After the inbounds pass, Magic dribbles into the lane and spins between Jordan and Pippen, a forced drive if there ever was one. (It is incumbent upon Magic’s followers to do as he says, not as he does.) The gentleman from Italy blows his whistle, and no one is sure what the call is, including the gentleman from Italy. Bird, a veteran pickup-game strategist, turns to go upcourt, figuring that will sell the call as a travel, but Magic is already demanding a foul. He wins.
“That’s a foul?” Jordan asks in his deep baritone.
(Years later I will watch Magic in a pickup game at UCLA, this one without referees, and he will win the foul battle virtually every time, standing around incredulously until he is awarded the ball, and on defense pointedly playing through his own fouls and acting like a petulant child when an infraction is called on him.)
A minute later Barkley bats away Pippen’s shovel pass to Ewing and storms pell-mell to the other end. Bird is ahead of him but overruns the play, and Barkley puts in a layup.
Johnson’s Blue Team 7, Jordan’s White Team 0.
Jordan is now getting serious and calls out, “One, one!” Pippen gets the ball on the right wing, fakes Mullin off his feet and cans a jumper to break the drought for White.
Johnson’s Blue Team 7, Jordan’s White Team 2.
Mullin, always sneaky, taps the ball away from a driving Jordan, and Barkley again steamrollers downcourt, this time going between Malone and Ewing for another full-court layup, taking his two steps from just inside the foul line with that sixth sense all great players have about exactly when to pick up the dribble. “Foul! Foul!” Barkley hollers, but he doesn’t get the call.
Johnson’s Blue Team 9, Jordan’s White Team 2.
Malone misses another open jumper; Magic rebounds, heads downcourt and yells, “I see you, baby” to an open Mullin. Mullin misses but Barkley rebounds and finds a cutting Laettner, whose shot is swatted away by Ewing. Laettner spreads his arms, looking for the call, soon to be joined by his more influential teammate.
“That’s good!” Magic yells, demanding a goaltending violation.
“He didn’t call it,” says Jordan.
“It’s good,” Magic says again.
“He didn’t call it,” says Jordan.
Magic wins again. Goaltending.
Johnson’s Blue Team 11, Jordan’s White Team 2.
Bird goes right by Laettner and takes an awkward lefthanded shot in the lane that misses. His back is hurting. Laettner has a layup opportunity at the other end off a quick feed by Magic, but Ewing blocks it, a small moment that presages Laettner’s NBA career. He isn’t springy enough to dunk or physical enough to draw a foul.
“Dunk that s––, Chris,” Jordan says. “Dunk that s––.” (Years later Jordan will tell me, coldly and matter-of-factly, “Anybody who had Laettner on the team lost. He was the weak link, and everybody went at him.”)
Bird misses an open jumper, and Magic goes over Pippen’s back to knock the ball out-of-bounds; nevertheless Magic flashes a look of disbelief when the ball is awarded to White. Ewing swishes a jumper.
Johnson’s Blue Team 11, Jordan’s White Team 4.
Magic drives, a foul is called on Ewing, and Malone, no fan of this Magic-dominated show, is starting to get irritated. “Sheet!” he yells at the gentleman from Italy. “Everything ain’t a foul!”
His mood is no better seconds later when he gets caught in a Barkley screen, and Mullin is able to backdoor Pippen, get a perfect feed from Magic and score a layup. “Whoo!” Magic yells as he heads back upcourt.
Johnson’s Blue Team 13, Jordan’s White Team 4.
(Years later Pippen will go on a nice little riff about Mullin’s ability to read the game. “Mullie just killed me on backdoors,” Pippen says, watching the tape with me. “He wasn’t that fast, but he knew just when to make his cut.”)
Jordan is now looking to score. He forces a switch off a Ewing screen, takes Robinson outside and launches a three-pointer that bounces off the backboard and into the basket. A lucky shot. Magic calls for the ball immediately—tit for tat—and Jordan retreats, fearing a drive. But Magic stops, launches a jump shot from just outside the three-point line and yells, “Right back at you!” even before it reaches the basket. It goes in.
Johnson’s Blue Team 16, Jordan’s White Team 7.
