For the first two years of Malone’s career he appeared headed on a Wilt Chamberlain–like course, a player who could be fouled late in the game because he would miss from the line. But as much as any player in NBA history, the Mailman made himself into a free-throw shooter by pure will and repetition, turning that early .548 percentage into a .742 lifetime mark. That is a monumental achievement that made his career, since he is still the all-time leader in made free throws. When the defense has a guy it can’t stop and can’t foul, it has a major problem.
But there is always the root question in sports: who was better? You have that moment when you can give only one person the bat, the club, or the ball, and who would you choose? It’s not a media thing; it’s a player thing. You can talk about how Jack Nicklaus dominated golf for two full decades and won a Masters at age forty-six and never tore up his knees with an overtorqued swing or his private life with an overtorqued libido. But if you had that moment when something had to get done, some miracle shot had to be pulled off, wouldn’t most players say, Tiger, you take the club? Wouldn’t they hand the ball to Jim Brown? Wouldn’t they send Ted Williams up to hit?
In basketball, I’m sure that if players spoke honestly, Jordan would always get the ball over anyone. Magic or Bird? I have no basis on which to conclude this, but my guess is that the majority would say Bird, even though Magic had the greater career. The modern-day equivalent is Kobe Bryant or LeBron James, and I’m certain that most would say Bryant … unless they said Dwyane Wade, or now Dirk Nowitzki.
And I’m equally certain that this Barkley-or-Malone nod would go to Barkley. Charles had that ineffable something that Malone didn’t have. He was just better. He wasn’t more important to a franchise, he wasn’t as dependable, and he wasn’t as good over the long haul. He was just … better.
Drexler offered a simple but perceptive analysis of Barkley when we talked about it in 2011. “If Charles had worked out and done things like he was supposed to, the way that Karl did them, then he wouldn’t have been Charles,” said Drexler. “He was creative, and creative guys have to do it at their own pace and in their own way.” It’s another way of saying that we don’t ask our poets to diagram sentences.
Of all the Dream Teamers, though, Laettner came closest to paying Barkley the ultimate compliment. When I made the casual comment that everyone believed that Jordan was the best, Laettner pursed his lips for a minute and considered. “I guess,” he said. “But by a very, very small margin over Charles.” That sentiment could be the result of his being much closer to Barkley than he was to Jordan during his Dream Team experience. Or it could be an honest opinion.
Jordan and Pippen walk up the court together. “He’s tired,” Jordan says of Barkley. How many times had they seen that with the Bulls, some little tell that an opponent was in oxygen debt and the Bulls were about to take over? As if to disprove Jordan, Barkley plows into the lane and Malone is called for a block. Taking a cue from Magic, the Mailman bats the ball high into the air. Seeing a profusely perspiring Barkley at the line, Jordan moves in for the kill.
“A man is tired, he usually misses free throws,” says Jordan. This is a recurring theme for His Airness. “One and one now,” says Jordan, wiggling two fingers at Barkley. Barkley makes the first—“Yeah, Charles, you gonna get your two anyway,” sings Magic—but Ewing bats the second off the rim before it has a chance (maybe) to go in.
Bird misses another open jumper but decides to make something of this personal nightmare. As Magic yo-yo-dribbles on the left side, Bird suddenly comes off Laettner and steals the ball. He bumps Magic slightly, but even the gentleman from Italy is not going to call that one. As Magic tumbles to the ground, Bird takes off, Barkley in pursuit, pursuit used lightly in this case. (As a matter of fact, takes off is used lightly, too.) Bird fakes a behind-the-back pass to a trailing Jordan and Barkley takes a man-sized bite at it, his jock now somewhere inside the free-throw line. Bird makes the layup.
“Way to go, Larry!” Jordan yells. “Way to take him to the hole. I know you got some life in you.”
(Years later I watched some of the game with Mullin. When we came to the part where Bird made this turn-back-the-clock play, Mullin called to his wife, Liz, “Honey, come here and watch this. Watch what Larry does here.” And we run it back a couple of times, Mullin and his wife smiling, delighted by the sight of the Bird they both loved. A couple of months after that, I remind Jordan of the play. He grows animated. “That was the game-winner, right?” he says. Not exactly, I tell him. But Jordan is amped up, not even listening to me. “That’s Larry, man, that’s Larry,” he says. “Making a great play like that. That’s Larry Bird.”)
