Eleven Rings: The Soul of Success

by Phil Jackson

  The big surprise was Rodman. He had struggled in 1996–97, and I worried that he might be losing interest in the game again. But during Scottie’s rehab, we asked him to step up and give the team an energy boost, and he suddenly started playing MVP-level basketball on both ends of the court.

  Michael likes to tell the story of how he and Dennis bonded during this period. The key was their mutual love of cigars. “When Scottie got hurt, that left me and Dennis as leaders of the team,” recalls Michael. “So I went to Dennis and said, ‘Look, I know your antics. I know you like getting technicals. I know the image you try to project. But I need you, man, to stay in the game. I don’t need you to get kicked out. Scottie is not here. That means you’re going to have to lead from upfront, as opposed to being behind Scottie and me.’” For the most part Dennis lived up to the challenge. Then during one game, he got angry and was thrown out. “Now I’m steaming,” says Jordan. “I’m pissed because we had this conversation and he left me hanging. That night he came knocking at my hotel room door and asked for a cigar. In the whole time we’d been together, he’d never done that. But he knew he had let me down. And that was his way of saying, ‘I’m sorry.’”

  —

  Scottie returned to the lineup on January 10 against the Golden State Warriors, and the team transformed overnight. It was like watching a great conductor return after a leave of absence. All of a sudden, everyone knew what notes to play and how to harmonize. From that point on, we went on a 38-9 run and tied the Utah Jazz for the best record in the league, 62-20.

  As the regular season wound down, I thought it was important for us to have some closure as a team. This was the end of an era, and I wanted us to take some time to acknowledge our accomplishments and the strength of our connection. My wife, June, suggested that we perform a ritual that she had used with children whose parents had died in the hospice program where she worked. So I scheduled a special team meeting before the start of the playoffs and asked everyone to write a short paragraph about what the season and our team had meant to them.

  We met in the tribal room. It was just the inner core of the team: the players, the coaches, and the training staff. Only about half of the people wrote something ahead of time, but everyone spoke. Steve Kerr talked about the thrill of becoming a father while he was with the team and bringing his four-year-old, basketball-crazed son into the Bulls locker room to meet Michael, Scottie, and Dennis. Head trainer Chip Schaefer quoted the famous passage from 1 Corinthians 13:

  If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.

  Michael wrote a short poem for the occasion. It was very moving. He praised everyone’s dedication and said he hoped that the bond we’d formed would last forever. Then he added: No one knows what the future holds, but let’s finish it right.

  It was touching to hear a group of hardened NBA players revealing themselves to one another in this tender way. After each person spoke, I asked him to put his message in a coffee can. Then we turned the lights out, and I set fire to their words.

  I’ll never forget that moment. The quiet aura in the room. The fire burning in the darkness. The intense intimacy we felt sitting silently together and watching the flames die down. I don’t think the bond among us had ever been stronger.

  —

  During the final week of the regular season, we lost two games, including a home game to the Pacers. That raised some questions in my mind as we entered the playoffs, even though we had locked up home-court advantage in the Eastern Conference. My main concern was fatigue. Michael and Scottie were playing big minutes, and I wasn’t sure our bench was strong enough to give them the breathing room they needed late in games. Our strategy at the outset was to play tough defense, conserve energy, and set Michael up to take over in the closing minutes. One bright spot was the reemergence of Kukoc, who had struggled the previous year with a bad case of plantar fasciitis but was playing so well now that Sam Smith suggested that the Bulls’ Big Three should now include Toni instead of Rodman. As for Dennis, I worried about his inconsistency and lack of focus, especially now that we no longer had Brian Williams to back him up. To strengthen our inside defense, we’d traded forward Jason Caffey and brought back Dickey Simpkins, a bigger, more aggressive player—and a former Bull—who we hoped would help Dennis and Luc clog the lane.

  We swept the New Jersey Nets in the first round after a sluggish start in the first two games, which Chicago Tribune columnist Bernie Lincicome characterized as “dead men dribbling.” In the next series, the Charlotte Hornets gave us a surprise in game 2, beating us with a strong fourth-quarter push led by former teammate B.J. Armstrong. Being one-upped by B.J. inspired the team—and Michael in particular—to explode and finish off the Hornets in five games.

  Our next opponent, the Pacers, would not go down so easily. They were a powerful contender, coached by Celtics great Larry Bird and featuring one of the best shooters in the league, Reggie Miller, along with a tough front line led by center Rik Smits. During one of their Breakfast Club sessions, Michael, Scottie, and Harp came up with a creative defensive strategy for neutralizing the Pacers’ backcourt. They suggested having Pippen cover point guard Mark Jackson because he had done so well against him in the past and putting Harper on Miller because he was good at breaking through screens. Michael, in turn, would guard the small forward (either Jalen Rose or Chris Mullin), which would free him from expending a lot of energy chasing down Reggie on defense.

