Power of Caring
  presented by CIGNA

I'll say it. I'm sick of the Chicago Bulls. Sick, sicker, sickest.

I'm especially sick of Michael Jordan. Yeah, he's great, he's wonderful, and most American males would gladly undergo a sex-change operation just to have his children. As for me, I'm hoping he gets locked aboard the Mir space station for a few years.

Nothing personal, but I'm sick of his face. I'm sick of his putting his head down in the last two minutes and body-slamming people and getting every call. And I'm very sick of his tongue. I don't think I should have to see more of Michael Jordan's tongue than Michael Jordan has to see.

I'm extra sick of this idea that Jordan is the greatest player in NBA history. Larry Bird had a better jumper than he did, rebounded better, passed better and did it all before the NBA became the Toronto Expansions, starring three college freshmen and a high school kid.

For that matter, I'm sick of NBC's Ahmad Rashad, too. I've waited seven years for him to ask Jordan a question, and I'm pretty sure it's not coming. You guys sure hung in there, Michael is not a question. That was some game, Michael is not a question. When is your contract up, Ahmad? is a question. Are you expecting a real question from a man who sleeps at Jordan's house, drives with him to games and appears in Jordan's ads? I just hope and pray that when Jordan finally stops, he doesn't do it too suddenly. Rashad's nose could break off.

I'm sick of Dennis Rodman. I'm Rod-numb on Rodman. He has dyed his hair every color in the 64 Crayola box, and now he's paying some sort of tribute to the flag of Togo. If he came out with his hair on fire, I'm not sure I'd look twice. Once a guy has publicly worn pages 3 through 21 of the Victoria's Secret catalog, the ol' shock-o-meter is on empty. Rodman says he wants to end his career playing naked. Let's get on with it. What better place than Salt Lake City? Otherwise, the hand's played out, Cowboy.

I'm sick of Phil Jackson's whining about the refs. I'm sick of his being so damned peaceful and centered the rest of the time. I know every mighty river begins with one small raindrop, and I don't care. Go coach in Seattle. Go levitate off a rock somewhere. Just go.

O.K., none of this is fair. So sue me. It's like having relatives stay for a month. They may be a family of Nobel Prize winners, but if Aunt Helga cracks her knuckles one more time, I'm going to stick her in the Cuisinart. I know the triangle offense better than many Bulls do. I'm sitting there, half asleep, going, No, Luc, no. You fake the handoff and spin left there.

I crave a new champion. I don't much care if it's the Utah Jazz or Bakersfield Transmission College, I'm begging the Bulls to lose. When they do, I don't want to hear anybody call this the greatest dynasty of all time. It isn't. Just remember this: Chicago's five titles have come against these five starting centers: Vlade Divac (Los Angeles Lakers), Kevin Duckworth (Portland Trail Blazers), Mark West (Phoenix Suns), the Other Ervin Johnson (Seattle SuperSonics) and Greg Ostertag (Jazz). Meanwhile, the Real Earvin Johnson had to beat a front line of Bird, Kevin McHale and Robert Parish, while Bird had to beat a front line of James Worthy, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Kurt Rambis. And I seem to recall the Celtics' winning 11 titles in 13 years. Winning an NBA title in the '90s is like being crowned Miss Latvia.

Most of all, I'm sick of Bulls fans. I'm sick of every fat, balding dry cleaner from Rockford wearing a number 23 jersey, screaming, "Yeah, baby. We did it!" No, sir, you did not do it. They did it. You ingested nine Stroh's and three brats and sat in your Barcalounger screaming things nobody could hear, including your wife, who left in March.

Vice president of basketball operations Jerry Krause put this team together, and now he says it's time to take it apart. He's right. Somebody named Howard Eisley is blowing by Jordan as if Michael were a roadside Stuckey's, and Steve Kerr moves just slightly slower than the Chicago Hilton, and Jackson's pep talks involve "getting comfortable with the notion of loss." Please let Krause do his job. Nobody wanted to shoot Old Yeller, either.

It's like we're all throwing this big goodbye party, and it's 2 a.m., and the guest of honor won't leave. So go already, Bulls.

How else can we start missing you?

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Past Editions of Life of Reilly

photograph by Robert Beck

Issue date: June 15, 1998