Like his wife, Krause resented Jordan’s refusal to ever speak up in his defense. “Michael could have done a bunch of things through the years,” Krause said later, “but he didn’t.”
“Jerry’s never been able to project a good personal image,” Phil Jackson observed at the time, “and that’s been the thing that’s destroyed his public persona as far as the audience goes here in Chicago. They see him as someone like the mayor. The mayor always gets booed in public. Jerry represents that kind of guy. He has to do a lot of the dirty jobs.… He’d done that to the point where he’s sort of made himself an unlikeable character.”
Nevertheless, Krause had endured. “All general managers make mistakes,” Reinsdorf said. “Jerry’s incredibly loyal, but the main thing is that he gets results. He gets results because he works very hard, and he has a good eye for talent.”
“Poor Jerry’s been kicked around from pillar to post by everybody, including me,” longtime Chicago sportswriter Bob Logan said at the time. “But he got what he wanted in life. He’s running the franchise. He’s got three championship rings. Yet I don’t think he’s ever spent a day where he’s completely satisfied. There’s always something else he wants, or something that doesn’t quite work out.”
Not long before Jordan’s tribute, Krause had admitted that he looked forward to having a team that won a championship without Jordan on the roster. “Jerry and I have talked about it,” Krause said frankly. “Hell yeah, we want to win after Michael because there is a certain vindication in it and there is a certain personal thing in it. Yeah, I mean I have an ego. I don’t think that it is huge, but it ain’t small. And I think I’m good at what I do, and for one time I want the world to say that I won, and it wasn’t because of Michael.” Unfortunately, he had missed his chance in the failed 1994 playoffs.
Even on this night of retirement celebration, Phil Jackson sensed that the desire to play again was stirring within Jordan. Some NBA owners had mentioned quietly to Reinsdorf that maybe the league itself should offer him a major compensation package to lure him back to basketball. Afterward, a reporter asked Jordan if he could be lured back to basketball with a $100 million contract offer. “If I played for the money,” he said testily, “it would be $300 million.”
If he played for money, he certainly wouldn’t have been in baseball, where his light stipend was supported by his estimated $30 million in endorsement income that year. Major League Baseball had been paralyzed by a strike in August, and it dragged on through the holidays that year and right into February. The minor leagues were not affected, so Jordan reported to spring training a week early only to realize that the fight between owners and players over money wasn’t going to end anytime soon. Then, he had a misunderstanding with White Sox management over dressing room and parking arrangements. But what really drove him away was the growing sense that he would be used as a draw for spring training. He had absolutely no appetite to be a replacement player or, worse, a scab. Finally, he packed up his father’s dream for good and headed home. He notified Reinsdorf in a phone call.
“I think you’re quitting baseball for the wrong reasons,” Reinsdorf said.
“No,” Jordan said. “I’ve made up my mind.”
“What do you want to do?” the owner asked.
“I don’t know,” Jordan replied.
“He had hit .260 in the Arizona Fall League,” Reinsdorf confided later. “I thought he was really making progress. But the strike had made it all but impossible for him to play for the White Sox in ’95.”
On March 10, he announced his retirement from baseball, saying that his minor league experience had allowed him to rediscover the work ethic that had made him a great basketball player. “I met thousands of new fans,” he said, “and I learned that minor league players are really the foundation of baseball. They often play in obscurity and with little recognition, but they deserve the respect of the fans and everyone associated with the game.”
Jordan hadn’t failed baseball, Phil Jackson noted. “Baseball failed him.”
Berto Center Days
At first Jordan tried to enter Bulls practices discreetly, but that wasn’t likely to work out, especially with the team plodding through a drab landscape. The first warning was almost imperceptible. A cell phone call to an old friend perhaps. Or maybe a puff of smoke outside Jackson’s office. Whatever it was, the signal somehow got transmitted to all the right people that March. MJ was thinking about coming back? He’s just gonna come to practice in his gear and see how things go?
So began the year the world truly lost its mind over Chicago basketball.