There is little doubt that if Jordan played Magic one-on-one, he would drill him, because Magic simply has no way to defend MJ. Magic is bigger but not stronger; he can’t jump as high; he’s nowhere near as quick; and Jordan’s predaceous instincts are unmatched in one-on-one challenges. But this morning it’s Magic’s one-on-one game against Jordan’s. Going one-on-one against Jordan, however, not only is a flawed strategy but also goes against Magic’s basketball nature. Johnson is a conciliator. I’ll bring everybody together is his mantra, just as it was back at Everett High in Lansing, Mich., where the principal used to call upon Magic to settle racial disputes among his fellow students. “You understand the respect I have for Michael,” Krzyzewski will say years later, “but one thing about him—he cannot be kind.”
Jordan, with the surety of an IRS accountant, is starting to get into the game. He initiates a play from the point, goes through the lane and out to the left corner, gets a pass from Ewing and hits a jumper as Magic arrives too late to stop him. At the other end Magic waits until Barkley sets up on the left low block, and then Magic passes him the ball. Barkley turns around and hits a jumper.
“Take him, Charles, all day,” says Magic.
Jordan dribbles slowly downcourt and motions Malone to the right block. Jordan makes the entry pass, and Malone turns and quick shoots over Barkley. Good. Tit for tat.
Johnson’s Blue Team 17, Jordan’s White Team 11.
Bird air balls a wide-open jumper. He looks 100 years old. White gets the ball back, and Jordan signals that the left side should be cleared for Malone to go against Barkley. The entry pass comes in, and Malone clears space by slapping away Barkley’s hand. He turns toward the baseline and, legs splayed, releases a jumper. Good.
“Right back at you,” Jordan yells.
Johnson’s Blue Team 18, Jordan’s White Team 13.
After a couple of futile exchanges, Magic races downcourt and throws a pass ahead to Robinson. “Keep going, David,” he hollers, and Robinson obligingly drives to the basket, drawing a foul on Ewing. “All day long,” Magic hollers. “All day long.” Then he gets personal. He yells, “The Jordanaires are down.”
Jordan is not amused. About halfway through the Greatest Game Nobody Ever Saw, Magic may have sealed his own doom. “Hold the clock!” Jordan hollers, clearly irritated, making sure there is enough time to strike back. Robinson makes one of two.
Johnson’s Blue Team 19, Jordan’s White Team 13.
A minute later Barkley spins away from Malone on the right block, and Malone is called for a foul. “Called this same f––– s–– last night,” Malone says to the gentleman from Italy, referring to the game against France. “This is bulls---!” To add to Malone’s frustration, Daly hollers that the White team is over the foul limit.
“One-and-one,” says Daly.
“Yeah!” Magic yells. “I love it. I love it! We ain’t in Chicago Stadium anymore.” He punctuates the insult with loud clapping.
Throughout his career Jordan has heard complaints that the referees favor him. At a Michael-Magic-Larry photo session, Magic quipped, “You can’t get too close to Michael. It’s a foul.” Jordan is tired of hearing about it, particularly from Magic.
Barkley makes one of two.
Johnson’s Blue Team 20, Jordan’s White Team 13.
Now amped up, Jordan goes through four defenders for a flying layup, then Pippen steals Mullin’s inbounds pass. Jordan misses a jumper, but Pippen rebounds, draws a foul on Mullin and gets an enthusiastic palm slap from Jordan. As Barkley towels himself off from head to toe, Pippen makes both. Perhaps they are in Chicago Stadium.
Johnson’s Blue Team 20, Jordan’s White T
eam 17.
Bird grabs the rebound off a missed Robinson shot, and Jordan cans a jumper to bring White within one. Magic, still determined to make this a one-on-one contest, spins into the lane and misses badly. Barkley is starting to get irritated at Magic’s one-on-one play and will later complain to Jordan and Pippen about it. Jordan races downcourt with Pippen to the left and Ewing to the right. You know where this is headed. Pippen catches the ball and throws down a ferocious lefthanded dunk.
Jordan’s White Team 21, Johnson’s Blue Team 20.
Mullin drives and draws a reach-in foul on Pippen. “Wasn’t that all ball?” says Jordan. Mullin makes one free throw, misses the next.
Jordan drives the lane, and Magic, now visibly tired, gets picked off. Robinson, the help defender, is whistled for a foul. After Jordan misses the first, Magic knocks the ball high in the air—a technical in the NBA, but who cares?—and keeps jawing. “Let’s concentrate,” hollers Daly, trying to keep everyone’s mind on the business at hand.
Jordan makes the second.
