Eleven Rings: The Soul of Success

by Phil Jackson

  Before the next game, I met with the team for breakfast to discuss what had happened. I said that we’d broken the tribal circle and we needed to put it back together. At the end of the meeting, I asked Horace to read the team a passage from Psalms.

  Horace played like a man possessed that day. He burst out on the court, grabbed some key early rebounds, and finished with 22 points as we rolled to a 101–85 win. More important, Horace stood up to Gilliam and the other big men without getting rattled. It was a good sign. The 76ers looked tired and broken, and they folded two days later in the decisive game 5. Next stop, Detroit.

  During the 1990 playoffs, I’d shown the team a video with scenes from The Wizard of Oz. The purpose was to illustrate how intimidated the players were by the Pistons’ rough play. There was a shot of B.J. Armstrong driving to the basket and getting clobbered by the Detroit front line, followed by a clip of Dorothy saying, “This isn’t Kansas anymore, Toto.” Another sequence showed Joe Dumars beating out Jordan off the dribble, while the Tin Man lamented not having a heart. Yet another had Isiah Thomas waltzing by Paxson, Horace, and Cartwright as the Cowardly Lion whined about not having any courage. The players broke into laughter at first, but that died down when they realized the message I was trying to convey.

  This time I didn’t need to play movie scenes. Instead I put together a series of clips for the NBA’s front office, showing the most egregious examples of the Pistons’ cheap shots against the Bulls. I’m not sure how much impact the tape had on the officiating, but at least it showed we weren’t going to roll over quietly.

  It may not have mattered. The 1990–91 Pistons lineup wasn’t as intimidating as before, especially since they’d lost their bruising power forward Rick Mahorn. And our team was far more confident and poised than we had been a year earlier. My advice to the players was to strike first, rather than allow the Pistons to push us around early, and to avoid getting caught up in Detroit’s web of trash talk. I was pleased to see the way Scottie handled himself in game 1. When the newest Bad Boy, Mark Aguirre, threatened to mess him up, Scottie just laughed.

  Jordan had an off game that day, but the second unit stepped in and built up a 9-point lead in the fourth quarter that made the difference. After the game, in a moment that surprised everyone, Jordan thanked his teammates for carrying him. I could sense that all of our efforts to shift the team’s mind-set were beginning to pay off. A few days later Scottie told Chicago Tribune reporter Sam Smith that he had noticed a change in Michael. “You can tell M.J. has more confidence in everyone,” Scottie said. “And I’d have to say it’s come just in these playoffs. He’s playing team ball and for the first time I can say he’s not going out there looking to score. He seems to have the feeling, and we all seem to, really, that if we play together everyone can help.”

  In game 2 we put Scottie in charge of moving the ball up court and shifted Paxson to the wing. That move created some difficult mismatches for the Pistons, which they never could resolve. We also made a few defensive switches that worked well, putting Pippen on their center, Laimbeer, and Cartwright on their small forward, Aguirre. Our defense was so wired that nothing seemed to work for the Pistons. By game 4 they were looking at a sweep on their home court, and when they couldn’t stop that, the game turned ugly. Laimbeer blindsided Paxson and Rodman knocked Scottie into the seats with a blow that could have ended his career. The worst moment, however, came at the end when the Pistons, led by Isiah Thomas, walked off the court without shaking our hands—an insult not just to the Bulls but to the game itself that bothers me to this day.

  Our next opponent was L.A. The Lakers were a storied franchise that had dominated the NBA in the previous decade and were still a powerful team, led by Magic Johnson, with James Worthy, Sam Perkins, Byron Scott, and Vlade Divac. This series would be the ultimate test for Michael, who had always measured himself against Johnson. Magic not only had the rings (five) and the MVP awards (three), he also had an impressive gift for leadership. In his rookie year he had taken over a team dominated by All-Stars, including Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and masterfully piloted it to a championship. Michael was in his seventh year with the NBA and still looking for his first ring.

