drive, Jordan traveled, and Perkins hit a runner and was fouled for a three-point play. The Lakers had drawn within 2, 103–101, with just over a minute left. There was a chance.
This was it, Jackson thought on the bench as he watched Jordan dribble toward the basket. Jordan went left and then turned back to his right, but he was going across court instead of to the basket. He was not looking to shoot, Jackson noticed. He was looking for Paxson. He wasn’t looking to score.
Jackson leaned back. He knew the game was over, the Bulls would be champions, and the whole season’s effort had been worth it.
Jordan lured the defense to him and whizzed the ball to Paxson, standing eighteen feet away in the left comer. The shot barely rippled the net going down.
The Lakers would not score again. The final score was 108–101 Bulls. The Chicago Bulls were world champions.
When the final buzzer sounded, a year’s worth of effort and emotion burst forth like a river breaking a dam.
“Sweet,” shouted Cartwright. “This is sweet.”
“Seven long years,” Jordan yelled as the players rushed from the pandemonium of the court to their locker room. “Seven long years. I can’t believe it.”
Emotion and exhilaration washed over the players. It was purifying, purging the jealousies, resentments, and feuds of the season. What remained was pure, unrestrained joy. And madness.
The Disney people had wanted to have the five starters pose for their “goin’ to Disney World” clip on the court, but it was impossible; they would later adjourn to the rest room in the locker room for the brief commercial message. Pippen, dribbling the ball out to end the game, darted from the court as hundreds of Chicago fans stormed their heroes; the fans were representatives of the folks back home, who were pouring into the streets around the Chicago Stadium, around Wrigley Field, and in the downtown area to celebrate the victory.
“Twelve long years,” Cartwright yelled to Jordan. “Twelve long years.”
Jordan smiled.
“Everyone was just being crazy,” Grant would recall later. “It seemed like all we were doing was screaming, acting like kids, yelling and screaming.”
“Nineteen eighty-seven, nineteen eighty-seven,” Grant and Pippen chanted as they fell into each other’s arms. It was an old joke; the two would always say that was when the Bulls started to turn around, in 1987, after they drafted Pippen and Grant. “Nineteen eighty-seven, nineteen eighty-seven,” they yelled at one another and danced around in circles.
Hopson was yelling now too, dousing himself in champagne and receiving warm congratulations from every teammate. They all remembered Detroit.
June Jackson looked desperately for Phil on the court, unable to find him amidst the throng, and later edged her way into the bulging locker room, where the players’ wives had also gathered. She thought Phil joyous, but later he would say his biggest thrill came in the last minute of the game when he knew it was over. “It’s in the game,” he said. “That’s where the excitement is for me.”
People, people everywhere in that locker room. TV cameramen wrestled for position and thrust microphones into everyone’s faces. Commissioner David Stern began the trophy presentation and no one could hear. “Hey, I got to be a part of this,” Paxson shouted and dashed to the end of the room. Everyone wore champagne like a shiny new suit, and Krause hugged every waist he walked into. But this wasn’t the players’ time. This was for TV and the reporters and fans who had crashed the party. Finally, Jordan got up to leave for the team bus back to the hotel and the locker room began to clear.
The players boarded the bus and moved to the back, as was their custom, the coaches in front and staff and broadcasters in the middle. It was there they had their moment. All were still in uniform. There would be no showering, at least with water, this night. In fact, the next morning when he boarded the bus for the ride to the airport and home, Jordan was still in his uniform, clutching a champagne bottle and chewing on a big, fat cigar he had used to puff rings of smoke in the face of almost everyone he saw the night before. Jordan still clutched the championship trophy that he had cradled for the TV cameras in the locker room. It was their Holy Grail, so elusive and so desired.
They passed it from player to player. Paxson stroked it as if it were a newborn son. Pippen kissed it. Everyone handled it so gently, almost afraid it would break, as they themselves had threatened to as a team so many times during the season. But Jackson’s gentle handling and Jordan’s secure hold and everyone’s confident support kept the dream from splitting apart. Scott Williams shrieked when the trophy came his way. “Look at me now,” he said exuberantly.
“Easy, easy, be careful,” Jordan counseled. He watched it the way a mother does her baby. The trophy moved across the aisle to Armstrong and back to Hodges and up to Perdue and back to Jordan, finally, everyone putting a mark on it as the others watched.
“We did it,” whispered Paxson to himself as he leaned back in his seat as the lights blinked by outside the speeding bus. “What do you know? We did it.”
