The Jordan Rules (36 page)

But in the fourth quarter, Jordan would be the only Bull to hit even half of his shots, on the way to finishing with 40 points. It was a typical Pistons win. Thomas was brilliant, zipping a nifty pass to John Salley down the lane in the last seconds for a three-point play and the victory. Thomas finished with 26 points and 16 assists—and the Bulls' wrath. With five minutes left and the Pistons ahead by 1 point, Paxson was cutting across the court with the ball when he tripped over Thomas's foot, stumbled, and fell into Joe Dumars's knee. Paxson was dazed with a mild concussion and had to leave the game, and Armstrong would replace him and miss all 4 of his fourth-quarter shots. Paxson would recover in time for Monday's game against Milwaukee, but the Bulls knew that Paxson's fall over Thomas was no accident. Bach liked to call Thomas “Assassin”; he had that angelic smile, but he was known as a vicious player who would try anything to rally his team. Like Bill Laimbeer, he was not popular around the league, but they admittedly were the kind of players you'd pick for your team if you were choosing up sides for a game. The Bulls coaches respected Thomas, but Jordan just thought he was a phony. Thomas had recently blistered his teammates and even coach Chuck Daly about the Pistons' poor play since his return, and Jordan believed it was just an act. “He loves the stage,” Jordan said. “That's why he's back now. He's all ham.”

Maybe, but he was no turkey. Thomas was bred on the ugly West Side streets of Chicago near the Chicago Stadium and learned that those who attack first survive. That lesson had shaped his game, and now it had led to Paxson's concussion. Thomas was known to move up close to the opposing guard and step on his foot or kick him on the side of the foot—anything to throw off his rhythm. The Bucks' point guard, Jay Humphries, had become particularly adept at beating Thomas at this game: Before Thomas could try to kick Humphries's foot or step on it, Humphries would anticipate the move and, even while he was dribbling, kick Thomas in the shin and knock him back. It would allow the Bucks the sort of penetration few teams could get against the Pistons.

The Bulls were only too aware of Thomas's guerrilla tactics and had warned their guards, but the tactics were hard to monitor. Armstrong was especially bothered by them, and although Paxson was used to them, he wasn't strong enough to keep them from hurting his timing. So this time, as Paxson tried to cut across the floor, Thomas simply stuck out his foot and tripped him.

It wasn't the only Bulls casualty. Pippen had left the game mentally in the first few minutes. He wanted so badly to do well here—too badly, really. On the first play of the game, Pippen was called for a foul against Dumars, and midway through the first quarter he drew his second, a questionable offensive foul. The pair of calls so distracted Pippen that he scored just 2 points in the first half, and spent the rest of the time arguing with the referees and cursing at Jackson. “Give me the fuckin' ball,” he yelled to the bench after a time-out. “Fuck you,” he screamed later at Jackson when the coach yelled at him to “push the ball” after one rebound. After three quarters, Pippen had only 6 points, although he would finish with 13 after a sharper fourth quarter.

The Bulls were again coming apart against the Pistons. Jordan, seeing his teammates crumbling, took it upon himself to do all the scoring, and refused even to look at Grant or Cartwright on screen rolls. Kent McDill of the
Daily Herald
counted Jordan missing on nine possible open passes to Cartwright. “Well, at least he was under double figures,” Jackson would joke a few days later. Between them, Grant (who had scored 8 of the Bulls' first 10 points) and Cartwright would get just 1 shot in the fourth quarter. It had been the last test of the regular season, and the Bulls had failed.

Meanwhile, there was euphoria in the Pistons' locker room. The Pistons had been squabbling much of the season, but only when they weren't counting their many injuries. Thomas had missed more than two months with his wrist surgery, Dumars had limped around on a bad toe much of the season, and James Edwards, Mark Aguirre, and John Salley had missed sustained periods with various ailments. A third championship had seemed remote; anti-Thomas and anti-Laimbeer cliques had developed and there were arguments over playing time and shots. But with the victory over the Bulls, there was suddenly a feeling that perhaps they could do it one more time, especially if Chicago was to be the main obstacle in their path.

A few days later, Cartwright sat watching a tape of that Pistons game as the Bulls prepared to end the regular season with a game against the Pistons in Chicago. He watched himself spring loose on screen rolls time after time without a pass. “Hey, Bill, you're open,” Grant would say from his locker stall next to Cartwright's. “Phil's got to say something to him. If we're going to do anything we've got to stop playing Michaelball.”