  We got off to a slow start and dropped game 1 in Chicago. Midway through, however, I noticed a weakness that I hadn’t seen on any of the tapes. Whenever Magic left the game, his teammates weren’t able to hold the lead against our second unit. Magic looked tired after the Lakers’ grueling battle against Portland in the Western Conference finals, and it was clear that the Lakers were much weaker when he rested than we were when Michael was on the bench. This was something we could exploit.

  Our game plan was to put Scottie on Magic.

  In game 2 Michael got into foul trouble early, so moving Scottie over proved to be a good plan—the adjustment threw the Lakers’ offense out of whack, and we won easily, 107–86. After the game I put a video together for Michael, showing him how Magic often left his man—Paxson—to help other players on defense. He was gambling that Michael wouldn’t give up the ball. Paxson was a strong clutch shooter, and in general Michael trusted him more than others in tight situations. But in the L.A. series Michael was reverting to his old habit of trying to win games by himself. Despite our victory in game 2, this was hurting us.

  The action shifted to L.A. for the next three games. In game 3 Michael tied the score with 3.4 seconds left in regulation by driving the ball to the free-throw line and nailing a quick jumper. Then we regrouped and grabbed a 104–96 win in overtime. Two days later our defense completely dominated the Lakers in game 4, holding them to their lowest point total—82—since the arrival of the shot clock, and we took a 3-1 lead in the series. Magic called it “an old-fashioned ass-kicking.”

  In game 5 we were ahead most of the way, but midway through the fourth quarter the Lakers fought back and took the lead. I wasn’t happy with what I was seeing. Despite our discussions, Michael was still leaving Paxson in limbo. So I called a time-out and gathered the team together.

  “Who’s open, M.J.?” I asked, looking directly into Michael’s eyes.

  He didn’t answer. So I asked him again, “Who’s open?”

  “Paxson,” he replied.

  “Okay, so find him.”

  After that exchange, the game turned. Michael and others started delivering the ball to Paxson, and he responded by hitting 4 shots in a row. The Lakers drew within 2 points with a little over a minute left. But I noticed something different as Michael moved the ball up court. I expected him to make a move toward the basket, as he usually did in this kind of situation. But instead he was luring the defense in his direction and trying to create a shot for, yes, Paxson. It was a sweet ending. John nailed the two-pointer and we went on to win, 108–101.

  This was a profound moment for me. Eighteen years earlier I had won my first championship ring as a player in this stadium—the Los Angeles Forum. Now I had just won my first ring as a coach, and best of all, we had done it by playing the game the same way my Knicks team had played.

  The right way.

  8

  A QUESTION OF CHARACTER

  The way you do anything is the way you do everything.

  TOM WAITS

  You’d think it would get easier the second time around, but that’s not how it works. As soon as the cheering stops, the dance of the wounded egos begins. Former UCLA head coach John Wooden used to say that “winning takes talent, to repeat takes character.” I didn’t really understand what he meant until we started our second run for the ring. All of a sudden the media spotlight turned in our direction, and everyone connected to the Bulls whose name wasn’t Jordan began to vie for more attention. As Michael put it, “Success turns we’s back into me’s.”

  The first glimmer I got of this came when Horace unloaded on Michael in the media for skipping out on the championship celebration at the White House. Attendance was optional, and before the e
vent, Michael had informed Horace that he wasn’t planning to attend. Horace didn’t seem to have a problem with it at the time, but when we returned from Washington, he told reporters he was upset that Jordan hadn’t shown up. Michael felt betrayed by Horace but chose not to respond to his comments. I presumed that Horace had been hoodwinked by reporters into saying something he didn’t believe, so I didn’t fine him. But I warned him to be careful in the future about saying things to the press that might be divisive to the team.

  Horace wasn’t the only player who was envious of Michael’s fame, but he was the most outspoken. He had a hard time understanding that I had no control over Michael’s celebrity. It transcended the Bulls and the sport itself.

