A few minutes later I gathered the players in the dressing room and gave Bill the floor. "Look, Scottie, that was bulls.h.i.t," he said, staring at his fellow cocaptain. "After all we've been through on this team. This is our chance to do it on our own, without Michael, and you blow it with your selfishness. I've never been so disappointed in my whole life."

He stood there with tears in his eyes and everyone sat in stunned silence.

After Bill finished talking, I led the team in the Lord's Prayer and left for the press conference. The players stayed behind and talked over the situation. Scottie apologized to them for letting the team down, saying he was frustrated by the way the game ended. Then others chimed in about how they felt. "I really think it cleansed us as a team," said Kerr later. "We got some things out of our system and realized what our goals are again. The crazy thing is, it helped us."

It's amusing to look back on how the media handled the story. They went into high moralizing mode, arguing that I should do everything short of incarcerating Scottie. Most coaches would probably have suspended him or worse, but I didn't think being punitive was the best way to handle the situation. The next day Scottie a.s.sured me that he had put the incident behind him, and that was that. And I could tell by the way he moved during practice that this wasn't going to be a big issue for him.

Some people applauded my clever management strategy. But I wasn't trying to be clever. In the heat of the game, I simply tried to stay in the moment and make decisions based on what was actually happening. Rather than a.s.serting my ego and inflaming the situation further, I did what needed to be done: find someone to throw in the ball and go for the win. Afterward, rather than trying to fix things myself, I let the players solve the problem. I acted intuitively, and it worked.

The team came alive in the next game, led by Scottie, who ama.s.sed 25 points, 8 rebounds, and 6 a.s.sists, en route to a 9583 victory that tied the series 22. "All of a sudden there was a lovefest going on," said Johnny Bach after the game. "It was in Chicago instead of Woodstock."

I wish there were a fairy-tale ending to this story, but the plot took another bizarre turn. We were leading by one point in the final seconds of game 5 when referee Hue Hollins decided to step through the looking gla.s.s. Most refs try to avoid making calls that decide big games as the clock is running down. But this was Madison Square Garden, and the age-old rules of basketball didn't seem to apply.

With 7.6 seconds left, John Starks got trapped along the sideline and tossed a desperation pa.s.s to Hubie Davis at the top of the key. Scottie stormed out to cover Davis, and Hubie got off a rushed, off-kilter jumper that didn't come close to the basket. Or at least that's how it looked on the replay. But that's not what happened in Hollins's parallel universe. He called a foul on Scottie, saying he had made contact with Hubie and disrupted the shot. (Davis had kicked out his legs and Scottie collided with them, a move the NBA has since deemed an offensive foul.) Needless to say, Hubie hit the two free throws, and the Knicks went ahead in the series, 32.

We beat the Knicks decisively in game 6, but the fairy tale ended in game 7. After the 8777 loss, I gathered the players together to pay homage to our achievement. This was the first time in years that we'd ended a season without being surrounded by TV cameras. We should absorb this moment, I told the team, because losing is as much a part of the game as winning-and I really meant it. "Today they beat us," I said. "We were not defeated."

It was a difficult summer. Suddenly, the team started to come apart. Paxson retired and became a radio announcer for the team. Cartwright announced his retirement but changed his mind after being offered a lucrative deal by the Seattle SuperSonics. Scott Williams grabbed a big contract with Philadelphia. And Horace Grant, who was eligible for free agency, initially accepted an offer from Jerry Reinsdorf to stay with the Bulls but shifted and went to Orlando instead.

I also had to let go of Johnny Bach. Tensions between Jerry Krause and Johnny had hit the boiling point and were making it difficult for us to work together as a group. Jerry, whose nickname in the media was "the Sleuth" because of his reputation for surrept.i.tiousness, was already suspicious of Johnny because of his supposed leaks to Sam Smith for The Jordan Rules. Now Jerry was claiming that Johnny was responsible for leaking confidential information about our interest in seven-seven Romanian center Gheorghe Muresan. This was an outrageous accusation. Even though we'd been following Muresan closely in Europe and had even brought him in for a secret tryout, there were several other teams that had been scouting him, including Washington, which ended up drafting him.

