by William Meiners
The Golden State Warriors made news a couple weeks ago. Just by losing in Denver, and then again soon after in Detroit. That long haul, the forecasters said, the 82 game marathon would squash any attempt to match the mighty Chicago Bulls of two decades ago. But then they reel off seven straight victories, with dominant showings over the Cavaliers, Bulls, Pacers, and Knicks, as well as a surprising squeaker in Philadelphia. Back west they drubbed the Spurs and Mavericks by 30 and 20, respectively.
The Dorothy in me, the dreamer, ever optimistic about the future of history, hopes Warriors will trump Bulls by bettering their 72-10 regular season record. The Judy Garland in me, the cynic, usually pretty drugged up, doesn’t much care. Of course the shrieking heads care, arguing ad nauseam about who would win between the bygone Bulls and today’s Warriors. A conversation about as useful as who might kill Adolph Hitler given a gun and a time-travel ticket. For what it’s worth, I think the Bulls would have defeated the Nazis. Both in basketball and World War II. I witnessed their greatness.
I lived in Chicago 20 years ago. In fact, I was just about 20 years younger (if math serves me), then turning 30 as the Bulls began heating up in 1995-96 campaign. A grad student who never did write the great American novel, I took up less physical space and had more hair. Fer Pete’s sake (Chicago accent), I may have even fashioned my mullet into a ponytail. I wasn’t a Bulls fan, still cheering for my hometown Indiana Pacers, but I couldn’t help but watch and appreciate Michael Jordan and friends then starting their second three-peat. I’d often drop into Gunther Murphy’s on Belmont, have a replacement meal of Guinness (then six or seven more) and watch the Bulls take on and beat anyone unfortunate enough to have next. My dog, Jack Kerouac, somewhat less socially retarded than myself, was a good companion and conversation starter. Lots of real off-the-boat Irish folks (and maybe they took planes by then) would buy Jack a pint and howl delightedly as his snout strained to drain the glass. I really felt like his wingman.
It might take a hypnotist and whole team of psychologists to retrieve my thoughts from those days. Though I do recall an incredible Chicago comeback on a Sunday night in Denver. Okay, I Googled some of those details, but it looks like the Bulls, down 25 at halftime, came within two of the Nuggets going into the fourth. Alas, the frantic third quarter pace, the high altitude, or Jordan suddenly feeling more like John or Bob Denver resulted in a rare loss that still somehow characterized their unquenchable thirst for Gatorade (potential Google ad). I mean winning.
But this particular naval-gazing essay isn’t about me. Not entirely. I sought out two of the most Chicago guys I know to cull their memories on the Bulls. Not exactly Dembrowski types, but a lifelong city guy, Steve Mend, and our very own Sport Literate mouthpiece, Glenn Guth.
For Mend, the championship Bulls 2.0 may not have happened without a reconciliation with an old hated Piston. “All the bad blood that Detroit and Dennis Rodman represented was meaningless if this guy could get them back to the finals,” Mend said. “And it seemed like dozens of NBA players couldn’t stand to be on the same court with him. Alonzo Mourning was reduced to seven feet of whines and whimpers whenever Rodman grazed his flesh.”
Plus, Phil Jackson, maybe the world’s tallest Buddhist, preached a “live-and-let’s-win” philosophy to a potentially mismatched bunch of Bulls. “Chicago may be the most unfashionable of all American cities,” Mend said. “If this Dennis in a wedding dress wants to lace his body with surgical steel and turn his head into a leopard’s pelt, that’s fine. Winning, Billy boy! Getting back to the top was the only thing that mattered.”
Guth isn’t above Googling an aging memory. He noted that Jordan led the team in scoring 68 times in 82 games. Talk about not taking a night off. With wingman Scottie Pippen, another Bull on the NBA’s greatest 50 list, Jordan had a great supporting cast that included Toni Kukoc, Ron Harper and Steve Kerr, to name a few. Even if he had to muster up the hate of an evicted tenant just to beat them in practice.
A longtime season ticketholder, Guth saw six championships and two All Star games throughout the Jordan era. The times were changing even then, as the Bulls moved from the historic Chicago Stadium to the United Center, an airportish haven in both name and design. “The old Chicago Stadium got so loud you couldn’t hear the person sitting next to you,” Guth said.
“What’s that, Glenn?”
“I said the old Chicago Stadium… The ‘Madhouse on Madison’ offered more of a home court advantage than in the ‘bigger box’ venue, making that second three-peat tougher,” Guth said.
Plenty of games stood out for Guth. In one, Jordan dropped in 35 while Tim Hardaway, a Chicago son playing with the Miami Heat, scored 30. “It was also fun watching the development of Kukoc, one of the first really good Europeans in the league,” he says. “He could fill it in from the arc even though he was six feet 10.”
And even though the Bulls won three championships in the early 1990s, the ’95-’96 Bulls were all about vengeance. Air Jordan was off the AA baseball bus — out of spikes, into Nikes (potential Google ad) and reunited with jersey number 23 down from the rafters. “Unlicensed street vendors sold ‘Fuck NY’ shirts in the conference semifinals,” said a normally not-foul-mouthed Guth. “Of course I bought one.”
Fuckin’ A. Maybe that home team dominance can put some mustard on anyone’s dog, a kick in any pedestrian’s step. And we didn’t murder each other so much back then. Guth enjoyed the Bull sessions with his three kids, especially seeing games in person. Mend said those teams helped drain his bank account. Me, I was draining bank either way.
As for this year’s Warriors with a Golden Gate logo that’s near and dear to my heart (another story), I really hope they can run with those Bulls of record. I think their particular style of basketball of ball movement and swishes is absolutely beautiful. Why wouldn’t it border on perfection? Or at least within 10 games of it. I suppose Kerr, at last trading hospital slippers for coaching shoes, wouldn’t mind making history twice.
William Meiners, the editor-in-chief of Sport Literate, teaches creative writing at the Saginaw Chippewa Tribal College in Mount Pleasant, Michigan.