Cartwright's tiny head was engulfed in his huge hands, the way it always was when he was perplexed. He rarely grew angry like the younger players. He was just sad.

“He's the greatest athlete I've ever seen,” he said of Jordan. “Maybe the greatest athlete ever to play any sport. He can do whatever he wants. It all comes so easy to him. He's just not a basketball player.”

The Bulls needed two more wins to clinch the best record in the conference, which would mean home-court advantage throughout the Eastern Conference playoffs and the team's best chance ever at a trip to the Finals. And with a game against Milwaukee coming up in the Stadium on April 15 followed by a trip south to face expansion Miami and Charlotte—the Bulls had not lost to an expansion team all season—home-court advantage seemed guaranteed. In effect, the Bulls would have a week to rest before that closing game against Detroit, and then the playoffs would follow.

The Bucks proved to be as fragile as a house of cards again. They blew out to a big first-quarter lead, but a collapse in the Stadium was inevitable. It came in the third quarter as Jackson sent his team into its fireman's drill, a risky ploy because it leaves a smaller player under the basket; earlier in April against Philadelphia it had failed miserably as Grant was overwhelmed by the 76ers' forwards. But the Bucks were caught by surprise. They committed 7 straight turnovers and fell behind by 10 after three quarters. The Bulls held on to chalk up their fifty-eighth win, 103–94, a new team record.

Despite the victory, Pippen was furious. He had taken just 6 shots, and he was blaming both the triangle offense and Jordan's reversion to a one-man game. Afterward, he was so incensed he threw his shoes in the garbage. And when he left the locker room that night, he promised Grant, “I'm shootin' against Miami.”

Jordan had scored 46, but the real hero of the game had once again been the pressure defense.

“Earlier in the season, people asked me if I thought the Bulls were better,” said Brendan Malone, the Pistons' chief advance scout and astute bench assistant. “I really didn't think so, but they are. Their defensive intensity has picked up. They're probably now the best pressing team in the league.”

Of course, Jordan was a major part of that, as was Pippen. But they had the best jobs. Cartwright's role was to stay back and zone the area under the basket while Jordan and Pippen crept into the passing lanes for steals. This strategy leads to breakaways and crowd-pleasing slams, but they're often made possible by Paxson, whose job it is to turn the guard to one side so Jordan can jump in and force a bad pass, or Grant can come from behind as he's racing downcourt, bothering the man with the ball.

“He's the intrepid one,” said Bach of Grant. “He's the one who has to meet the ball on the double-team and then sometimes a second time as he goes downcourt, and then he has to find a man to guard and rebound. He's the one who's really made our press. We always had the ability to trap a ball handler with two guards, but he's given us the addition of a big man able to do that. So now you've got Pippen at about six-eight and Horace at six-ten and Michael at six-six, and they're roaring around the court in a triangle of defenders and interceptors, anchored by Paxson in the guard position and Cartwright in the back. And it works by the boldness of Phil in his calls.”

But Jackson's demands were unnerving the intrepid Grant. He had been brilliant against the Bucks, stealing the ball, forcing mistakes, scoring 19 points (despite just 9 shots) and grabbing 11 rebounds. But when Frank Brickowski flashed by for a lay-up, Jackson was all over Grant. Grant was used to it—he knew he was Jackson's so-called whipping boy—but he still didn't like it. He complained to Pippen on the bench that he was going to tell Jackson off next time.

“He's pushed me up to here,” Grant said, putting a hand on top of his head. “I'm working so hard and he's yelling at me all the time and Michael throws the ball away and he doesn't say anything. He's going to push me too far and then that's it.”

Pippen had heard this from his buddy before. “Oh, ‘G,' you always say that,” chided Pippen. B. J. Armstrong came by and patted Grant on the rear end, and Hodges told him to “be cool.”

Bach watched it all with bemusement. He had doubted Jackson's psychological ploys at first, but eventually realized how well they worked. Jackson had identified Grant early as a player who could take the abuse. Jordan and Pippen might pout, but Grant would remain strong and not let it affect his play. And it also served as a rallying point for the team. Jackson knew that the other players would come to Grant's aid and defense, and this united them as a group. His goal was to develop an all-for-one attitude on the team, and picking on Grant was one way that worked.