“There were rumors for weeks about his coming back,” recalled Chip Schaefer. “I was having dinner with Larry Krystkowiak and Luc Longley and Steve Kerr, guys who hadn’t played with Michael before. These guys were so excited about the prospects of playing with him, like kids almost in how they felt about it. I remember sitting there and listening to those guys and thinking, ‘Boy, you have no idea how hard it is playing with him.’ ”
It had been a weird year even before Jordan got there, Steve Kerr recalled. The Bulls had been good without Jordan the previous season, but the ’95 roster was considerably weaker. The dissension and controversy had finally caught up with them. “I felt like what happened was, the first year he was gone, his presence was still felt and the team still had a swagger,” Kerr explained. “We had Cartwright and Paxson and Horace Grant, all these guys who were clearly still champions and felt that way and it carried over even with Michael gone. But, by the next year, it had started to wear off. We missed Cartwright and Paxson and Grant. We missed their leadership. So, all of a sudden we were depleted physically and leadership-wise. And reality kind of set in. We just sort of faded and lost our edge and our energy. We were struggling.”
Jordan had been in and out of their practices earlier that season, but there hadn’t been any bonding whatsoever with the team, Kerr said. “He came to practice some, occasionally, but he was really unapproachable for those of us who didn’t play with him, just because of who he was and his presence. He’s kind of an intimidating guy, as you know, especially if you don’t know him. You just don’t wander over to Michael Jordan and say, ‘Hey, what’s up?’ He was like this looming presence. None of us knew him very well.”
Within days, he was in gear and in practice, with enough energy to drive a storm surge. But it still wasn’t clear if he had decided to return. The first leak came on local sports talk radio, and the madness was on. The next ten days would bring the greatest tease in the history of sport. Was Michael Jordan returning to basketball? A village of satellite trucks and media representatives from the major networks and national publications converged on the practice facilities at the Berto Center in anticipation of some kind of announcement. Yet large screens covered the picture windows of the practice facility. The media could hear the shouts, the squeaking of sneakers on the gym floor. They were told that Jordan was practicing with the team but that he hadn’t yet made up his mind, that the details were being worked out. Meanwhile, in practice sessions he wore the yellow vest of the second team and ran point guard against the regulars.
Jordan versus Pippen. Just like old times.
“Just to be able to play with him is fun,” said center Will Perdue, who had played on all three championship teams with Jordan. “Just to be able to watch him.”
In truth, the situation wouldn’t have gotten so crazy, the hype so large, if it hadn’t dragged on for those ten teasing days. But Reinsdorf wanted him to wait. And Jordan himself wavered that week, pausing, trying to figure out if he was returning to basketball out of disappointment over the baseball strike, or if he was coming back because he loved the game. While he waited, the fans came in droves to the Berto Center as if drawn by a great magnet. The crowd spilled over into the parking lot of a hotel next door, eager to catch a glimpse of His Airness as he left practice each day. But he remained silent, which kept the twenty-four-hour cable news shows fed and lines buzzi
ng on sports radio talk shows across the continent.
After about a week, the collective impatience began to mushroom, with some callers on Chicago’s sports radio talk shows claiming that Jordan was toying with the public, which might have been true. David Falk, who noticed everything, savored the conditions. His client was generating the kind of coverage that couldn’t be bought. USA Today reported that the stock value of those companies that employed Jordan as a spokesman had zoomed up $2 billion on the various stock exchanges in recent days, leading to further suggestion that Jordan was engaged in some kind of financial manipulation.
By that Thursday, March 16, Jackson signaled that it had all gotten to be too much. He told Jordan not to attend practice that day because the media crowd at the Berto Center had grown too large. That afternoon, the coach told the assembled media that Jordan and Reinsdorf were engaged in discussions and that a decision was probably three or four days away. Even with the monster distraction that he was, Jordan had shown that he could boost the team with just a little practice time. That Friday night, the Bulls capped a three-game winning streak and raised their record three notches above .500 by defeating the Milwaukee Bucks in the United Center. There’d been speculation that Jordan might make a sudden appearance in uniform for that game, but only his security advisers showed up to evaluate the arena.
