The Start Something Big

For Tyson Chandler and Eddy Curry, the Chicago Bulls' pair of underage 7-footers, NBA life offers educational opportunities every day. Last month, for instance, Chandler learned about the potential benefits of a home security system when, a little after 3 a.m., he was awakened by a strange noise downstairs in his North Shore apartment. "First thing I do is grab my pool stick in one hand and an iron in the other," he says, mimicking the stance he assumed with these unlikely weapons—a pose that made him look like a freakishly tall conquistador.

Chandler crept down the stairs cue-first. But instead of confronting the intruder—or a malfunctioning kitchen appliance—he made a break for the back door. Once outside, he did what any sensible person would do: He drove to the nearest hotel and checked in.

"And you never even called the cops?" asks strength and conditioning coach Erik Helland, who has been listening as Chandler tells the story at the team's practice facility, the Berto Center, in Deerfield, Ill.

"Uh, no," says Chandler, who still doesn't know what made the noise.

"What about your alarm?"

"I haven't figured out how to use it yet."

Helland walks away shaking his head. By now, though, after a season with Chandler, 20, and Curry, 19, he should be accustomed to such stories. Earlier in the summer it was Curry who was stopped outside the Berto Center by a policeman, who told him that his new all-terrain vehicle wasn't legal for city driving and that he'd have to get it off the street. Instead of pushing it a few blocks away to his condo, Curry left the truck in the Berto parking lot. "That was two months ago," says Helland. "It's still out there."

Ah, raising children. "Sometimes we forget that these are kids, and they're going to make the mistakes that kids make," says Chicago coach Bill Cartwright. He pauses and looks at his young charges, who are trying to do wheelies on their stationary bikes, then continues, "Our job is to make sure they aren't making the same mistakes five years from now."

If they are, it won't be because the Bulls didn't try. Ever since general manager Jerry Krause picked Chandler and Curry second and fourth, respectively, in the first round of the 2001 NBA draft—the first time a team selected two high school players in the same year-he has molded the team around them and assembled a crack squad of coaches, mentors and former NBA centers to instruct the duo on and off the court. Last February the Bulls acquired Ail-Star guard Jalen Rose to relieve the scoring pressure on Chandler and Curry; in June, Chicago drafted point guard Jay Williams of Duke to get them the ball. "They've done everything possible for us," says Chandler. "We can never look back in 10 years and say it's the team's fault if things don't work out. It's entirely on us."

There is a lot riding on those undeveloped shoulders. Mired in four seasons of post-Jordan malaise, Chicago (21-61 in 2001-02, last place in the Central Division) has asked fans to wait for the dawn of a new era of success—even if there is no timetable for it. Sure, teams have been built around players who arrived in the NBA straight from high school (most notably the Minnesota Timberwolves with Kevin Garnett) but never has one franchise bet so much on a pair of teenagers, let alone two big men, traditionally the slowest developers in the NBA.