The next day I met with Dennis again, in the tribal room at the Berto Center. This time Dennis was more open. I asked him what had gone wrong in San Antonio. He said it had started when he invited Madonna, whom he was dating at the time, to visit the locker room after a game. The media feeding frenzy that ensued had ticked off the guys in the front office.

I expressed my concern over his reputation for selfishness. He said that his real problem in San Antonio was that he was sick of helping out center David Robinson, who, he said, was intimidated by Houston's Hakeem Olajuwon. "Half the Spurs players had their b.a.l.l.s locked up in the freezer every time they left the house," he added sarcastically.

I laughed. "So do you think you can master the triangle?" I asked.

"Oh yeah, that's no problem for me," he said. "The triangle's about finding Michael Jordan and getting him the ball."

"That's a good start," I replied. Then we got serious. "If you think you're up for this job," I said, "I'm going to sign off on this deal. But we can't screw it up. We're in position to win a championship, and we really want to get back there."

"Okay."

After that, Dennis took a look at the Native American artifacts in the room and showed me the necklace he'd been given by a Ponca from Oklahoma. Then we sat silently together for quite a while. Dennis was a man of few words, but sitting with him, I felt rea.s.sured that he would come through for us. We connected on a nonverbal level that afternoon. A bond of the heart.

The next day Jerry and I had a follow-up meeting with Dennis to go over the team's rules about attendance, punctuality, and other issues. It was a short list. After I finished reading it, Dennis said, "You won't have any problem with me, and you'll be getting an NBA championship."

I checked with Michael and Scottie later that day to see if they had any reservations about playing with Rodman, and they said no. So Jerry went ahead and sealed the deal, trading Will Perdue to the Spurs for Rodman. And I braced myself for the ride of my life.

Before Dennis arrived at training camp, I had a long discussion with the players. I warned them that he was probably going to ignore some of the rules because it was hard for him to abide by certain guidelines. I would probably have to make some exceptions for him at times, I said. "You're going to have to be grown up about this," I added. And they were.

Most of the players developed a fondness for Dennis right away. They soon realized that all his wild offstage theatrics-the nose rings, the tattoos, the late-night parties in gay bars-were all part of an act he'd created, with the help of Madonna, to get attention. Underneath, he was just a quiet boy from Dallas with a generous heart who worked hard, played hard, and would do anything to win.

Somewhere in the middle of training camp, I realized that Dennis was going to bring a new dimension to our team that I hadn't antic.i.p.ated. Not only was he a magician on the boards, but he was also a smart, mesmerizing defender who could guard anyone, even Shaq, who had six inches and close to a hundred pounds on him. With Dennis in the lineup, we could run fast breaks and also settle back and play a tough half-court game. Most of all, I just liked watching him play. He was so uninhibited and joyful when he stepped on the floor, like a boy discovering how to fly. On some level, I told the other coaches, he reminded me of me.

The shadow side of Dennis was more of a challenge. Sometimes he was like a pressure cooker about to explode. He went through periods of high anxiety that lasted forty-eight hours or more, and the pressure would build inside of him until he had to release it. During those times, his agent would often ask me to give Dennis the weekend off, if we didn't have any games, and they would go to Vegas and party for a couple days. Dennis would be a wreck by the end of it, but then he'd come back and work out until he got his life back together.

That year I stopped pacing along the sidelines during games because I noticed that whenever I got agitated, Dennis would become hyperactive. And if I argued with a ref, it would only give him license to do the same. So I decided to become as quiet and restrained as possible. I didn't want to set Dennis off, because once he got agitated, there was no telling what he might do.

The third breakthrough was Michael's new approach to leadership. During the first run of championships, Michael had led primarily by example, but after the loss to Orlando he realized he needed to do something dramatically different to motivate this team. Simply glaring at his teammates and expecting them to be just like him wasn't going to cut it anymore.

