Part 11 (2/2)
Most of the players resented Jerry for one reason or another. It started with Michael. During his second year with the Bulls, Michael broke his left foot and had to sit out most of the season recovering from the injury. At a certain point, Michael insisted that his foot was fully healed, but Jerry refused to let him play until the doctors gave him the final okay. When Michael pushed back, Jerry told him that management had made the decision because he was their property, an unfortunate gaffe that alienated Michael and tainted his relations.h.i.+p with Krause from that day forward.
Other players had issues with Jerry too. They didn't like the way he stretched the truth about his past achievements as a scout to make himself look good. They were also annoyed when he became obsessed with recruiting Toni Kukoc, a promising forward from Croatia who Jerry predicted would be the next Magic Johnson, even though Toni had never played a game in the NBA. Scottie and Michael felt that Jerry's flirtation with Toni, who later signed with the Bulls, was an insult to his own players, and they went out of their way to crush Kukoc and the Croatian national team during the 1992 Olympics.
Most of all, the players were put off by Jerry's constant attempts to hang out with them and be one of the guys. His short, roly-poly physique didn't help his case, either. Michael nicknamed him ”Crumbs” because of his less-than-perfect table manners and often poked fun at his weight and other idiosyncrasies when he rode on the team bus.
This kind of tension on a team always makes me feel uneasy. When I was a kid, I hated discord of any kind. My older brothers, who were less than two years apart, fought constantly, and I was the peacemaker. My father used to discipline my brothers with his belt, and I remember sitting at the top of the cellar stairs bursting into tears listening to them get their whippings.
The way I handled Jerry was to keep things light. I knew that his overreaction to The Jordan Rules stemmed from his feeling that he wasn't getting the credit he deserved for building this great team. I understood. But I couldn't fix it, so I tried to s.h.i.+ft his mind with a touch of humor and compa.s.sion. I also tried to keep our relations.h.i.+p as professional as possible. As the team's fame grew, the rift between Jerry and me widened. But professionalism sustained us. Despite the turmoil, Jerry and I were able to stay focused and get the job done.
With the players it was a different matter. I told them they needed to tune out the distractions-whether they came from the media, Krause, or another source-and focus their attention on winning a second champions.h.i.+p. To that end, I redoubled my efforts to turn practice into a sanctuary from the messiness of the outside world. ”We were a very popular team,” says Scottie. ”So we had to secure and protect each other. We couldn't have people bringing their friends to practice and bugging guys for autographs. Because if you can't have freedom of life with your teammates, where are you going to get it?”
As the team turned its attention inward, the bond among the players began to re-form. The ”me's,” to use Michael's phrase, slowly transformed into a powerful We-and one of the strongest all-around teams I've ever coached. The system was clicking, and our defense was unstoppable. We got off to a 15-2 start and finished the season with 67 wins, 10 more than anyone else in the league. Our biggest losing streak was two games. At one point, Reinsdorf called and said, ”I hope you're not pus.h.i.+ng the team to break the record.” No, I told him, it was just happening spontaneously. B. J. Armstrong said he felt the Bulls were ”in tune with nature” that season and that everything was fitting together ”like fall and winter and spring and summer.”
Then came the playoffs. After beating Miami in three games, we faced a tough New York Knicks team, coached by Pat Riley, who had done a good job of turning the Knicks into a new version of the old Detroit Pistons. In fact, Riley had hired a former Pistons defensive coach, d.i.c.k Harter, to bring that kind of toughness to the Knicks. The NBA had put up with the Bad Boys of Detroit for the past five years, and after we'd dispatched them the previous year, there had been a collective sigh around the league. Muscle ball was out and finesse basketball was slowly coming back in vogue. Still, the Knicks had a powerful front line-made up of Patrick Ewing, Charles Oakley, and Xavier McDaniel, with Anthony Mason as the backup. Their strategy was to use their muscle to dominate the boards, slow down the tempo of the game, and take away the fast break. Their most effective weapon, however, was Riley's ability to spin the media. He had learned a lot in L.A. about using the press to play the refs, and he fired his first salvo before the first playoff game. His point? If the refs didn't get enamored with M.J., he said, and called a fair game, the Knicks would have a chance to win. I fired back, saying that Ewing was getting away with murder, taking extra steps every time he drove to the basket. The battle was on.
I've always felt comfortable talking with reporters because I spent so much time hanging out with them during my playing days with the Knicks. I also learned from some of the stupid mistakes I made. In my first year as a starter-197475-the Knicks took off on a roll, but we didn't have much depth and finished the season with a disappointing 40-42 record. So I told reporters that we might have made the playoffs, but we were ”still losers.” That was the big headline the next day: ”Jackson Calls Knicks Losers.”
My other gaffe was even worse. During a fight between the Lakers and the Rockets in 1977, L.A.'s Kermit Was.h.i.+ngton threw a punch at Houston's Rudy Tomjanovich that smashed his face and nearly killed him. I told reporters that I thought it was an unfortunate situation but that I'd narrowly ducked a similar blow from 76er George McGinnis a week earlier and n.o.body had even noticed. ”It seemed you had to be a star to get the league to notice,” I complained. I still wish I could take back those words.