  As soon as the White House kerfuffle ended, another controversy arose that had a much longer-lasting impact on the team. It surrounded the publication of Sam Smith’s best-selling book The Jordan Rules, an account of the 1990–91 championship season that tried to demythologize Michael and provide an inside look at the secret world of the Chicago Bulls. Smith, a smart, hardworking reporter whom I liked, based the book on his coverage of the Bulls for the Chicago Tribune. Some of the anecdotes portrayed Michael and Jerry Krause in a less-than-flattering light.

  Michael wasn’t happy with the book, but he shrugged it off, presuming, no doubt, that it wasn’t going to have a serious impact on his public image. However, Krause was far less detached. One night shortly after the book came out, he called me into his hotel room during a road trip and started ranting about Smith. He said he had uncovered “176 lies” in the book and pulled out his heavily marked-up copy to prove it. As soon as he started pointing out each alleged lie page by page, I cut him off, saying, “You’ve really got to let this thing go, Jerry.”

  But he couldn’t. Jerry had been suspicious of reporters ever since he got caught in a media flare-up in 1976 that caused him to lose his position as executive of the Bulls after just three months on the job. He was in the middle of hiring a new head coach for the team when the papers reported that he’d offered the position to DePaul coach Ray Meyer. Jerry denied it, but the story wouldn’t die. Disappointed by Jerry’s handling of the situation, Bulls chairman Arthur Wirtz let him go.

  As the weeks went by, Jerry became obsessed with trying to suss out who had been Sam’s primary source for the book. There were dozens of sources, of course. Sam talked regularly with almost everybody connected with the team, including owner Jerry Reinsdorf. I arranged for Krause to meet with Sam and try to work things out, but that conversation went nowhere. Finally Jerry concluded that assistant coach Johnny Bach was the main culprit. I thought that was absurd, but the suspicion lingered and figured in Johnny’s dismissal years later.

  This was the first chink in my relationship with Jerry, which until then had been extremely productive. I was grateful to Jerry for believing in me and giving me the opportunity to coach the Bulls. I also admired the way he’d constructed the team, recruiting the right talent to complement Jordan, even though he often took a lot of heat from Michael and others for the moves he made. I enjoyed working with Jerry on creating the first incarnation of the Bulls’ championship team, then rebuilding it later after Michael returned from his baseball sojourn. One thing I liked about Jerry was that he always sought a wide range of perspectives from coaches, players, and the scouting staff before making key decisions. He also placed great importance on finding players with a high degree of character and was relentless about digging into a potential recruit’s background to find out what he was made of.

  Early in my tenure as head coach, Jerry would greet the players on the first day of training camp and tell the same story, which summed up how he envisioned our relationship. Jerry was an only child, and when he was young, he said, he tried to play his parents against each other, going back and forth between them until he got the response he wanted. One day his father figured this out and said, “Look, Jerry, don’t ever come between your mother and me. We have to sleep together.” I’d roll my eyes when he told this story and say something like, “Sorry, Jerry. No can do”—and it would get a good laugh.

  Obviously I had a different vision of how we should work together. I wanted to be supportive of Jerry, and I spent a lot of time mediating between him and the players. But I didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize the bond of trust I’d developed with the team.

  Most of the players resented Jerry for one reason or another. It started with Michael. During his second year with the Bulls, Michael broke his left foot and had to sit out most of the season recovering from the injury. At a certain point, Michael insisted that his foot was fully healed, but Jerry refused to let him play until the doctors gave him the final okay. When Michael pushed back, Jerry told him that management had made the decision because he was their property, an unfortunate gaffe that alienated Michael and tainted his relationship with Krause from that day forward.

  Other players had issues with Jerry too. They didn’t like the way he stretched the truth about his past achievements as a scout to make himself look good. They were also annoyed when he became obsessed with recruiting Toni Kukoc, a promising forward from Croatia who Jerry predicted would be the next Magic Johnson, even though Toni had never played a game in the NBA. Scottie and Michael felt that Jerry’s flirtation with Toni, who later signed with the Bulls, was an insult to his own players, and they went out of their way to crush Kukoc and the Croatian national team during the 1992 Olympics.

