|
The Embraceable Replace-a-Bulls
Posted: Tuesday February 16, 1999 10:38 AM
Many of you have been kind enough to suggest that if I don't climb off the
Chicago Bulls' butts, you will come to my home, rip my head off my shoulders and
bowl with it.
O.K., how's this: I like the Bulls now. In fact, I'm rooting for the
Bulls.
I feel sorry for them. What they're up against you wouldn't wish on a discount
gum surgeon. Michael Jordan is driving the kids' carpool (wink, wink). Scottie
Pippen is hunting ring number 7 in Houston. Dennis Rodman is missing,
presumed dead. Phil Jackson is at his home near Woodstock, N.Y., wondering when
Country Joe and the Fish are coming back on stage. Even the trainer left.
Playing for the Replace-a-Bulls is like sweeping up after the Lindbergh parade
or opening Studio 55. How would you like to finally get invited to the party of
your dreams, only to arrive there and find half an egg roll on the carpet, some
flat beer in the dog dish and a pair of panty hose hanging from the
chandelier?
Half the Bulls have never worn a Chicago uniform before this season, and four
have never played in the NBA before, including, of course, Kornel David, the
league's first Hungarian player.
Actual question by me to the league's first Hungarian player: "Can you
believe you're playing on Michael Jordan's old
team?"
Actual answer by the league's first Hungarian player: "The food, not so
much. But then,
excellent."
Change is everywhere. The other night at United Center, somebody named Matt
Steigenga had Pippen's locker and Rusty LaRue had Jordan's. Half of Winnetka got
a facial tic. "Am I used to it yet?" asked guard Ron Harper, the one
starter the stars left behind. "I go to the gym, they're not there. I go
home, they're not there. I come to the game, they're not there. Believe me, I
have to get used to
it."
The other day Harper was out with Jordan when a fan came up to them. "The
guy goes, 'Hey, Michael, do you miss the game?'" Harper says. "'Miss
the game?' Michael said. 'The game misses
me!'"
Yeah, well, it's not easy to miss somebody when he won't go away. In Chicago's
opener of this 50-game Cliffs Notes of a season last Friday night against the
Utah Jazz, most of the Replace-a-Bulls were made to wear Jordan's new line of
Nikes "in honor" of Jordan, becoming the first athletes in history
asked literally to fill someone's shoes. "Toni [Kukoc, who scored 32 in the
opener] keeps coming into the locker room singing Glory Days," says
Brent Barry, the poor kid signed to take Jordan's place. Tex Winter, the Bulls'
longtime assistant coach, keeps yelling in practice, "No, no, no! Scottie
would've stepped up, and Michael would've popped out there!" ("I need
to stop doing that," Winter says. "It's not fair. I don't see a lot of
Scotties and Michaels out
there.")
The Old Bulls were like a Swifty Lazar party on wheels, with three paparazzi per
player. Even scrubs had to check into the hotel under assumed names. None of the
Replace-a-Bulls do now, but maybe they should, given the kind of year they're
about to
have.
The Old Bulls used to have to sneak through the hotel kitchen to get to the bus.
The Replace-a-Bulls go right out the front door, like CPAs do. The other night
in Salt Lake City there was a crowd of four waiting out front to see them, and
one of those was a Saint
Bernard.
The Old Bulls swaggered into town, crushed whatever feeble set of slugs the
local citizens propped up in front of them and then gambled the whole flight
home. USA Today's Danny Sheridan made the Replace-a-Bulls 100,000 to 1
to win the NBA
title.
Yet you root for them because their coach, Tim Floyd, fell for the old bait and
switch, thinking he was coming to town to date Pamela Anderson and getting Louie
Anderson instead. You root for them because they had every right to get
fricasseed by Utah and nearly beat the Jazz instead, losing 104-96. You root for
them because they're in maybe the worst spot in NBA history, and they don't
whine.
Their only problem is they're about as savvy as Cub Scouts. In the fourth
quarter last Friday, Harper was kneeling at the scorer's table, waiting to go
back in, when he saw John Stockton getting ready to feed Karl Malone for the
four millionth time. "Screen-and-roll!" Harper hollered.
"Screen-and-roll!" Seventeen thousand at the Delta Center saw it
coming, but not a single Replace-a-Bull on the court. In a flash Malone had the
ball back in Stockton's hands for an easy five-footer. Harper slapped his
forehead.
"It's all right, Ronnie!" some wiseacre called down from the stands.
"Only 49
left!"
But then,
excellent.
Issue date: February 15, 1999
| 
