The Infinite Aybss: Chicago Basketball

Michael Jordan was my childhood. His highlights were the salve for whatever ailments arrived in my early life. You see, before I discovered MJ, I was a painfully shy kid with a speech impediment in elementary school who was an easy target for bullies. I wore my heart on my sleeve and that sensitivity only bred more ammunition for taunts, mostly from kids in the grade above me. I was, however, always a good athlete. I played flag football, baseball and soccer with a silent fury. I derived most of my self confidence from these activities. I'll never forget hitting a game winning home run off my biggest bully, Andy Schmeising, in little league. I remember his third grade fastball being intimidating on a level that seemed ungodly at the time. He struck me out my first time up and I went back behind the dugout and shed some quiet tears. My Dad found me and told me in a stern but loving way that toughness was something earned, that crying was not a productive way to combat disappointment. He was right. I popped out my second time up, but the contact felt good in my arms and hands. Then, in the final inning with the game tied and a runner on first, I belted one of those ungodly fastballs deep into the gap in right center. I rounded the bases like my demons were chasing me. When I crossed home, my teammates hoisted and carried me off the field. Someone later told me that Andy was crying when he left the field, I never looked back though, it didn't occur to me. My Dad drove me and my buddies home and we relived the moment with big toothy grins. The following Monday, I bumped into Andy at recess and he, surrounded by his friends, asked derisively, "What did you hit, a double?"

I quietly corrected him, "No, a home wun."

They all laughed at me and my inability to pronounce my R's.

I shrugged my shoulders, saw the masked pain in his eyes and walked away feeling ten feet tall. It was the ultimate affirmation that sports were my salvation from a world that I sometimes felt I didn't belong.

The Jordan legend firmly took hold of my imagination during 1990 when the Pistons had our number in the playoffs. I would watch those games and have these wildly unhealthy mood swings for a boy my age, but something clicked for me on those agonizing spring afternoons - THIS was my sport. The baseball mitt and shin-guards got tossed in the garage to collect dust and I resolved myself to shoot jumpshots until dusk every afternoon. I would also follow the Bulls wherever MJ would lead us. It was official. The artistry of his game transformed me during those first championship years. Bulls games were required viewing which everyone understood as bedrock. On those special occasions when you got to witness MJ in person at the Chicago Staduim, you treated it as a sacred journey to the hoops Mecca. A gift from the basketball Gods. Deafening decibel levels were expected and always delivered. The Knicks and Pistons were LOATHED. The Cavaliers were mocked. The entire aura of "Chicago hoops culture" gave us a civic pride that could not be understood unless you were a part of it. The identity of a Chicago Bulls fan carried with it a certain swagger that caused you to bound through the turnstiles, dripping in red, hungry for basketball and fully expecting a hoarse throat by the final buzzer. People throw the phrase "Glory Days" around, but I don't. The Chicago Bulls are the reason.

Around the time Jordan left and the Bulls started losing basketball games at a harrowing clip, you could hear two *thumps* around the city scape. The first was the ground shaking from all the casual fans jumping off the Bulls bandwagon. The second was the season tickets prices falling back to earth, opening up previously untouchable seats. My Dad, the shrewd and loyal business man that he is, went in on second row season tickets during the lean years (although there is technically nothing lean about Eddy Curry). As I mentioned in a previous post, the Bulls averaged 19 wins during the six year span following MJ's departure. It wasn't the same experience, but I think my Dad and I went out of habit. We had faith that things would turn around eventually. We mused to each other that Ron Artest would be a good NBA player if he could control his emotions. We felt bad for Elton Brand's nightly 20-10 going to waste. We read the newspapers when our second overall pick ran his motorcycle into a lightpost in Lakeview, effectively ending his career after one season. We watched Jalen Rose average nineteen field goal attempts per game during an entire season (which should NEVER happen under ANY circumstance). We sat in our seats for all of this, still rowdy, still optimistic, still engaged because in a strange way, we felt in debt to this team and all the wonderful memories.

Now, here we are in 2007. A new era with new faces, but the name on the front of the jersey remains the same. I went to the game last night, the biggest Bulls game since Jordan left. Hands down. The game itself was a major let down. Great energy in the first half, complete stagnation in the second half. The third quarter was PAINFUL to watch. Skiles should have brought Nocioni or Tyrus in for P.J.or Big Ben to cause more transitional offense, opportunities for run outs and at the very least some hustle plays. He kept the old guard in, who were giving up too many open jumpers and running a stand still offense where the ball would get passed around the perimeter for the entire possession before Gordon would be forced to drive it into the teeth of a stingy Pistons zone defense as the shot clock expired. That 16 point halftime lead we built evaporated to one point by the end of the 3rd quarter, after that the officiating was terrible in the fourth (not an excuse for losing) and we couldn't hit ANY crunch time free throws (getting closer!). Are the Pistons a better team that us? Probably. Could we beat them in a 7 game series? Absolutely. Just not this one.

Ok, so here's the main reason I really walked away from this game with such a sour taste in my mouth and the impetus for this post (well, I also wanted to tell you a little about my little league homer to be strictly honest). The crowd was bordering on docile at times when the Pistons would string some hoops together. The people in our section were especially reluctant to put their hands together and holler. Now, I know, I know, you aren't likely to bump into a painted face and mustached big belly on his tenth beer in the primo seats, but this isn't just any game. You gotta show some spirit! This is a MUST WIN in the conference semis against THE PISTONS! Now, the upper deck was raucous with their chants and towel waving, but by the time the sounds trickled down to the court, the madness seemed all too distant. Perhaps my expectations were too high, but the impassioned rally cries certainly didn't seem to align with the magnitude of the event. The people sitting in front of us in the first row, IN THE FIRST FUCKING ROW, were musing outloud if they should split during halftime with the Bulls up by so much (even in jest, this is completely inappropiate on a level I can't even begin to fathom). The people behind me (who thought I was drunker than I actually was) kept making snide remarks about my constant cheering, even asking me at one point if I minded taking a seat. IT'S THE PISTONS! WE NEED TO WIN THIS GAME! TAKE MY SEAT AND THROW IT IN THE INCINERATOR FOR ALL I CARE! I HAVE NO USE FOR IT, YOU ABSOLUTE JAGOFF! Well, that's what I should have said. Anyway, you get this little picture I'm trying to paint. I was disillusioned walking out of that building, but it was probably my fault for assuming a simple playoff run could recreate that lightning in a bottle from the Jordan years. The Sport's Guy wrote last week that the quintessential basketball crowd from yesteryear is virtually extinct due to league expansion diluting talent, high priced modern arenas relegating the diehards to the nosebleeds and the overall cultural shift towards fuzzy sideshows and kiss cams. The basketball is no longer THE reason you attend a game. I didn't buy that. Well, now I'm forced to nod, swallow hard and accept that painful reality. My boy Benny put it best on IM this morning, "The lack of passion and enthusiasm that are becoming commonplace in our sports venues is a malaise that appears to be eating at Americans in general...I think America is rotting from the inside from indifference...nothing is sacred...nothing really matters."

It's a sad day in Chicago for those who woke up this morning and finally realized that Michael Jordan is not walking through those doors again. There's not enough beer on Clark Street to drown that kind of sorrow, but I’ll give it a shot...

Go Cubs.