It was vintage Phil Jackson. Honored at halftime of the Bulls’ final game of the season, he sat there with that bemused, distant, faintly superior smile so familiar from six championships. The smile always signaled that the job was done, the journey over, and it was time to take a step back and appreciate what he and the team had accomplished. Of course this occasion was not quite so festive. The Bulls were putting the finishing touches on an abbreviated 13-37 season in their first year since the 80s without Jackson, Michael Jordan, and Scottie Pippen and the “supporting cast.” Though the spring day had bloomed clear and warm, arousing memories of similar afternoons in which I’d driven down to the Chicago Stadium playing my lucky Jungle Brothers tape to prepare for yet another titanic tilt with the Detroit Pistons or the New York Knicks or the Portland Trail Blazers or whomever, the mood at the United Center couldn’t have been more different. I couldn’t recall the last time I had gone to a Bulls game knowing their season would end that night–they were never extended to a seventh game in the NBA finals–and no one I talked with could remember that far back either. For the record, it was at the end of the 1983-’84 season, when the Bulls missed the playoffs and set themselves up to draft Jordan. The Jackson ceremony aside, this was a very dreary occasion.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
The halftime ceremony offered the pageantry but none of the excitement of the championship days, yet that seemed to be enough for most people. It was something, anyway, and the UC was fairly well populated (though with patches of empty seats at all levels). “I’ve looked forward to this all year long,” said assistant coach Tex Winter, and speaking for almost everyone he added, “It’s about the only thing I have looked forward to.” If the treacly pop song that played during the scoreboard highlight sequence seemed inappropriate to an appreciation of Jackson, and if there was a Barnumesque hokum to the proceedings (limited to an extra 5 minutes at halftime and 19 minutes total by the league, the Bulls nevertheless managed to stretch things out by pausing the clock at 13 minutes as it ticked down, for a little longer at 12 minutes, even longer at 11 minutes, and so on, until the clock halted for good at 7 minutes), no one seemed to mind, though Jackson himself, in a reference to his labeling of the sixth championship season as “the last dance,” was prompted to call the ceremony “the final grope after the last song has been sung.” He always did have a flair for the seemingly offhand metaphor that captured things in their essence.
It truly was a lost season. The Vancouver Grizzlies and Los Angeles Clippers had worse records, but the Bulls led the league in negative point differential, averaging more than nine points less than their opponents. They achieved Krause’s goal of missing the playoffs and setting themselves up for a lottery pick in the NBA draft. The question is, what else did they achieve? They got Floyd acclimated to the league, and they tried out several young players. But it’s unclear if any are championship caliber talents. Brent Barry proved himself a dumb player and a mediocre talent, averaging 11 points but making less than 40 percent of his shots from the floor. His multiyear contract could be an albatross. Other players seemed to improve but more than likely were basketball mirages. Just because a player looks good on a bad team doesn’t mean he’s the sort one wants to keep around. Dickey Simpkins and Randy Brown thrived with increased playing time, but neither established himself as a starter worth retaining. Rusty LaRue endeared himself to fans with his enthusiastic play and his Curious George haircut, but he shot even worse than Barry. Of the rookies, Cory Carr and Corey Benjamin both showed flashes of talent. Carr is a muscular, low-to-the-ground player with a jackhammer dribbling style, but as a point guard he wasn’t much of a playmaker. Benjamin, taller and more elegant, was said to be the best athlete on the team, but the off guard frequently seemed lost in the fray. Forward Kornel David, the Hungarian import, displayed much less natural ability but a great deal more court sense. If only he and Benjamin could be blended they’d make one good player between them.