The team arrived in Miami early on April 16, leaving about thirty hours to game time. The first two seasons the team had visited Miami, they had stayed at an airport hotel. But then they found a little hideaway in Coconut Grove that Jackson loved. The Mayfair House was a five-star European-style luxury hotel, and the Bulls had managed to get discounted rates. Directly across from the hotel was a three-story outdoor mall with one corner of the upper level devoted to a restaurant-bar called Hooters, sort of a Playboy Club for fraternity guys. The waitresses weren't allowed to socialize with the patrons, but they wore skimpy outfits and it was a loud, fun place. For the next two days, it drew every Bull but Cartwright, who went to the movies. It was the closest the players had been since Jordan's first few seasons in the league, when the players gathered nightly in someone's room for card games, food fights, and all-night movies. But then Jordan became a star in his own constellation and didn't spend much time with his teammates anymore.

But this time Jordan was just one of the boys. He hooted at Hooters along with everyone else and even joked with Hopson when Hopson bought a Hooters T-shirt. The players never drank much, just a few beers each, but they were enjoying the balmy weather, the light zephyr off the bay and the coming close of the long regular season. This was as far from Chicago and the NBA season as one could get. “No tickets for the Hooters girls,” Jordan announced loudly after seeing one of the single players offer a waitress a pair of tickets. Under their NBA contract, the players received two tickets to every game and would generally trade them back and forth. “Hey, I need thirteen for tonight,” Jordan bubbled. Everyone laughed as the festivities continued Tuesday night and again at lunchtime Wednesday before the game.

The Bulls clinched the best record in the Eastern Conference with a 111–101 victory over the Heat, but John Paxson wasn't celebrating. In fact, he was smashing soda cans off the wall in the locker room. He had been ejected from the game in the third quarter during a Heat comeback from a 16-point deficit. Miami would take a 3-point lead, but the Bulls pulled away in the fourth quarter behind a stingy defense that allowed Miami just 15 fourth-quarter points, while Pippen, still upset by the Milwaukee game, scored 21 with 11 rebounds, 9 assists, and 6 steals, including a three-pointer to end the third quarter that gave the Bulls a lead they would hold to the end.

Paxson couldn't believe he had been ejected. The whole thing started when Sherman Douglas held him, and Paxson tried to push his hand away. But it was Paxson who was called for an offensive foul. He slammed the ball down.
Bam!
Technical foul. He started to argue.
Bam!
He was gone. It was an unusually quick hook from referee Bernie Fryer, and Paxson still hadn't cooled down by the time reporters arrived in the locker room after the game.

“It's a double standard,” Paxson complained. “I can guarantee that if Michael Jordan had done what I did, he never would have gotten tossed. I'm tired of seeing other guys get away with stuff that I get penalized for.”

It was that fiery Paxson temper; his brother had it, too. In his final pro game, Jim Paxson was ejected by referee Ed T. Rush and, walking off the court, yelled, “Hey, Ed,” and pointed to his groin.

“What a way to go,” John marveled.

Tonight, when he got back to his room after the game, Paxson called home.

“Caroline,” he said, “was Ryan up? Was he watching the game?”

The boy wasn't. Paxson breathed a sigh of relief. At least Ryan didn't see him getting thrown out of the game.

The team flew into Charlotte late Thursday for the last game of the season. At the shootaround before the game, King hit a three-pointer and was boasting of his long-distance shooting prowess, as if nothing had happened earlier in the month. He had played reasonably well against the Heat with 8 points in sixteen minutes and was feeling loose. “Must have hit forty, maybe fifty, in college,” he was saying. “Always took the trey.”

His teammates were doubtful, but B.J. thought it could have been possible. “The way [coach Billy] Tubbs played that game down there at Oklahoma, who knows?” Armstrong said. “Maybe he did.”

King still wasn't playing particularly well, and come the last game of the season against Detroit, with nothing at stake and mostly reserves on the floor, Jackson would send Grant back into the game with two minutes left for King. Grant had been on the end of the bench, joking with Jordan and Pippen and certain his day's work was over. He'd put away his black goggles, which looked like 3-D glasses and had lenses that looked like soda bottles. “Sorry, Horace,” Jackson would say, “but he can't get a rebound. You've got to go back in.” But King was trying to put it all aside. He was sure he'd be traded after the season and now figured he'd joke his way through the last few months.