Unguarded, p.1
Unguarded, page 1
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To my children, who inspire me to be my best self and live a meaningful life: Antron, Taylor, Sierra, Scotty Jr., Preston, Justin, and Sophia
PROLOGUE
May 19, 2020, 6:31 p.m.
The text was from Michael. He didn’t reach out very often.
What’s up dude? I’m getting word that you’re upset with me. Love to talk about it if you have time.
My schedule was packed that evening and I knew the conversation would take a while.
I hit him back an hour and a half later:
Let’s talk tomorrow.
Michael was right. I was upset with him. It was because of The Last Dance, the ten-part ESPN documentary about the Chicago Bulls’ final championship season (1997–98), which millions of people watched during the early weeks of the pandemic.
With no live sports on TV, The Last Dance, for five straight Sunday nights starting in mid-April, provided a much-needed distraction from the new normal we suddenly found ourselves in. There was only so much news about hot spots and hospitalizations and deaths anyone could absorb.
The final two episodes aired on May 17. Similar to the previous eight, they glorified Michael Jordan while not giving nearly enough praise to me and my proud teammates. Michael deserved a large portion of the blame. The producers had granted him editorial control of the final product. The doc couldn’t have been released otherwise. He was the leading man and the director.
I had expected much more. When I was first told about it over a year earlier, I couldn’t wait to tune in, knowing it would feature rare footage.
My years in Chicago, beginning as a rookie in the fall of 1987, were the most rewarding of my career: twelve men coming together as one, fulfilling the dreams we had as kids in playgrounds across the land when all we needed was a ball, a basket, and our imagination. To be a member of the Bulls during the 1990s was to be part of something magical. For our times and for all time.
Except Michael was determined to prove to the current generation of fans that he was larger-than-life during his day—and still larger than LeBron James, the player many consider his equal, if not superior. So Michael presented his story, not the story of the “Last Dance,” as our coach, Phil Jackson, billed the 1997–98 season once it became obvious the two Jerrys (owner Jerry Reinsdorf and general manager Jerry Krause) were intent on breaking up the gang no matter what happened.
As Krause told Phil in the fall of ’97: You can go 82-0 and it won’t make a difference. This will be your last season as the coach of the Chicago Bulls.
ESPN sent me links to the first eight episodes a couple of weeks in advance. As I watched the doc at home in Southern California with my three teenage boys, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Among the scenes in the first episode:
Michael, a freshman at the University of North Carolina, hitting the game-winning jump shot against the Georgetown Hoyas in the 1982 NCAA title game.
Michael, drafted third by the Bulls in 1984 behind Hakeem Olajuwon (Houston) and Sam Bowie (Portland), talking about his hopes of turning the franchise around.
Michael leading the Bulls to a comeback triumph over the Milwaukee Bucks in just his third game.
On and on it went, the spotlight shining on number 23.
Even in the second episode, which focused for a while on my difficult upbringing and unlikely path to the NBA, the narrative returned to MJ and his determination to win. I was nothing more than a prop. His “best teammate of all time,” he called me. He couldn’t have been more condescending if he tried.
On second thought, I could believe my eyes. I spent a lot of time around the man. I knew what made him tick. How naïve I was to expect anything else.
Each episode was the same: Michael on a pedestal, his teammates secondary, smaller, the message no different from when he referred to us back then as his “supporting cast.” From one season to the next, we received little or no credit whenever we won but the bulk of the criticism when we lost. Michael could shoot 6 for 24 from the field, commit 5 turnovers, and he was still, in the minds of the adoring press and public, the Errorless Jordan.
Now here I was, in my midfifties, seventeen years since my final game, watching us being demeaned once again. Living through it the first time was insulting enough.
Over the next few weeks, I spoke to a number of my former teammates who each felt as disrespected as I did. How dare Michael treat us that way after everything we did for him and his precious brand. Michael Jordan would never have been Michael Jordan without me, Horace Grant, Toni Kukoc, John Paxson, Steve Kerr, Dennis Rodman, Bill Cartwright, Ron Harper, B. J. Armstrong, Luc Longley, Will Perdue, and Bill Wennington. I apologize to anyone I’ve left out.
I’m not suggesting Michael wouldn’t have been a superstar wherever he ended up. He was that spectacular. Just that he relied on the success we attained as a team—six titles in eight years—to propel him to a level of fame throughout the world no other athlete, except for Muhammad Ali, has reached in modern times.
To make things worse, Michael received $10 million for his role in the doc while my teammates and I didn’t earn a dime, another reminder of the pecking order from the old days. For an entire season, we allowed cameras into the sanctity of our locker rooms, our practices, our hotels, our huddles… our lives.
Michael wasn’t the only former teammate to reach out that week. Two days later, I received a text from John Paxson, the starting point guard from our first two championships, who later became the Bulls’ general manager and then vice president of basketball operations. I heard from Paxson less often than from Michael.
Hey, Pip… its Pax.
Michael Reinsdorf [Jerry’s son, who runs the franchise] gave me your number. Just want you to know I respected everything about you as a teammate. Fucking narratives can be told but I rely on my real experiences. Watched you grow from a rook… to a pro. Dont let others, including the media, define you. You are successful and valued and I have always felt lucky to be your teammate.