Then, abruptly the next morning, Chicago radio stations reported that the deal was done, that Jordan would make his announcement that day, and that he would play Sunday in a nationally televised game against Indiana. Down on LaSalle Street, the managers at Michael Jordan’s Restaurant heard the news and decided to restock the gift shop yet again. The restaurant’s business had been slow in February, but the hint of Jordan’s return had crowds packing the place virtually every night in March. Fans kept a vigil at the Jordan statue outside the United Center, which had quickly become something of a shrine. Over at the Berto Center, a crowd of fans and reporters milled about, with some fans leaning from the balconies of the Residence Inn next door, all waiting for the official word.
Suddenly, practice was over, and like that, Jordan’s Corvette appeared on the roadway, with the fans cheering wildly as he gunned the engine and sped off. Next came Pippen in a Range Rover, pausing long enough to flash a giant smile through the vehicle’s darkly tinted windows. Moments later, NBC’s Peter Vecsey did a stand-up report outside with the fans rooting in the background. He told the broadcast audience that Jordan was returning, that he would play against Indiana on Sunday and would probably pull his old number 23 jersey out of retirement. Excitement coursed through the city. Chicago, quipped one radio sportscaster, was in a state of “Jorgasm.”
The star of stars had broken his silence with a two-word press release, issued through Falk. It read, “I’m back.”
That Sunday Jordan violated NBA rules and flew down to Indianapolis on his private jet. The plane landed, and he sat alone inside it on the runway. He was about to play his first NBA game since his father’s passing, and he wanted to let his mind roll back over some very personal memories. Then he rode downtown with an armada of limousines carrying his security force of twenty. He would need them to negotiate the crowds that had gathered around Market Square Arena, where security workers had erected yet more barricades.
Waiting for the game to start, Pacers coach Larry Brown took in the atmosphere and quipped that it seemed like “Elvis and the Beatles are back.”
Finally, shortly after noon, he emerged with his teammates from the visitors’ locker room and stood before a crowd gathered in the hallway. He chomped his gum, looked around with a serious frown, and made ready to resume the career that had been interrupted by an eighteen-month “retirement.”
At last, the maddening foreplay was coming to an end, and the basketball public could celebrate the return of its pharaoh. All the high priests of hoop were there. “NBC brought in the big guns for that one,” recalled Matt Guokas, who had ascended to the role of color analyst. “They even flew in Bob Costas to host the pregame show.”
If Jordan had decided to stage his own Super Bowl, it couldn’t have seemed like a bigger deal. Surrounded on all sides by cameras, the Bulls made their way out into the arena, opening yet another chapter in the saga of Air Jordan, but there was something not right with the picture. He was wearing jersey number 45, his minor league and junior high number, instead of the familiar 23 that he had made so famous. He had decided to keep number 23 retired because it was the last number his father saw him wear, Jordan later explained. Champion, the sportswear manufacturer that held the NBA license for jerseys, immediately added an extra shift and began producing more than 200,000 number 45 jerseys for sale around the world.
The crowd hardly seemed to care that he looked somewhat stiff and rusty against Indiana that afternoon. He made just 7 of 28 shots, but his defensive intensity helped the Bulls take the division-leading Pacers to overtime before losing. Afterward, he broke his silence to address the hoopla of the preceding ten days.
“I’m human,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting this. It’s a little embarrassing.”
His return had been delayed while he sought assurances that the Bulls would keep Pippen and Armstrong—assurances that Reinsdorf declined to make. Jordan said he had also taken his time evaluating his own motives, making sure his love of the game was genuine. That, he said, was the reason he returned, not financial considerations. He pointed out that the league had a moratorium on renegotiating contracts while it worked out a new labor agreement with the National Basketball Players Association, so he was forced to play for the $3.9 million salary he had left behind in 1993. (Although not required to, the Bulls had paid his full salary for 1993–94, and they would cover the full amount for 1994–95, although Jordan played only a portion of the season.) His return, he said, was based solely on his love for basketball.