Michael Jordan’s White Team 26, Magic Johnson’s Blue Team 22.
Laettner makes two free throws, and at the other end Jordan feeds Malone for a jumper. Barkley misses a jumper, but Robinson, an aerial acrobat, a giant with a gymnast past, leaps high over Ewing and taps the ball in off the board.
Michael Jordan’s White Team 28, Magic Johnson’s Blue Team 26.
Jordan launches a jumper from the top of the key, outside the three-point area, as Mullin flies out to guard him.
“Too late,” Jordan yells while the ball is still in the air, like the queen (played by Judi Dench) in Shakespeare in Love, reacting disdainfully when a courier is tardy throwing his cloak over a puddle.
Michael Jordan’s White Team 31, Magic Johnson’s Blue Team 26.
Now mostly what you hear is Jordan’s voice, exhorting his team, sensing the kill. Magic backs into the lane, Malone guarding him on a switch. The gentleman from Italy blows his whistle … and the Mailman blows his top.
“Oh, come on, man,” he yells. “Stop calling this fucking bullsheet.” Jordan comes over and steps between Malone and the ref.
“Forget it, Karl,” says Jordan. “Don’t scare him. We might need him.”
“Fuck him!” yells Malone.
As Magic lines up at the foul line, the whistle in P. J. Carlesimo’s mouth actually moves. That’s because his face is twisted into a grin.
Magic shoots the first, which rolls around as Jordan, hands on shorts, yells to Ewing, “Knock it out!” Too late. Magic swishes the second.
Michael Jordan’s White Team 31, Magic Johnson’s Blue Team 28.
Pippen pops out from behind a Ewing screen and swishes a jumper. At the other end, Mullin loses his grip on a Magic pass and Bird recovers. Jordan begins a break, motions Ewing to join him on the left side, and watches in delight as Patrick takes a few pitty-pat steps and makes a jumper.
“That’s a walk!” a couple of voices yell. But no call is made.
Michael Jordan’s White Team 35, Magic Johnson’s Blue Team 28.
Ewing is whistled for a foul on Robinson, and Jordan says, “That’s okay. Let’s see if they can make free throws.” The tip of the knife is in and he has begun to twist. Robinson makes both. At the other end, Jordan feeds Malone, who draws a foul on Barkley.
“One and one?” the Blue team asks.
“Two shots,” says Jordan, who has clearly taken over the whistle from Magic. Malone misses both. Barkley grabs the second miss, steams downcourt, and passes ahead to Laettner, who goes up and fails to connect but is fouled by Jordan. Dunk that shit, Chris.
“Every time!” yells Magic from the backcourt, desperately trying to regain the verbal momentum. “Every time!”
Laettner, who has been and will remain silent throughout the game—one could only imagine how he would’ve dominated the conversation had this been an intrasquad romp back in Durham, North Carolina—makes both free throws.
Michael Jordan’s White Team 35, Magic Johnson’s Blue Team 32.
Magic is called for a reach-in and now he goes after the gentleman from Italy, trailing him across the lane. Magic lines up next to Ewing and pushes his arm away as Ewing leans in to box out on Jordan’s free throws. Jordan makes both. Magic is steaming.
At the other end, the gentleman from Italy calls an inexplicable moving
screen on Robinson, which delights Jordan.
“My man,” he yells, clapping his hands. “My man, my man, my man.” We might need him.
“Chicago Stadium,” Magic yells. “Chicago Stadium.” His fresh ammunition has run dry; all he has is the refrain.
Malone backs Barkley down and the whistle blows, and now it’s Barkley attacking the gentleman from Italy. “Come on, man!” he yells. “That was clean!” For a moment it appears as if Barkley might strike him. He does have a history, after all.…
Malone misses the first.
“Plenty of time,” comes a voice from the sideline, probably that of Krzyzewski.
“There ain’t no plenty of time!” yells Jordan. “Fuck plenty of time!” The clock says 1:21. Malone makes the second.
Michael Jordan’s White Team 38, Magic Johnson’s Blue Team 32.
Laettner makes a weird twisting layup. Over on the sidelines, Daly is beginning to pace, hoping this thing will come to an end before a fistfight breaks out or one of his players assaults the gentleman from Italy.