Was receiving texts from Michael and Paxson only two days apart a coincidence? I think not.
Both were aware of how angry I was about the doc. They were checking in to make sure I wouldn’t cause any trouble: to the Bulls, who still paid Paxson as an adviser; or to Michael’s legacy, always a major concern.
Paxson and I hadn’t gotten along in years. In the summer of 2003, I turned down an offer from the Memphis Grizzlies to sign a two-year contract with the Bulls, where I would be a mentor to young players such as Eddy Curry, Tyson Chandler, Jamal Crawford, and Kirk Hinrich, while working closely with the coach, Bill Cartwright. I played with Bill from 1988 through 1994. We used to call him Teach. He didn’t say much. When he did say something, he made you think.
“Pip, I want you to help Bill out,” Paxson said, “to sort of be a coach from the sidelines.”
Why not? A new challenge was exactly what I needed. At thirty-eight, my career was winding down. There was a lot I could offer, on and off the court, and I felt confident the experience would pave the way for me to be a coach myself one day, perhaps with the Bulls.
It didn’t quite work out that way. Bill was fired after 14 games, replaced by Scott Skiles.
I played in only 23 games before retiring in October of 2004. My body was shot after seventeen years in the league—more like nineteen and a half years, if you count the 208 playoff games. Paxson felt I had let him, and the franchise, down. Which might explain why, after my career was over, he didn’t seek my opinion about personnel matters even though he knew how much I wanted to have a say in the team’s future.
In 2010, when I was finally put on the Bulls’ payroll, I was nothing more than a mascot, trotted out a few times every year for “appearances.” I signed autographs and met with season-ticket holders, hired for mainly one purpose, to serve as a link to the glory days.
At last, in early 2014, it appeared I would play a more meaningful role. The Bulls sent me to about a dozen college games to do some scouting. One of the trips was to Cameron Indoor Stadium in Durham, North Carolina, to see No. 5 Duke host No. 1 Syracuse. I had watched many Duke games on TV. What a scene it was: the students, their faces painted in blue, standing up the whole game to root for their beloved Blue Devils and rattle their poor opponents.
Duke, led by freshman forward Jabari Parker, defeated Syracuse, 66–60.
I couldn’t believe how loud it was. Louder even than Chicago Stadium, where we played for many years. I was excited to be involved with the basketball operations. For the Bulls to benefit from my expertise instead of exploiting my name.
After filing the scouting reports, I waited to hear back from Paxson and other members of the organization. What would they want me to do next?
I didn’t hear a word.
Nor did the Bulls invite me to any meetings or workouts with prospects in the weeks leading up to the 2014 NBA draft. It dawned on me they’d been humoring me from the start.
On May 22, 2020, the day after Paxson sent his text, the two of us spoke for a few minutes over the phone. He got right to the point:
I was glad to hear Paxson admit a wrong I had known forever. Which didn’t mean I was willing to forgive him. If that, indeed, was what he was looking for. It was too late for that.
“John,” I said, “that is all fine and dandy, but you worked in the front office for the Bulls for almost twenty years. You had a chance to change that and you didn’t.”
He began to cry. Not knowing how to respond, I waited for him to stop. Why he was crying, I couldn’t be sure, and honestly, I didn’t care.
Before long, our chat was, mercifully, over.
* * *
There is a great deal in the ESPN documentary that has no business being in there. And a great deal that should be in has been left out.
Bottom line: the doc fails to give my Hall of Fame career the treatment it deserves.
Coming from someone who was my teammate and, supposedly, my friend, there is no excuse. It was almost as if Michael felt the need to put me down to lift himself up. Given everything he has accomplished, in and out of basketball, one would assume he’d feel more secure.
Apparently not.
Take, for starters, what happened in Game 6 of the 1992 NBA Finals against Clyde Drexler and the Portland Trail Blazers. Leading three games to two, we were trying to close them out to capture our second straight championship, and first in front of our beloved fans. They had waited decades for this moment.
It wasn’t going according to plan.
Heading into the fourth quarter, the Blazers were ahead by 15 points. Jerome Kersey, their small forward, and Terry Porter, their point guard, were playing extremely well.
Michael, meanwhile, was trying to do too much and it was backfiring.
“You have to get him out of there,” Tex Winter, one of our assistant coaches, pleaded to Phil. “He’s holding the ball too long, destroying the action.”
No one broke the game down quite like Tex. He wasn’t shy about criticizing anyone, including Michael, whenever that player deviated from the triple-post offense he popularized at Kansas State in the 1960s. The triangle, as it came to be known, with its emphasis on ball and player movement, meant everything to Tex and was critical to our success.
A Game 7 seemed inevitable. Anything can happen in a Game 7. An injury. A poor call from the officials. A miracle shot. Anything.
Beginning the fourth quarter with the second unit and myself on the floor—Michael stayed on the bench—we turned the game around. Bobby Hansen, a guard we acquired from the Sacramento Kings early in the season, hit a huge three-pointer to launch a 14–2 run. Others reserves, such as Stacey King and Scott Williams, made one key play after another on both ends of the court. The fans were going crazy.