  I gave the scheme the go-ahead and it worked well, forcing the Pacers into 46 turnovers in the first two games, as we cruised to a two-game lead in the series. After the second game, however, Larry complained to the media about the physical play of Pippen. Ergo, the next time we met, Scottie got into foul trouble early in the game. Then Larry foiled our defensive scheme by substituting the quicker Travis Best for Jackson. As a result, we had to change our plan and put Harp (or Kerr) on Best and Michael on Miller. In the fourth quarter Reggie manipulated his way through enough screens to get some free space and score 13 points en route to a 107–105 victory.

  The closing seconds of game 4 reminded me of the 1972 Olympics final, i.e., totally chaotic. We were leading 94–93 with 4.7 seconds left when Scottie was fouled and missed two free throws. Then Harper and Miller got into an altercation, and Ron pulled Reggie down onto our bench and started hitting him. Both players were later fined, and Rose, who jumped up to join in the scuffle, was suspended for one game. (I was fined too, for comparing the refs to the ’72 Olympics officials who nullified the U.S. team’s win with a bad call.) When everything settled down, Reggie pushed Michael out of his way with both hands, grabbed an inbound pass, and hit a three-pointer with 0.7 seconds left to win the game.

  In game 5 we resorted to our deadliest weapon—our defense—and shut down the Pacers 106–87 in Chicago to go ahead 3–2 in the series. “Tonight was unexpected dominance,” said Michael. “When everybody’s focused and playing our game, we can really play the game of basketball.” So far, so good. But two days later the Pacers tied the series again in Indianapolis, in another game tainted by dubious officiating. With 1:27 left, Scottie’s old nemesis, Hue Hollins, called him for illegal defense, a technical foul that allowed Miller to tie the game, 87–87. Then, with the Pacers ahead by two in the closing seconds, Michael drove to the basket and fell. To us it looked like a tripping foul, but the refs looked the other way. Game over.

  Could this be the end of the Bulls dynasty? I’ve always been wary of playing seventh games. Anything can happen, and it usually does. If we lost, it might also mean that this would be Michael’s last game. Before the game I talked to the players about the prospect of defeat. We could lose this game, I said, but what’s important is playing with the right kind of effort, and no
t being overtaken by the fear of losing. Michael understood that. To him losing was not an option. During a team huddle, he said, with a cold, determined look in his eye, “We are not going to lose this game.”

  Nothing came easy. Michael was struggling, hitting only 9 for 25 from the field. But when his jump shot wasn’t working, he manufactured points by driving to the hoop in a crowd and drawing fouls. He ended up with 28 hard-won points, 10 of which came at the line. He also pulled down 9 rebounds and made 8 assists.

  Michael’s drive was contagious—especially with the bench. Toni scored 21 points; Kerr had 11; and Jud Buechler grabbed 5 rebounds in eleven minutes. In fact, our work on the boards was the key to the game. We hit only 38.2 percent from the field that night, but we outrebounded the Pacers 50–34, which gave us a lot of second opportunities to score. And Rodman, who was having an off night, contributed a mere six to the total.

  During the middle of the fourth quarter, the team missed 10 straight points and fell behind 77–74—and I thought we might be history. But then the whole team started getting creative, scrambling for the ball and looking for anything that might break the game open. Michael fired a pass to Longley, and Scottie, who was not having a good night offensively, pulled down Luc’s miss and hit a jumper with less than five minutes left that put us ahead for good, 81–79. We went on to win 88–83.

  “It’s about heart, and I think you saw a lot of heart out on the basketball court,” an exhausted Michael said afterward. “It was a great effort. It’s truly a championship team in terms of finding ways to win and making it happen.”

  —

  The next series—the championship finals against the Utah Jazz—wouldn’t be a dream vacation either. First of all, we didn’t get home-court advantage because the Jazz had swept us during the regular season. That meant we’d have to win two games on the road against them, unless we won three in a row at home, which had never been done before in the postseason. The key to beating the Jazz was to sabotage their great screen-roll game by pressuring the point guards, John Stockton and Howard Eisley. Karl Malone was a machine on offense, but he didn’t excel at creating his own shots the way Michael did. Malone relied on the point guards to set things in motion for him. If we could cut off the point guards, we’d stifle Malone.

  In game 1, I pulled Harper late in the game because he seemed tentative on offense. And Kerr couldn’t contain Stockton in the closing minutes, so we lost, 88–85, in overtime. We edged out the Jazz, 93–88, in the second game, then returned to Chicago to make history. For game 3 we decided to have Pippen double-team Stockton as he moved the ball across half-court, and Scottie’s size and wingspan made it difficult for John to initiate the offense. We won 96–54, and the Jazz walked off with the record for the fewest points scored in a playoff game by one team. Veteran Jazz coach Jerry Sloan said, “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a team play any better defensively since I’ve been in the business.”

  We won the next two games at home, giving us a 3–1 edge in the series. Scottie was so dominant in game 4 that Sam Smith called for him to be named finals MVP over Jordan. But first we had to win, and that was proving harder than we imagined. There was so much hype in Chicago about game 5, which could be Michael’s grand finale, that the players had a difficult time focusing on the game, and we lost, 83–81.