Michael was at a tipping point. He had been stung by press commentary during the Orlando series contending that he had lost his edge and wasn't the same Michael Jordan anymore. So he returned to the gym that summer determined to get his body back in basketball shape. He even had a basketball court set up in the studio in L.A. where he was filming s.p.a.ce Jam so he could practice between takes and work on a new fadeaway jumper that would eventually become his trademark shot. By the time he arrived at training camp in October, he had the hard look of vengeance in his eyes.

A week into camp I was scheduled to do a phone conference with the media at a time that conflicted with our morning practice. When my a.s.sistant came down to the court to tell me it was time to get on the phone, I instructed the other coaches to postpone the scrimmage and give the players some shooting drills until I returned. The call was only fifteen minutes long, but before I was off the phone our equipment manager, Johnny Ligmanowski, was at my door saying, "You'd better come. M.J. just punched Steve and he's in the locker room getting ready to leave practice." Apparently, Kerr and Jordan had gotten into a bit of a scuffle that escalated back and forth until Michael popped Steve in the face and gave him a black eye.

When I got to the locker room, M.J. was about to step into the shower. He said, "I've got to go." And I told him, "You'd better call Steve and get it straight before tomorrow."

This was a major wake-up call for Michael. He had just gotten into a fight with the smallest guy on the team over nothing. What was going on? "It made me look at myself, and say, 'you know what? You're really being an idiot about this whole process,'" Jordan recalls. "I knew I had to be more respectful of my teammates. And I had to be more respectful of what was happening to me in terms of trying to get back into the game. I had to get more internal."

I encouraged Michael to start working more closely with George Mumford. George understood what Michael was going through because he had seen his friend Julius Erving experience similar pressures after he turned into a superstar. It was difficult for Michael to develop close relationships with his teammates because, as George puts it, he was "a prisoner in his own room." He couldn't go out with them in public and just hang out, as Scottie often did. Many of the new players were still in awe of him, and that too created a distance that was hard to bridge.

Michael was impressed with the mindfulness training George had been doing with the team because it helped bring the players closer to his level of mental awareness. In George's view, Michael needed to shift his perspective on leadership. "It's all about being present and taking responsibility for how you relate to yourself and others," says George. "And that means being willing to adjust so that you can meet people where they are. Instead of expecting them to be somewhere else and getting angry and trying to will them to that place, you try to meet them where they are and lead them where you want them to go."

While Michael had been away playing baseball, George and I had made changes in the team's learning environment to enhance the players' ability to grow mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. If Michael was going to gel with this team and be its floor leader, he would have to get to know his teammates more intimately and relate to them more compa.s.sionately. He would need to understand that each player was different and had something important to offer the team. It was his job, as leader, to figure out how to get the best out of each one of them. As George puts it, Michael had to "take his ability to see things on the basketball court and use that to improve the way he related to others."

Michael was open to the challenge, because he too had changed during his time away. He was still a fierce compet.i.tor, but he had also mellowed in certain ways. He was less judgmental of others and more conscious of his own limitations. Playing minor-league baseball, where he spent long hours pa.s.sing the time with his teammates, Michael had rediscovered the joy of bonding with other men, and more than anything he wanted to have that experience again with the Bulls.

Working with Mumford, Michael adopted a new way of leading based on what worked best with each player. With some players, he decided, he would get physical, either by demonstrating what needed to be done with his body or, in Scottie's case, simply by being present. "Scottie was one of those guys for whom I had to be there every single day," says Michael. "If I took a day off, he would take a day off. But if I was there every single day, he would follow." With other players-Dennis in particular-Michael would go emotional. "You couldn't yell at Dennis," he says. "You had to find a way to get into his world for a few quick seconds so that he could understand what you were saying." With still others Michael would communicate primarily on a verbal level. Example: Scott Burrell, a forward on the 199798 Bulls. "I could yell at him and he would get it," says Michael, "but it didn't hurt his confidence at all."