The Knicks outmuscled us and got an easy ride from the refs en route to a surprising win in game 1. Early on Scottie Pippen severely sprained his ankle and the game slowed down to the Knicks' pace. We bounced back in game 2, lifted by several key shots by B.J. Armstrong. And Michael broke loose from the Knicks' crowbar defense to allow us to take back home-court advantage in game 3.
Horace compared game 4 to a World Wrestling Federation match, and Michael said the officiating was so bad he thought it would be impossible for us to win. I blamed the refs and got thrown out in the second half, as the Knicks took over and won, 9386.
My bad-boy side came out in the postgame interviews. I said, ”I think they're probably licking their chops on Fifth Avenue where the NBA offices are. I think they kind of like that it's a 2-2 series. I don't like 'orchestration.'... But they control who they send as referees. And if it goes seven, everybody will be really happy.”
Riley loved it. I had just handed him the perfect opening. The next day he told reporters that I was insulting his team. ”I was part of six champions.h.i.+p teams and I've been to the finals 13 times. I know what champions.h.i.+p demeanor is about. The fact that he's whining and whimpering about the officiating is an insult to how hard our guys are playing and how much our guys want to win... . That's what champions.h.i.+p teams are about. They've got to take on all comers. They can't whine about it.”
The New York press bought it wholesale. The next day the papers were filled with Phil the Whiner stories. Before then New York fans had treated me like one of the family, even though I now worked for the enemy. But after Riley's holier-than-thou speech, they started hurling catcalls at me in the street. It was strange, but I realized there was nothing I could say to undo what had been done. Winning was the best revenge.
It took us seven games. My Lakota friends told me that I should ”count coup” on Riley before game 7, so I did. As I walked by the Knicks bench, I stopped and reached out my hand to Pat and said: ”Let's give them a good show.” He nodded, a little nonplussed that I was talking to him. As it turned out, the game was a good Michael Jordan show. Early on Xavier McDaniel was pus.h.i.+ng around Scottie, who was recovering from his sprained ankle, so Michael stepped in and confronted the bigger, stronger power forward until he backed down. (I was so impressed by the way Michael defended his teammate, I later hung a picture of the stare-down over my office desk.) In the third quarter Jordan stymied McDaniel with one of the best turnaround plays I've ever seen. It started when Michael hit a jumper, then stole the Knicks' inbound pa.s.s and started driving to the basket for another quick 2 points. But Xavier knocked the ball out of his hands and charged downcourt for what looked like an easy layup. Except that Jordan was on his heels and knocked the ball away from behind just as McDaniel went up for the shot. That play destroyed the Knicks' spirit, and they never got close again. Afterward Riley graciously summarized what the Bulls had done. ”They played like they are,” he said.
Still, nothing came easy. After winning another hard-fought series against Cleveland, we faced the playoffs-hardened Portland Trail Blazers in the champions.h.i.+p finals. They were a fast, dynamic team led by Clyde Drexler, whom some observers not based in Chicago considered on par with Jordan. Our plan was to play strong transition defense and force them to beat us with their outside shooting. M.J.'s plan was to show the world that Drexler was no Michael Jordan. Michael was so determined Drexler's teammate Danny Ainge later told author David Halberstam it was like watching ”an a.s.sa.s.sin who comes to kill you and then cut your heart out.”
We came out strong and won the opener in Chicago, then let the next game slip away in overtime. Rather than take a late-night flight to Portland, as the Blazers did, I decided to fly the team out the next day and give them time off rather than make them slog through practice. The next day we burst out and took back the series lead, 21. After splitting the next two games, we returned to Chicago with a chance to put the series away on our home court.
The Blazers were on a roll in game 6, running up a 17-point lead in the third quarter. Tex insisted that I take Jordan out because he had gone rogue and wasn't playing within the system. I usually pulled Michael out two minutes before the end of the third period, but this time I took him out early and left the reserves in longer because they'd gone on a 142 run, helped by M.J.'s backup, Bobby Hansen, who threw down a key three-pointer. Michael was not happy when I didn't put him back in at the start of the fourth quarter. But I liked the backup players' energy and enthusiasm, and the Blazers seemed baffled about how to defend them. By the time Michael and the other starters returned to the game, the lead had shrunk to 5 points and the Blazers were reeling. Michael scored 12 of his 33 points and Scottie made some key shots to finish them off 9793.
Bring on the champagne. This was the first time we'd won a champions.h.i.+p at home, and the fans went wild. After the traditional craziness in the locker room, I led the players back to the floor to join in the celebration. Scottie, Horace, and Hansen jumped on the scorers' table and started to dance, and Michael followed, waving the champions.h.i.+p trophy. It was a joyous celebration.
After a while I returned to my office to reflect on what had just transpired. Later, when I met with the players privately, I told them that winning back-to-back champions.h.i.+ps was the mark of a great team. But what pleased me even more was that we'd had to navigate so many unexpected twists and turns to get there. Paxson called the season ”a long, strange trip,” referring to the famous Grateful Dead song. He was right. Our first champions.h.i.+p run had been a honeymoon. This was an odyssey.
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