As Robinson lines up to shoot a free throw, Jordan and Magic begin jawing again, and Magic changes up slightly.
“All they did was move Bulls Stadium right here,” Magic says. “That’s all they did. That’s all they did.”
“Hey, it is the nineties,” Jordan says, reaching for a towel.
Robinson makes both.
Michael Jordan’s White Team 38, Magic Johnson’s Blue Team 36.
Jordan yo-yo-dribbles out front, running down the shot clock, pissing off Magic all the while. Finally he drives left, goes up for a jumper, and draws a foul on Laettner. Before he shoots, Magic moves in for a few words. They are not altogether pleasant. Jordan makes the first. Magic keeps jawing. Jordan takes the ball from the gentleman from Italy, slaps him on the rump, and says, “Good man.” He makes the second.
Chuck Daly watches in relief as the clock hits 0:00. He waves his hands in a shooting motion at both baskets, the sign for players to do their post-practice routine, and ending the Greatest Game That Nobody Ever Saw.
Michael Jordan’s White Team 40, Magic Johnson’s Blue Team 36.
Except that it isn’t over. Not really.
“Way to work, White,” Jordan yells, rubbing it in. He paces up and down, wiping himself with a towel, emperor of all he sees, as Magic, Barkley, and Laettner disconsolately shoot free throws.
“It was all about Michael Jordan,” says Magic. “That’s all it was.”
It’s no joke. Magic is angry.
Jordan continues to pace the sideline. He grabs a cup of Gatorade and sings, “Sometimes I dream …” Jordan had recently signed a multimillion-dollar deal (was there any other kind in his world?) to endorse Gatorade, which then needed an advertising hook, a task assigned to a creative genius named Bernie Pitzel. Inspired by “I Wan’na Be Like You,” the Monkey Song in the animated film The Jungle Book, Pitzel wrote the lyrics to “Be Like Mike” on the tablecloth of Avanzare, his favorite Chicago restaurant.
Sometimes I dream
If I could be like Mike
And as Magic looks on in this sticky-hot gymnasium, sweat pouring off his body, a towel around his neck, there is Jordan, captain of the winning team, singing a song written just for him, drinking a drink that was raking in millions, just rubbing it in and rubbing it in, as only Jordan can do. And on the bus back to the hotel? Jordan kept singing and singing: Be like Mike … Be like Mike …
In the days that followed, the game would have reverberations in Barcelona, as Michael and Magic, equally relentless, continued to try to get the verbal edge on each other. And in the years that followed, this intrasquad game—more like a scrimmage, really, officiated by the stouthearted but vastly incompetent gentleman from Italy—took on a mystery, became part of basketball lore, “kind of like an urban legend,” as Laettner described it years later. As such, the details got all scrambled, muddled with those of other scrimmages on other days. Even Magic didn’t have the details correct when he talked about it in When the Game Was Ours.
And not everybody loved it. “You have to look at who relish that kind of thing,” said Karl Malone. “As they say, it’s their geeeg.” By “their” he meant Jordan and Magic. (In the spring of 2011 I asked Malone if he wanted to watch a few minutes of the scrimmage video. “No,” he says. “Doesn’t interest me.”)
But Krzyzewski, no fan of trash talk, looks back on it fondly, remembering almost every detail. And when I talked to him about it years later, we agreed that the basketball played on that morning was not an artistic triumph. But that isn’t the point.
“Every once in a while, I’ll be doing something, and a line from that game will just flash into my head,” says Krzyzewski. “ ‘They just moved Chicago Stadium to Monte Carlo.’ It just makes me smile.
“A lot of players talk trash because the TV cameras are on. But the doors on that day were closed. This was just you against me. ‘This is what I got—whatta you got?’ It taught me a lot about accepting personal challenges.
“You know, if somebody could’ve taped the sound track of the game, not necessarily recorded the basketball but just the sounds, it would be priceless.”
Well, I did get the original VHS tape, convert it to DVD, and even get a specialist to make a CD of the sound track. I didn’t pick up everything, but I got most everything.
It was not about the hoops. It was about the passion that those guys put into the game, the importance they placed on winning and personal pride. At times it was childish in the strictest sense of that word. But they were playing a kid’s game, after all, and pursued it with a childlike determination to come out on top.