  Most of all, the players were put off by Jerry’s constant attempts to hang out with them and be one of the guys. His short, roly-poly physique didn’t help his case, either. Michael nicknamed him “Crumbs” because of his less-than-perfect table manners and often poked fun at his weight and other idiosyncrasies when he rode on the team bus.

  This kind of tension on a team always makes me feel uneasy. When I was a kid, I hated discord of any kind. My older brothers, who were less than two years apart, fought constantly, and I was the peacemaker. My father used to discipline my brothers with his belt, and I remember sitting at the top of the cellar stairs bursting into tears listening to them get their whippings.

  The way I handled Jerry was to keep things light. I knew that his overreaction to The Jordan Rules stemmed from his feeling that he wasn’t getting the credit he deserved for building this great team. I understood. But I couldn’t fix it, so I tried to shift his mind with a touch of humor and compassion. I also tried to keep our relationship as professional as possible. As the team’s fame grew, the rift between Jerry and me widened. But professionalism sustained us. Despite the turmoil, Jerry and I were able to stay focused and get the job done.

  —

  With the players it was a different matter. I told them they needed to tune out the distractions—whether they came from the media, Krause, or another source—and focus their attention on winning a second championship. To that end, I redoubled my efforts to turn practice into a sanctuary from the messiness of the outside world. “We were a very popular team,” says Scottie. “So we had to secure and protect each other. We couldn’t have people bringing their friends to practice and bugging guys for autographs. Because if you can’t have freedom of life with your teammates, where are you going to get it?”

  As the team turned its attention inward, the bond among the players began to re-form. The “me’s,” to use Michael’s phrase, slowly transformed into a powerful We—and one of the strongest all-around teams I’ve ever coached. The system was clicking, and our defense was unstoppable. We got off to a 15-2 start and finished the season with 67 wins, 10 more than anyone else in the league. Our biggest losing streak was two games. At one point, Reinsdorf called and said, “I hope you’re not pushing the team to break the record.” No, I told him, it was just happening spontaneously. B. J. Armstrong said he felt the Bulls were “in tune with nature” that season and that everything was fitting together “like fall and winter and spring and summer.”

  Then came t
he playoffs. After beating Miami in three games, we faced a tough New York Knicks team, coached by Pat Riley, who had done a good job of turning the Knicks into a new version of the old Detroit Pistons. In fact, Riley had hired a former Pistons defensive coach, Dick Harter, to bring that kind of toughness to the Knicks. The NBA had put up with the Bad Boys of Detroit for the past five years, and after we’d dispatched them the previous year, there had been a collective sigh around the league. Muscle ball was out and finesse basketball was slowly coming back in vogue. Still, the Knicks had a powerful front line—made up of Patrick Ewing, Charles Oakley, and Xavier McDaniel, with Anthony Mason as the backup. Their strategy was to use their muscle to dominate the boards, slow down the tempo of the game, and take away the fast break. Their most effective weapon, however, was Riley’s ability to spin the media. He had learned a lot in L.A. about using the press to play the refs, and he fired his first salvo before the first playoff game. His point? If the refs didn’t get enamored with M.J., he said, and called a fair game, the Knicks would have a chance to win. I fired back, saying that Ewing was getting away with murder, taking extra steps every time he drove to the basket. The battle was on.

  I’ve always felt comfortable talking with reporters because I spent so much time hanging out with them during my playing days with the Knicks. I also learned from some of the stupid mistakes I made. In my first year as a starter—1974–75—the Knicks took off on a roll, but we didn’t have much depth and finished the season with a disappointing 40-42 record. So I told reporters that we might have made the playoffs, but we were “still losers.” That was the big headline the next day: “Jackson Calls Knicks Losers.”