Nevertheless, I thought it would be best for everyone concerned, including Johnny, to have him move on, and he landed a spot as an a.s.sistant coach for the Charlotte Hornets. Johnny's departure had a dispiriting effect on my staff and the players, and it created a crack in my relationship with Krause.

Another troubling development in the 199394 off-season was the conflict between Pippen and Krause over the possible trade of Scottie to the Seattle SuperSonics for forward Shawn Kemp and swingman Ricky Pierce. Scottie was stunned when he heard about the deal from reporters and didn't believe Krause when he told him that he was just listening to trade offers, as he would with any player. Seattle's owner eventually pulled the plug on the deal under pressure from the Sonics' fans. But the damage had been done. Scottie felt insulted by the way he'd been treated, and it tainted his perception of Jerry from that point on.

Team morale began to improve in late September when we signed free-agent shooting guard Ron Harper and formally announced that we didn't have any plans to trade Pippen. I warned Scottie against getting caught in a media war with Krause. "I know you've got this feud going on," I said, "but it's not helping you and it's not helping the team. Frankly, it's making you look bad. Things are going to work out for you, Scottie. You had an MVP-like season last year. Why don't you just let it go?"

"Yes, I know," he said, with a shrug. "It is what it is." Nevertheless, the flare-ups between Pippen and Krause continued for some time, and as late as January 1995 Scottie was asking to be traded.

Still, the acquisition of Harper was promising. He was six feet six, with a strong drive and a nice shooting touch and had averaged close to 20 points a game during his nine years with the Cavaliers and the Clippers. Ron had had a devastating ACL injury in 1990 and had recovered, but he wasn't the same threat we'd faced in the '89 playoffs against Cleveland. Yet we were optimistic that he could fill at least part of the Jordan scoring gap. As for the rest of the lineup, I was less certain. Our biggest weakness was our two untested newcomers at power forward-Corie Blount and d.i.c.key Simpkins.

As the season got under way, I was troubled by the team's lack of compet.i.tive spirit. This was a new problem for us. Michael had such an overpowering drive to win that it rubbed off on everybody else. But now that all the players on the core championship teams had left, except for Scottie, B.J. Armstrong, and Will Perdue, that drive was only a faint memory. Typically, we'd build up leads in the first half then succ.u.mb to pressure in the fourth quarter when the games got more physical. By the All-Star break we were struggling to stay above .500 and losing games on the road that in years past would have been victories for us.

Then one morning in early March, Michael Jordan showed up at my office in the Berto Center. He'd just left spring training and returned home, after refusing the White Sox's offer to be a replacement player during Major League Baseball's upcoming lockout season. Michael said he was considering a return to basketball and wondered if he could come to practice the next day and work out with the team. "Well, I think we've got a uniform here that might fit you," I replied.

What followed was the weirdest media circus I've ever witnessed. I did everything I could to protect Michael's privacy, but word soon got out that Superman was in the house. Within days an army of reporters were gathered outside our training facility, waiting to hear when Michael was going to suit up again. After more than a year of being fixated on the O.J. Simpson murder case, America was yearning for good news about a sports superhero. And the mystery surrounding Michael's comeback gave the story an additional allure. When Michael finally decided to return, his agent sent out what may be the pithiest press release in history. All it said was, "I'm back."

Michael's first game-on March 19, against the Pacers in Indianapolis-was a worldwide media event that attracted the largest television audience ever for a regular-season game. "The Beatles and Elvis are back," quipped Indiana's coach, Larry Brown, as a phalanx of TV cameras crowded into the locker rooms before the game. And during warm-ups, Corie Blount saw a TV crew taking a shot of Michael's Nikes and said, "Now they're interviewing his shoes."