Epilogue
October 1993
OCTOBER 6 WAS A BRIGHT, SUNNY, EARLY FALL MORNING IN Chicago. The word had whipped through and singed the city like the Great Fire more than a century before. Michael Jordan, the city’s greatest sports figure and perhaps its most beloved hero ever, had decided to retire from pro basketball at age thirty after nine seasons in the NBA. The rumors had swept the city the previous two days. Jordan went to the opening American League playoff game the night before to throw out the first ball. But he had to go scurrying from Sox owner Jerry Reinsdorf’s private box when TV began reporting the rumors.
Bob Ford, a writer for the Philadelphia Inquirer, had been sent to cover the White Sox-Blue Jays series, since the Philadelphia Phillies were playing in the National League playoffs. Ford’s newspaper asked him to attend the Jordan press conference, scheduled for 11 A.M. October 6 in the Berto Center, a private practice facility the Bulls built about thirty-five miles north of Chicago. As Ford walked in a rear door, he bumped into a neatly dressed, familiar-looking man.
“Excuse me,” said Tom Brokaw, the anchor for the NBC-TV nightly news.
“This is big,” Ford thought to himself.
Michael Jordan had become the biggest star in the NBA, arguably the biggest star sports had ever known. So big had the NBA become with Jordan leading the way that the 1993 NBA Finals, for the first time, drew a higher TV rating than the 1993 World Series.
Michael Jordan had become America’s pastime.
And now Jordan said it was past his time.
“It’s not because I don’t love the game,” Jordan said that October 6 morning, surrounded by about three hundred reporters and flanked by teammates; Bulls officials; and executives from McDonald’s, Quaker Oats, and Nike. “I just feel, at this particular time in my career, I’ve reached the pinnacle of my career.”
And who, really, could question that? Oh, sure, Bulls coach Phil Jackson tried. The day before, when Jordan confirmed his decision to his coach, Jackson tried meekly to change Jordan’s mind. The Bulls had a streak going of three straight NBA titles. Why not stay with the run? It’s what a gambler does, after all.
But Jordan asked Jackson what he had to prove. “I knew the answer when he hesitated,” Jordan said later.
Just before Jordan came out to make his retirement statement, one that was carried live on all the Chicago TV stations and that interrupted classes in most Chicago public schools so students could watch, Jordan met with most of his teammates. It would become a day in Chicago, like the Kennedy assassination thirty years earlier, when everyone would recall where they were when they heard the news. Scott Williams cried, thanking Jordan for his support. B. J. Armstrong, the only Bulls player to attend the funeral of Jordan’s father two months earlier, said Jordan always would remain his inspiration.
In the only truly emotional moment of his closing press conference, Jordan said, “I guess the biggest positive thing that I can take out of my father not being here with me today is that he saw my last basketball game. And that means a lot. It was something that he, we, my family, and me have talked about for a long period of time.
“One thing I learned from my father’s death,” Jordan related, “is that it can be gone and be taken away from you at any time.”
And with that, Jordan was a basketball memory.
Two of the seminal events of Micha
el Jordan’s life after basketball were occurring late in July 1993, a little more than a month after Jordan and the Bulls had won their third straight title. It was clear to many close to Jordan that he’d had enough of basketball by then, even if few would believe the strains and stresses would eventually lead to his retirement. “Michael always talked about retiring after the season,” said Bulls owner Jerry Reinsdorf, “but I figured after three months off …”
Jordan also had talked of playing baseball someday, too. And Reinsdorf was just the right man to talk about it with. He owned the Chicago White Sox, too, and Jordan wanted to play major league baseball.
Jordan had never been much of a baseball player, batting barely .300 when he was a teenager. But there was little Jordan didn’t believe he could accomplish, although he had pretty much abandoned the idea of playing pro golf after shooting 80s and 90s in pro-am events, especially after being bested by more than 20 strokes in a celebrity pro-am by the hated Bill Laimbeer.
He’d told Reinsdorf about his baseball hopes and Reinsdorf told Jordan to talk with White Sox General Manager Ron Schueler. The two had decided upon a plan: Jordan would play a few games for the Hickory, N.C., Crawdads, a White Sox Class A affiliate. Jordan had talked several times during his basketball career about playing professional baseball, but he wasn’t taken seriously. He’d talked about playing every pro sport, much as Wilt Chamberlain or Jim Brown always did, great athletes who saw the world as their playground. However, George Shinn, owner of the Charlotte Hornets, had told Jordan several times over the years that the basketball great could play for Shinn’s minor league baseball team.
The second event occurred while Jordan was playing golf on the Monterey Peninsula in early August: word reached him from North Carolina that his father, James, was missing. Jordan sent some of his security detail to help search for his father, but by the time they arrived, it was much too late. James Jordan had been dead for almost three weeks, a shooting victim in what the Cumberland County, N.C., police said was a random robbery.