Jordan’s White Team 22, Johnson’s Blue Team 21.
Malone comes down hard on his right ankle after making a layup off an assist from Jordan. His bad mood has grown worse. Malone walks it off—a normal man would’ve gone for ice—as Pippen and Bird come over to slap palms and Jordan yells, “Way to go, Karl.”
Jordan’s White Team 24, Johnson’s Blue Team 21.
In March 1992, a few months before the Dream Team got together, I asked coaches and general managers around the league this question: If you were starting a team and could take either Malone or Barkley, which one would you select? Malone-Barkley had the ingredients of a Magic-or-Larry debate. Mr. Olympia vs. the Round Mound of Rebound. Mr. Reliable vs. Mr. We Hope He Isn’t in a Bar Sending a Drunk Through a Window.
Malone won the poll 15–7. His supporters invariably mentioned his loyal-soldier quality and contrasted it with Barkley’s penchant for controversy; Barkley’s backers felt there was no substitute for talent and that Charles achieved more with less, having no Stockton in Philadelphia to deliver him the ball. Even considering the full flush of their careers, it’s a difficult call. Malone, the second-leading scorer in NBA history, behind Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, averaged 25 points per game, compared with Barkley’s 22.1. Barkley outrebounded Malone by 11.7 to 10.1. Both have been accused of folding under pressure, but the big picture reveals that each was an outstanding postseason player with numbers almost identical to his regular-season metrics. Bill Simmons, in The Book of Basketball, has Malone and Barkley together in his pantheon of best players, at 18th and 19th respectively.
But there is always the root question in sports: Who was better? You have that moment when you can give only one person the ball, and whom would you choose? I’m sure that if players spoke honestly, Jordan would always get the ball. And I’m equally certain that the Barkley-or-Malone nod would go to Barkley. Charles had that ineffable something that Malone didn’t have. He wasn’t more important to a franchise, he wasn’t as dependable, and he wasn’t as good over the long haul. He was just . . . better.
Of all the Dreamers, though, Laettner came closest to paying Barkley the ultimate compliment. When I casually commented that everyone believed Jordan was the best, Laettner pursed his lips and considered. “I guess,” he said, “but by a very, very small margin over Charles.”
Now, at the morning game in Monaco, Jordan and Pippen walk up the court together. “He’s tired,” Jordan says of Barkley. As if to disprove him, Barkley plows into the lane, and Malone is called for a block. Taking a cue from Magic, the Mailman bats the ball high into the air. Seeing a profusely perspiring Barkley at the line, Jordan moves in for the kill. “A man is tired, he usually misses free throws,” says Jordan. This is a recurring theme for His Airness. “One-and-one now,” says Jordan, wiggling two fingers at Barkley.
Barkley makes the first—“Yeah, Charles, you gonna get your two anyway,” sings Magic—but Ewing bats the second off the rim before it has a chance (maybe) to go in.
Bird misses another open jumper but decides to make something of this personal nightmare. As Magic yo-yo dribbles on the left side, Bird suddenly comes off Laettner and steals the ball. He bumps Magic slightly, but even the gentleman from Italy is not going to call that one. As Magic tumbles to the ground, Bird takes off, Barkley in pursuit, pursuit used lightly in this case. In fact, takes off is used lightly too. Bird fakes a behind-the-back pass to a trailing Jordan, and Barkley takes a man-sized bite at it, his jock now somewhere inside the free throw line. Bird makes the layup. “Way to go, Larry!” Jordan yells. “Way to take him to the hole. I know you got some life in you.”
(Years later I watch some of the game with Mullin. When Bird makes this turn-back-the-clock play, Mullin calls to his wife, Liz, “Honey, come here and watch this. Watch what Larry does here.” And we run it back a couple of times, Mullin and his wife smiling, delighted by the sight of the Bird they love. A couple of months after that, I remind Jordan of the play. He grows animated. “That’s Larry, man, that’s Larry,” he says. “Making a great play like that. That’s Larry Bird.”)
Jordan’s White Team 26, Johnson’s Blue Team 22.
Laettner makes two free throws, and at the other end Jordan feeds Malone for a jumper. Barkley misses a jumper, but Robinson, an aerial acrobat, a giant with a past as a gymnast, leaps high over Ewing and taps the ball in off the board.
Jordan’s White Team 28, Johnson’s Blue Team 26.
Jordan launches a jumper from the top of the key, outside the three-point line, as Mullin flies out to guard him. “Too late!” Jordan yells.