Years later, in a conversation with Jordan, he brought up the game before I had a chance to ask him about it. “In many ways,” said Jordan, “it was the best game I was ever in. Because the gym was locked and it was just about basketball. You saw a lot about players’ DNA in games like that, how much some guys want to win. Magic was mad about it for two days.”
Magic, for his part, estimates that his anger lasted only a few hours. “Michael understood that because that’s how he was, too,” said Johnson. “Let me tell you something—it would’ve been worse for everybody if he lost. Because I could let something go after a while. But Michael? He never let it go. He never let anything go.”
So into the history book it goes.
JULY 22, 1992, STADE LOUIS II, MONTE CARLO
OFFICIALS: Carlesimo, gentleman from Italy
Three-pointers: Jordan 2–3; Bird 0–1
Steals: Pippen 2; Bird 1
Blocked shots: Ewing 2
Insults: Jordan 7
Referee explosions: Malone 2; Bird ½; Jordan ½
Three-pointers: Johnson 1–1; Mullin 0–1
Steals: Mullin 1
Blocked shots: 0
Insults: Johnson 11
Referee explosions: Johnson 1; Barkley 1
CHAPTER 29
THE WRITER
“There’s Helicopters Up There— This Shit Is Serious!”
By the time David Dupree and I arrived in Barcelona—having turned a six-and-a-half-hour drive from Nice into nine hours in that pre-GPS age—the Dream Team had already arrived, launching a nonstop, sixteen-day freak show. The accreditation process at the airport had been a zoo, as camera crews repeatedly broke through police lines to fire off shots of the gods. If you think American paparazzi are obnoxious, you haven’t seen European photographers in action. One Italian cameraman, walking backward, stumbled and fell and others tripped over him, thousand-dollar lenses and scopes flying everywhere, and for a brief moment some in the American party thought they were about to witness the equivalent of a soccer riot:
“17 Onlookers Crushed in Dream Team Debacle! Stockton, Mullin Pick Up I.D. Badges!”
My digs were a few subway stops from the Ambassador, the new hotel that had been almost completely taken over by the Dream Team and its attendant retinue—as the story went, only one of the $900-per-night rooms wa
s occupied by someone not associated with the Dream Team. It was a small miracle that they were ensconced there at all, given the Spanish predilection for a casual approach to labor. Nine months before the Olympics, NBC’s Dick Ebersol, who was in Barcelona on one of his frequent pre-Olympic visits, called David Stern. “You know that hotel you’re planning to stay at?” Ebersol told the commissioner. “Well, I’ve over here at a hotel nearby, and I can tell you it’s a hole in the ground.” After much barking at the IOC, followed by the IOC’s barking at the Spanish Olympic Committee, the Ambassador was finished just days before the Dream Team’s arrival.
I decided to venture over there upon arriving, see if I could grab a beer with the PR guys, maybe get a couple of minutes with one of the players, Barkley, Malone, or Drexler, perhaps, and …
You might’ve thought that by this time I had fully grasped the Dream Team phenomenon, but I hadn’t. For there, outside the hotel, lined up on Pintor Fortuny, the narrow street that fronted the hotel, were hundreds and hundreds of spectators, just waiting and watching, waiting and hoping for … what? A glimpse. That’s all. Just a glimpse. When the team bus had rounded the corner a few hours earlier, fans began running after it, a phenomenon that Malone compared to the running of the bulls at Pamplona. “I don’t know what they were going to do if they caught us,” said Malone.
Anyone still demanding to know why the Dream Team had special accommodations needed only to glance at an aerial photo of this scene to realize how completely its presence would’ve wrecked the delicate ecosystem of the Olympic Village. Police holding bayoneted rifles were everywhere. It was midnight, remember, and the hotel was in lockdown. I couldn’t get close to the front door, and, this being the pre-cellphone age, I had no one to call to let me in. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway, since a couple of days’ advance notice was needed. Over the next two weeks I would worm my way into the inner sanctum of the Ambassador a couple of times, always requiring a badge and an escort from the NBA or USA Basketball, flashing my credential to the steely-eyed policemen like Wayne and Garth backstage at the Aerosmith gig in Wayne’s World.
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