The score was 81–78 in favor of the Blazers when Michael came back in with about eight and a half minutes remaining. Phil had kept him on the bench a few minutes longer than usual.
The Blazers were done. The final: 97–93.
I can think of no better illustration of what the game of basketball is about: the team, not any one individual. Except not a word about the comeback was in the documentary, as if it never happened. The only footage of Game 6 was showing the final seconds ticking off.
Why not? The answer is obvious.
It wouldn’t have enhanced Michael’s legacy to show his “supporting cast” being the difference in a game of such magnitude. The Bulls would likely have lost that game if Phil had put Michael back in earlier in the fourth quarter. Tex was right. Michael wasn’t moving the ball.
The footage from the 1992 Finals instead focused on Game 1 and how determined Michael was to prove that Clyde, who finished second in the MVP race that season, wasn’t his equal. This was a recurring theme in the doc: Michael coming up with a villain, real or imaginary, to motivate himself. I always wondered: Wasn’t the goal of winning a championship motivation enough?
Another glaring omission has to do with what took place on Sunday, June 1, 1997, in Game 1 of the Finals against the Utah Jazz. With 9.2 seconds to go, the score tied at 82, their star power forward, Karl Malone, aka the Mailman, was awarded two free throws.
While Karl was on the line, I told him, “The mailman doesn’t deliver on Sunday.”
Karl, a 76 percent free throw shooter, missed both attempts.
On the next possession, Michael hit a jump shot at the buzzer to win the game. We went on to beat the Jazz in six for our fifth championship.
What I said to Karl should have been in the documentary. You can bet that if MJ had uttered those words, the moment would have received the full treatment, the point being: Michael Jordan wasn’t just a great basketball player. He was a master at gamesmanship.
In Game 6 of the same series, I deflected an inbounds pass in the closing seconds when the Jazz had a chance to tie the game or take the lead.
The steal was in the doc. Only no emphasis was given to who actually made it. The focus was on how unselfish Michael was by throwing the ball to Steve Kerr, who hit the winning jumper, just as Michael kept passing it to Paxson down the stretch in Game 5 of the 1991 Finals against the Lakers, when we captured our first championship.
There was nothing heroic about what Michael did. Finding the open man was what Phil and Tex drilled into us from day one.
Meanwhile, the few occasions where I didn’t come off particularly well were examined with more scrutiny than the twenty-six-second Zapruder film of the JFK assassination.
Exhibit A: The final 1.8 seconds of the Bulls-Knicks playoff game in May 1994 when I took myself out of the lineup after Phil called for Toni Kukoc to have the last shot and me to throw the ball in bounds. I played in 1,386 games, regular season and playoffs combined. Those 1.8 seconds are, by far, what people ask me about the most.
Why did you sit out? Do you have any regrets? Would you behave differently if given a second chance?
They are fair questions, indeed (and ones I’ll address later on). Except the incident had nothing to do with The Last Dance and therefore didn’t belong in the doc. Why then did Michael feel it necessary to bring it up again? Did he consider for a moment how it might affect me and my legacy? Besides, he wasn’t on the team in 1994. He was playing baseball.
I understand, on the other hand, why my decision to postpone foot surgery until October 1997 was in the doc. Same for my demand that fall to be traded. Both were during The Last Dance.
Even so, how dare Michael call me “selfish.”
You want to know what selfish is? Selfish is retiring right before the start of training camp when it is too late for the organization to sign free agents. When Michael put the Bulls in that position in 1993, Jerry Krause was forced to bring in a journeyman, Pete Myers, who had most recently played for a team in Italy.
That wasn’t the only example of Michael’s hypocrisy. He called out Horace Grant for, supposedly, having been a source for Sam Smith’s 1991 bestseller, The Jordan Rules, which revealed what went on behind closed doors in the months leading up to our first championship. Yet in the documentary, Michael mentioned that, as a rookie, he witnessed his teammates one day in the hotel using coke and smoking weed.
Horace put it best in a radio interview last year:
“If you want to call somebody a snitch, that’s a damn snitch right there.”
Michael could be incredibly insensitive.
In one episode, he recalled how upset he was with Dennis Rodman for being kicked out of a game during the ’97–98 season. I was still recovering from foot surgery. Michael blamed Dennis for leaving “me out there by myself.”
By myself? That doesn’t say much for the other professionals who were on the court, does it?
I could go on and on, listing the subtle and not-so-subtle slights toward myself and my teammates. What would be the point? The ratings confirmed America is as much in love with Michael Jordan today as it was in the eighties and nineties. That’s never going to change and I can live with that.
All I could control was how I would respond to The Last Dance. With silence.
That meant not appearing on The Jump, the daily hoops show on ESPN hosted by my friend Rachel Nichols, where I’d been a regular guest in recent years. If I had come on, Rachel would have expected me to weigh in on what America was seeing every Sunday night. Nor did I accept any of the dozens of media requests that flooded in.