“I wanted to instill some positives back into this game,” he said of his return, indicating his displeasure at some of the NBA’s highly paid young players. “There’s been a lot of negatives lately, young guys not taking care of their part of the responsibility, as far as the love of the game. I think you should love this game, not take advantage of it… be positive people and act like gentlemen, act like professionals.”
From there, the Michael Jordan Comeback Revue headed to Boston Garden, where three nights later, he scored 27 points by shooting 9 of 17 from the floor. This time the Bulls won. Next up, he treated his followers to a last-second shot for a win against Atlanta, setting up the big show at Madison Square Garden.
Knicks coach Pat Riley had become alarmed when he saw that Jordan was already starting to get his rhythm back against the Hawks. Riley, one of pro basketball’s most knowledgeable figures, knew when a storm was headed his way. Jordan and Falk sensed it coming, too. Jordan had wanted three games to warm up before facing Riley’s rough crew, with six-five John Starks, who had defended him well in the past. The Chosen One’s return to Gotham would draw the largest regular-season audience in the history of cable network TNT’s NBA coverage, and the city itself bristled with excitement. “Bulls Over Broadway” flashed a huge marquee near the Garden. All anyone could talk about was the “history.” Nothing lit up Jordan’s eyes like New York’s grand venue, dating from his rookie season. The Garden had been the site of statement after statement, the loudest of which came in his return from foot injury in 1986, when he set the building record for points scored by an opponent, with 50.
This night had the same feel, with his aura thick in the atmosphere.
“I came out here to score,” he said afterward, as if he needed to explain himself.
Everybody had seen that in those first New York minutes. His jump shot started falling in the opening quarter, as Starks backed off just enough to prevent his drive. He allowed Jordan to get into what he liked to call his rhythm, that flow he sought in everything he did, from batting to golf to basketball to table tennis with Lacy Banks. From there, he seized the Knicks by the throat, and even Spike L
ee and the courtside homers were secretly delighted. His scoring line was 49 by the end of the third quarter, and he went on to break his own Garden record. In the process he branded the moment on his board of legendary feats: his “double nickel” game, as he finished with 55.
With all that, it was the ending that blew Manhattan’s minds. The Knicks kept close, but Jordan had the ball and the game in his hands in the closing seconds as he surveyed the floor and drew what seemed like the entire defense. There, all alone under the basket was his new teammate, Bill Wennington, ready to make the winning dunk.
Afterward, Riley looked as if he’d been gnawing the leg of the scorer’s table the entire forty-eight minutes. “He’s the only one in the history of this game that’s had the impact that he’s had,” he conceded.
In the interview room, Jordan presented Starks with one last bit of trash. “I think he forgot how to play me,” he said, unable to resist another temptation to score.
The performance, more than any other single thing, created the impression that somehow, magically, he was ready to pick up where he had left off, that he was ready to simply waltz right into a fourth championship. Perhaps no one fell harder under this sway than Jordan and his coaches and teammates. The record itself buttressed their belief. With Jordan in the lineup, the Bulls rolled through the last weeks of the spring, going 13–4, built on two six-game winning streaks that sent the atmosphere in the United Center soaring. Brand-new when the season opened, the “UC” as it would quickly come to be called in Windy City jargon, seemed awkward and foreign to Jordan, who had once vowed never to play there. He relented, of course, but didn’t like it and quipped that he’d like to “blow it up.” That spring, Chicago Stadium sat across the street, with a huge hole in its side from the demolition in progress. On game nights, the lights were on inside the old “sandstone sarcophagus,” as if the ghosts of contests past were waiting, like the rest of Chicago, for good friend Michael and his crowd. Jordan, however, was struggling through bouts of very ordinary play, accompanied by tension behind the scenes.
Michael Jordan Page 55