Michael's arrival had an enormous impact on the team. Most of the new players were in awe of his basketball skills and competed intensely during practice to show him what they could do. Still, there was a vast gulf between Michael and his teammates that was difficult for him to bridge. To build the deep level of trust that a championship team requires usually takes years of hard work. But this team didn't have that luxury. Michael didn't know many of the players very well, and there wasn't enough time left in the season to change that.

At first it didn't seem to matter. Though Michael had trouble finding his shooting rhythm in that first game in Indiana, he erupted in the next game against Boston and the team began a 13-3 run. If anyone had doubts about Michael's ability the second time around, he erased them six days later when he scored 55 points against the Knicks in Madison Square Garden-the highest total for any player that year.

After the game, however, Michael came to my office and voiced some reservations. "You've got to tell the players they can't expect me to do what I did in New York every night," he said. "In our next game, I want them to get up and get going-to play as a team."

This was a new Michael. In the past he would have reveled in his triumph over the Knicks-and most likely attempted a repeat performance the following day. But he'd returned from his baseball sabbatical with a different perspective on the game. He wasn't interested in going solo anymore; he longed for the team harmony that had made the Bulls champions.

He would have to wait. After we pushed past the Charlotte Hornets, 31, in the first round of the playoffs, we faced Orlando, a young, talented team designed to exploit our weaknesses. The Magic had Shaquille O'Neal, one of the most dominant centers in the league, and Horace Grant, who matched up well against us at power forward. It also featured a deadly trio of three-point shooters-Anfernee Hardaway, Nick Anderson, and Dennis Scott. Our strategy was to double-team Shaq and force him to beat us at the foul line. We also decided to put Michael on Hardaway and have the defenders covering Horace slide off him, when necessary, to collapse on Shaq or chase down three-point shooters. This approach might have worked if our offense had been more in sync throughout the series.

One of the most startling moments came in game 1 when Michael, who was having an off night, got stripped by Anderson with ten seconds left and the Bulls up by one. Then after the Magic went ahead, he threw the ball away, ending our chance of winning. After the game I put my arm around Michael and tried to console him. I told him we'd turn the experience around and use it in a positive way to help guide us going forward. "You're our guy, and don't ever forget that," I said.

Michael bounced back in game 2, leading us to victory with a 38-point surge. We split the next two games in Chicago, but Horace made us pay for leaving him open too often in game 5. He hit 10 of 13 from the field on the way to 24 points, to pilot the Magic to a 10395 win.

Horace's performance was a minor blip, though, compared to our embarra.s.sing collapse at the end of game 6. It looked like we were in pretty good shape when B.J. put us ahead 10294 with 3:24 left. Then the whole team imploded and we went scoreless from that point on. We missed 6 shots in a row and turned the ball over twice, while the Magic went on a maddening 140 romp, including a breakaway dunk by Shaq to end the game. The season was over.

Michael was remarkably calm afterward. He spent half an hour talking to reporters about how challenging it was for him to gel with his new teammates. "I came back with the dream of winning," he said. "I thought it was realistic. Now looking back, maybe it wasn't, because we lost."

This was the kind of game that can haunt you for years, if you let it. "Just swallow this loss and digest it," I advised the players. "Then get on with your lives." Still, I knew it wasn't going to be easy to let this one go.

A few days later, however, while I was still struggling to get a handle on what had gone wrong, I suddenly came up with a vision of how to turn the Chicago Bulls into a champion team again.

I couldn't wait to get started.

CHAPTER 11

BASKETBALL POETRY

It's more fun to be a pirate than to join the Navy.

STEVE JOBS

I'm often asked to reveal the secret of the 199596 Bulls, which some consider the greatest basketball team ever a.s.sembled. How could a team that was going nowhere in May transform a few months later into a team that couldn't be beaten?

The simple answer would be that it was all about the superstars: Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen, and Dennis Rodman. But talent can only get you so far in this game. Other teams have been far more loaded than the Bulls but couldn't achieve anything close to this team's success. Another explanation might be the magic of the triangle offense. But even Tex Winter would admit that the triangle was only part of the answer.