Jordan’s White Team 31, Johnson’s Blue Team 26.
Now mostly what you hear is Jordan exhorting his team, sensing the kill. Magic backs into the lane, Malone guarding him on a switch. The gentleman from Italy blows his whistle . . . and the Mailman blows his top. “Oh, come on, man,” he yells. “Stop calling this f––– bullsheet.” Jordan comes over and steps between Malone and the ref. “Forget it, Karl,” says Jordan. “Don’t scare him. We might need him.”
Magic shoots the first, which rolls around as Jordan, hands on shorts, yells to Ewing, “Knock it out!” Too late. Magic swishes the second.
Jordan’s White Team 31, Johnson’s Blue Team 28.
Pippen pops out from behind a Ewing screen and swishes a jumper. At the other end, Mullin loses the grip on a Magic pass, and Bird recovers. Jordan begins a break, motions Ewing to join him on the left side and watches in delight as Patrick takes a few pitty-pat steps and makes a jumper.
Jordan’s White Team 35, Johnson’s Blue Team 28.
Ewing is whistled for a foul on Robinson, who makes both. At the other end Jordan feeds Malone, who draws a foul on Barkley.
“One-and-one?” the Blue team asks.
“Two shots,” says Jordan, who has taken over the whistle from Magic. Malone misses both. Robinson grabs the second miss and gives it to Barkley, who steams downcourt and passes to Laettner, who goes up and fails to connect but is fouled by Jordan. Dunk that s––, Chris.
“Every time!” yells Magic from the backcourt, desperately trying to regain the verbal momentum. “Every time!”
Laettner, who has been and will remain silent throughout the game, makes both free throws.
Jordan’s White Team 35, Johnson’s Blue Team 32.
Magic is called for a reach-in, and now he goes after the gentleman from Italy, trailing him across the lane. Magic lines up next to Ewing and pushes his arm away as Ewing leans in to box out on Jordan’s free throws. Jordan makes both. Magic is steaming.
At the other end the gentleman from Italy calls an inexplicable moving screen on Robinson, which delights Jordan. “My man,” he yells, clapping his hands. “My man, my man, my man.” We might need him.
“Chicago Stadium,” Magic yells. Malone backs Barkley down, and the whistle blows, and now it’s Barkley attacking the gentleman from Italy. “Come on, man!” he yells. “That was clean!” For a m
oment it appears as if Barkley might strike him. Malone makes one of two.
Jordan’s White Team 38, Johnson’s Blue Team 32.
Laettner makes a weird twisting layup. On the sideline Daly is beginning to pace, hoping this thing will come to an end before a fistfight breaks out or one of his players assaults the gentleman from Italy. As Robinson lines up to shoot a free throw, Jordan and Magic begin jawing again. “All they did was move Bulls Stadium right here,” Magic says. “That’s all they did. That’s all they did.”
“Hey, it is the ’90s,” Jordan says, reaching for a towel.
Robinson makes both.
Jordan’s White Team 38, Johnson’s Blue Team 36.
Jordan dribbles out front, running down the shot clock, pissing off Magic all the while. Finally he drives left, goes up for a jumper and draws a foul on Laettner. Before Jordan shoots, Magic moves in for a few words. They are not altogether pleasant. Jordan makes the first. Magic keeps jawing. Jordan takes the ball from the gentleman from Italy, slaps him on the rump and says, “Good man.” He makes the second.
Daly watches in relief as the clock hits 0:00. He waves his hands in a shooting motion at both baskets, the sign for players to do their postpractice routine, ending the Greatest Game Nobody Ever Saw.
Jordan’s White Team 40, Johnson’s Blue Team 36.
Except that it isn’t over. Not really.
“Way to work, White,” Jordan yells, rubbing it in. He paces up and down, wiping himself with a towel, emperor of all he sees, as Magic, Barkley and Laettner disconsolately shoot free throws.
“It was all about Michael Jordan,” says Magic. “That’s all it was.”
It’s no joke. Magic is angry.
Jordan continues to pace the sideline. He grabs a cup of Gatorade and sings, “Sometimes I dream. . . .” Jordan has recently signed a multimillion-dollar deal to endorse Gatorade, and the ads feature a song inspired by “I Wan’na Be like You,” the Monkey Song in the animated film The Jungle Book. The Gatorade version’s lyrics are:
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