One person he didn't have to worry about was Kerr. The fight had forged a strong bond between the two players. "From that day forward Michael looked at me differently," Steve says. "He never picked on me again. He didn't trash talk with me anymore. And he started trusting me on the court too." Adds Michael, "I have the most respect for Steve because, one, he was thrown into a situation where he really had no chance of winning. And, two, he stood up. When I started fouling him, he came back at me. Which got me angry. But that's where the mutual respect comes from."

From Michael's perspective, the second run of championships was harder than the first because of the personalities involved. Most of the players on the first championship teams had been together for several years and, together, had fought many battles. As M.J. says, "We'd go up the hill and get knocked down, knocked down, and knocked down, until we climbed over it as a group." But during the second run, most of the players didn't know one another very well, yet everybody expected the team to win right out of the gate. "I think we needed Phil more for the second run than the first," says Michael now. "In the first run, the egos hadn't set in yet. But in the second run, we had a lot of different personalities to mesh together and the egos were really strong. And Phil had to bring us together as a brotherhood."

All the pieces fell together beautifully. We didn't have a dominant big man like the sixties Celtics and other great teams from the past, but these Bulls had a remarkable sense of unity, on both offense and defense, and a powerful collective spirit.

Everything we did was designed to reinforce that unity. I had always insisted on structured practices with a clear agenda that the players would receive ahead of time. But we also started organizing other aspects of the team process to create a sense of order. In general, I used discipline not as a weapon but as a way to instill harmony into the players' lives. This was something I'd learned from years of mindfulness practice.

That season we asked the players to arrive at the training facility at ten every morning to do forty-five minutes of strength training and warm-ups. Michael preferred to work out earlier at home with his private trainer, Tim Grover, and that year he invited Scottie and Harper to take part in the program, which they dubbed "the Breakfast Club." By ten they, too, would show up to warm up for practice, which started at eleven. We'd focus on refining our triangle skills, as well as our defensive goals for the upcoming game or week. Then we'd move into an offensive segment, including a full-court scrimmage. I'd often put Pip or M.J. with the second unit and see what influence their presence would bring to the practice. Afterward, the guys would hang around and work on their shots, and our trainer, Chip Schaefer, would get them recharged with fresh blended fruit drinks. If we were headed for a road trip, we might go upstairs to our team room and have a short video session.

At first Dennis tried to skirt the rules, as if he were playing a game. One rule was that players had to show up for practice on time with their shoelaces tied and all their jewelry put away. Dennis would often appear with one shoe untied or a piece of jewelry hidden somewhere. Sometimes I'd give him a silly fine or make a joke about his appearance, and other times we'd just ignore him. I told him that it wasn't me he had to worry about if he came late to practice; it was his teammates. Once he realized that none of us were really interested in his little rebellions, the problem went away.

One thing I loved about this team was that everyone had a clear idea about their roles and performed them well. n.o.body groused about not getting enough playing time or enough shots or enough notoriety.

Jordan focused on being consistent and stepping up, when needed, to deliver a decisive blow. In early December, after scoring 37 points against the Clippers, he announced to reporters that he felt "pretty much all the way back now as a player." He joked about being compared to his former self all the time. "According to some people," he said, "I'm even failing to live up to Michael Jordan. But I have the best chance of being him because I am him."

Scottie felt liberated not having to live up to the Jordan legacy anymore and gave an MVP-level performance in his new role as chief orchestrator of the action, which felt much more natural to him. Harper also adapted extremely well to his job as multipurpose guard and defensive bulldog. Meanwhile, Dennis exceeded all expectations. Not only did he master the system in a short period of time, but he also blended perfectly with Michael, Scottie, and Harper on defense. "We basically had four attack dogs in the starting lineup," says Kerr, "and they could all guard four or five positions on the floor. It was incredible."

Dennis played the game with such wild enthusiasm that he soon became a fan favorite. People loved to watch him hustle for loose b.a.l.l.s and pull down rebounds to ignite fast breaks. Early in the season Dennis started dyeing his hair different colors and tearing off his jersey after games and tossing it to the crowd. The fans loved it. "All of a sudden," he said, "I'm like the biggest thing since Michael Jordan."