  It all came down to game 6 in Utah. Actually, it came down to 18.8 seconds in that game—one of the most dramatic moments in the history of sports. I didn’t want to play another game 7, especially in the Delta Center, where the boisterous home crowd held powerful sway over the refs in big games. But things didn’t look good when we arrived at the stadium for game 6. Scottie had serious back spasms and would be out much of the game. Harper had a stomach flu. Longley was playing limited minutes because of foul trouble. Dennis was averaging 6.75 rebounds in the series, well below his 15.0 average during the regular season. Kukoc and Kerr were performing well, but I didn’t think they could offset the loss of Pippen. Before the game I asked Michael if he could play the full forty-eight minutes. “If you need it I can,” he said.

  Scottie left the game in pain after the first seven minutes and was out for the rest of the first half. Somehow we held it together and finished the half down by only 5 points. Scottie returned after the break and played for nineteen minutes, mostly as a decoy on offense. As the fourth quarter began, Utah was leading 66–61 and slowly losing ground to the Bulls, who tied the score at 77 with five minutes left.

  But we had a problem: Michael’s legs were tiring, and he couldn’t get any lift on his jump shot. I urged him to drive to the basket instead, because the Jazz didn’t have a center on the floor to jam up the middle. If he was forced to go to his jumper, I advised, he should make sure he completed the follow-through, which he hadn’t been doing. With 41.9 seconds left, John Stockton hit a twenty-four-foot jumper that put the Jazz ahead 86–83. I called time-out and told the players to run a variation on one of my favorite plays—which involved clearing out space on one side of the floor for Michael so he could create his own shot. Scottie tossed in the ball to Michael at half-court and M.J. drove past Byron Russell on the right side and put in a high-arching layup to make it 86–85 Utah.

  As expected, the Jazz didn’t call a time-out and started to launch one of their standard plays. Michael anticipated where the pass was going and slipped around Karl to steal the ball from him.

  That’s when everything started to slow down. Michael, who often had an otherworldly sense of what was happening on the floor, moved the ball up court and sized up the situation. Kerr and Kukoc were on the floor, so Utah couldn’t risk double-teaming him. That left Russell all by himself to guard Michael as he calmly let the clock run down like a big cat studying its prey. Then Russell made a stab for the ball, and Michael moved right as if he were driving to the basket, gave Byron a little push, and pulled up short and sent him flying to the floor. Slowly, ever so slowly, Michael squared up and lofted a beautiful shot to win the game.

  Afterward Michael recounted what was going through his mind in those closing seconds. It sounded like a poem on mindfulness. “When I got that [steal], the moment became the moment,” he said. “Karl never saw me coming, and I was able to knock the ball away. When Russell reached, I took advantage of the moment. I never doubted myself. It was a two-point game, a three-point game, we kept hanging close. When I got the ball, I looked up and saw 18.8 seconds left. I let the time tick until I saw the court the way I wanted it. John Stockton was over on Steve Kerr, so he couldn’t gamble and come off. And as soon as Russell reached, I had a clear path. I knew we could hold for 5.2 seconds.”

  I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I thought I had witnessed Michael’s greatest moment during his famous flu game the year before. But this was on a different level. It was as if the whole thing had been scripted. Even though Michael would return to basketball years later to play for the Washington Wizards, this is the shot everyone thinks of as his final bow. A perfect ending if ever there was one.

  —

  After all the celebrations were over, Michael invited the members of the team and their guests to a party at one of his restaurants in Chicago. When dinner was over, the team retired to the cigar room to smoke stogies and reminisce about our time with the Bulls. The stories ranged from the mundane to the profane. Then each of us gave a toast to another member of the team. I celebrated Ron Harper for his selfless act of switching from an offensive star to a defensive specialist, thereby setting up our run for the second three-peat. Scottie gave the final toast, to Michael, his partner and fellow leader. “None of this could have happened without you,” he said.

  There had been a lot of speculation after the finals about what would happen to the Bulls. Would Reinsdorf try to bring the team together again for one more run? The only way that could happen was if Michael pulled some kind of miracle deal comparable to his last shot. But in my mind I was already gone. And I told Michae
l that he shouldn’t link his decision to me.

  I had one more meeting with Reinsdorf at our championship party. He offered me a chance to stay with the Bulls, but without any guarantee that he’d bring back Michael and Scottie. He and Krause had decided to rebuild the team, a process that didn’t interest me. Besides, I was desperately in need of a break. June and I were planning to move to Woodstock, New York, where we’d lived before I joined the Bulls. So I graciously turned him down. Michael waited for the lockout to end in January 1999 before officially announcing his departure.

  As I walked out of the Berto Center on my last day, there were some reporters waiting outside. I chatted with them briefly, then climbed on my motorcycle and sped away. It was a bittersweet moment. I felt a great sense of relief, leaving behind all the drama of the past year. But I also knew it was going to be a challenge to let go of my deep attachment to this team that had given me so much.

  The Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron talks about letting go as an opportunity for true awakening. One of her favorite sayings is “Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us.”

  That’s what I was searching for. And I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. But as a new future unfolded before me, I took comfort in the knowledge that letting go is a necessary, if sometimes heart-wrenching, gateway to genuine transformation.

  “Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing,” writes Chodron. “We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.”

  I felt all those emotions during my final year in Chicago. And before long I would be headed off on another wild ride that would test me even more.