In truth, it was a confluence of forces that came together in the fall of 1995 to transform the Bulls into a new breed of championship team. From a tribal-leadership perspective, the Bulls were moving from being a stage 4 team to a stage 5. The first series of championships transformed the Bulls from an "I'm great, you're not" team to a "We're great, they're not" team. But for the second series, the team adopted a broader "Life is great" point of view. By midseason it became clear to me that it wasn't compet.i.tion per se that was driving the team; it was simply the joy of the game itself. This dance was ours, and the only team that could compete against us was ourselves.

The first breakthrough was a shift in vision. Right after our loss to Orlando in the '95 playoffs, it struck me that we needed to reimagine the way we used our backcourt. In the midnineties most teams had small guards. It was dogma in the NBA that unless you could find another Magic Johnson, the smart strategy was to go small in the backcourt to keep pace with the quick, undersized point guards who dominated the league at the time. But I'd learned from watching Scottie Pippen play point guard that having a six-seven player with an extralong wingspan in that position created all kinds of fascinating possibilities.

What would happen, I wondered, if we had three tall, long-armed guards on the court at the same time? Not only would it create confusing mismatches for other teams, but it would also improve defense immeasurably because big guards could switch off and defend post players without resorting to double-teaming. It would also allow us to move away from using full-court pressure all the time, which was taking its toll on some of our older players. With big guards, we could apply pressure more effectively inside the three-point line.

In the off-season we had to figure out which players we were going to leave unprotected for the expansion draft. It came down to a decision between B.J. Armstrong, our current point guard, and Ron Harper, our former starting shooting guard who had been displaced when Michael returned to the lineup. I hated to give up B.J. He was a solid point guard with a good three-point shot, and he played dependable defense. But at six feet two, 175 pounds, he wasn't big enough to switch and defend larger players or trap big centers like Shaquille O'Neal. Although Ron had not lived up to expectations as a scorer, he was adapting well to the triangle and was a great team defender. Ron was also big for a guard-six feet six, 185 pounds, with the strength and athleticism to play almost any position. So Jerry Krause and I decided to stick with Ron instead of B.J. During our end-of-the-year meeting I told Ron that I had big plans for him in 199596, but he needed to get in better condition and reinvent himself as more of a defensive player than a scoring threat. Moving to a big-guard strategy represented a significant philosophical shift for the team. But if it worked, it would make us more flexible, more explosive, and impossible to contain.

The second breakthrough was acquiring Dennis Rodman as our new power forward. During the off-season we drew up a list of possible candidates for the job, and Rodman's name was at the bottom. We'd discussed Dennis before, but Krause was always cool to the idea, saying Rodman wasn't "our kind of person." After being traded by Detroit to San Antonio in 1993, Dennis had had a difficult time adjusting to the Spurs culture, even though he excelled as the league's leading rebounder. He flouted the rules, showing up late for practices, acting out on court, and wearing gaudy clothing and jewelry. In fact, San Antonio's management got so fed up with his rebellious antics, it fined him thousands of dollars multiple times and benched him during the crucial game 5 of the 1995 Western Conference finals, which the Spurs ended up losing to the Houston Rockets.

Although I shared some of Jerry's concerns, I was less troubled by Dennis's eccentricities than I was by his selfish style of play. I'd heard from coaches who'd worked with him that he was so fixated on rebounding that he was reluctant to help teammates on defense. I also questioned whether he could work with Michael and Scottie, who resented him for the brutal way he had manhandled the Bulls when he was with the Pistons. But scout Jim Stack thought we might lose Rodman if we didn't act quickly, so Jerry decided to give him a serious look.

Two weeks later Jerry invited me to his house to meet Rodman and his agent, Dwight Manley. When I arrived, Dennis was lounging on the couch in sungla.s.ses and a "poor boy" hat. He remained mute during the whole conversation, so I asked to speak to him privately on the patio. But all he wanted to talk about was how much he was going to get paid. I told him that the Bulls paid for production, not promise, and if he played up to his potential we would take care of him.