The fifth starter was Luc Longley, a seven-two, 265-pound center from Australia who wasn't as mobile and explosive as Shaq but was big enough to plug up the middle and force other centers off their games. His backup was Bill Wennington, who had a good short-range jumper that he often used to lure his man away from the basket. Later in the season, we also added two other big men to the lineup, James Edwards and John Salley, both of whom, like Dennis, were former Detroit Bad Boys.

At first Toni Kukoc balked when I made him the team's sixth man, but I persuaded him that it was the most effective role for him. As a starter he often had trouble playing forty minutes without getting worn down. But as sixth man he could come in and give the team a scoring boost, which he did in several key games. He could also use his exceptional pa.s.sing skills to reenergize the team when Scottie wasn't on the floor. Meanwhile Steve Kerr played a key role as a long-range scoring threat; guard Randy Brown was a high-energy defensive specialist; and Jud Buechler was a talented swingman. In addition, we had two backup power forwards, d.i.c.key Simpkins and rookie Jason Caffey.

We had absolutely everything in place that we needed to fulfill our destiny-talent, leadership, att.i.tude, and unity of purpose.

When I look back on the 199596 season, I'm reminded of another parable that John Paxson discovered about the emperor Liu Bang, the first leader to consolidate China into a unified empire. In W. Chan Kim and Renee A. Mauborgne's version of the story, Liu Bang held a lavish banquet to celebrate his great victory and invited master Chen Cen, who had advised him during the campaign. Chen Cen brought as guests three of his disciples, who were perplexed by an enigma at the heart of the celebration.

When the master asked them to elaborate, they said that the emperor was sitting at the central table with his three heads of staff: Xiao He, who masterfully administered logistics; Han Xin, who led a brilliant military operation, winning every battle he fought; and Chang Yang, who was so gifted at diplomacy that he could get heads of state to surrender before the fighting began. What the disciples had a hard time understanding was the man at the head of the table, the emperor himself. "Liu Bang cannot claim n.o.ble birth," they said, "and his knowledge of logistics, fighting, and diplomacy does not equal that of his heads of staff. How is it then that he is emperor?"

The master smiled and asked them "What determines the strength of a chariot's wheel?"

"Is it not the st.u.r.diness of the spokes?" they replied.

"Then why is it that two wheels made of identical spokes differ in strength?" asked the master. "See beyond what is seen. Never forget that a wheel is made not only of spokes, but also of the s.p.a.ce between the spokes. St.u.r.dy spokes poorly placed make a weak wheel. Whether their full potential is realized depends on the harmony between them. The essence of wheel-making lies in the craftman's ability to conceive and create the s.p.a.ce that holds and balances the spokes within the wheel. Think now, who is the craftsman here?"

After a long silence, one of the disciples asked, "But master, how does a craftsman secure the harmony among the spokes?"

"Think of sunlight," replied the master. "The sun nurtures and vitalizes the trees and flowers. It does so by giving away its light. But in the end, in which direction do they grow? So it is with a master craftsman like Liu Bang. After placing individuals in positions that fully realize their potential, he secures harmony among them by giving them all credit for their distinctive achievements. And in the end, as the trees and flowers grow toward the sun, individuals grow toward Liu Bang with devotion."

Liu Bang would have made a good basketball coach. The way he organized his campaign was not unlike the way we brought the Bulls into harmony for the next three seasons.

The start of the 199596 season reminded me of Joshua fighting the battle of Jericho. The walls just kept tumbling down. Every time we moved to a new city, it seemed, something would go wrong with the other team. A star player would be injured or a key defender would foul out at just the right moment or the ball would bounce in the right way at just the right time. But it wasn't all luck. Many of our opponents didn't know how to deal with our three big guards, and our defense was remarkably skilled at breaking down offenses in the second and third periods. By the end of January, we were 39-3, and the players started to talk about breaking the record of sixty-nine wins held by the 197172 Lakers.