by Phil Jackson
TESTING THE WATERS
My goal in 1990–91 was to win the conference title and the home-court advantage in the playoffs. We had proved that we could beat the Pistons at home, but we didn’t have the poise yet to win consistently in their arena. Until that happened, we needed to capture the conference title so that we could benefit from the unnerving effect Chicago Stadium, the loudest arena in the NBA, had on visiting teams. That year we won 26 straight games at home, the longest streak in the history of the franchise. I cautioned the players not to get too excited about victories or too depressed about defeats. When we lost, I’d say, “Okay, let’s flush that one down the drain when you shower. Let’s not lose two in a row.” That became our motto for the season, and after mid-December we lost two straight only once. I also warned the team about becoming complacent with a three-game winning streak. If they let the momentum build, they could extend a streak to eight, nine, ten games. Winning started to come naturally. Going into a tough road trip, I’d say it would be great if we won five of the next seven games. Michael would reply confidently, “We’ll win ‘em all.”
The first big test came on February 7 in a game against the Pistons at the Palace in Auburn Hills, Michigan. We hadn’t won a game in the Palace since Game 1 of the 1989 playoffs, but this time Isiah Thomas would be out of action with a wrist injury.
Studying Detroit game films that week, I uncovered a clue to the Palace mystique: the rim of the basket closest to the Pistons’ bench was stiffer than the one on the other end. This meant that off-line shots would be less likely to get a good bounce and go in. We had rarely shot well at that basket, and I had always chalked it up to the players’ lack of poise in front of the Detroit bench. But perhaps a subtle act of gamesmanship was also a contributing factor. (Adjusting the rigidity of the baskets is not uncommon in the NBA. Some teams also install fast nets to speed up the tempo of a game or deflate the balls to slow it down.) As the visiting coach, I got to pick which basket we would shoot at in the first half. I usually chose the basket in front of our bench, so we would be playing defense at our end of the court in the second half. But this time I reversed strategy: the last thing I wanted was to have the players shooting at a rigged basket in the closing minutes of the game.
More important to me, however, was how the players dealt with Detroit’s intimidation tactics, and I began to see some promising signs. Even though Bill Cartwright was ejected in the first half for elbowing Bill Laimbeer (okay, so the gentle warrior image was not in evidence every second of every game), the team didn’t collapse when Cartwright left the floor. The younger players, especially Scottie and Horace, managed to maintain their focus. At one point somebody knocked Horace’s goggles off and I thought he might unravel. But he recovered gracefully and raced back on defense after assistant coach Jim Cleamons jumped up and screamed, “Just play through it!” B.J. Armstrong also seemed unfazed by the Bad Boys’ ploys and scored clutch baskets in the fourth quarter, as the team held on to win, 95–93. After the game, Jordan announced triumphantly to the media, “A monkey is off our back.”
That’s when the team really started to gel. We went 11–1 in February, the Bull’s most successful month ever, and began to put long winning streaks together. Around this time Bill Cartwright and John Paxson decided to give up alcohol for Lent. They did it, in part, to set an example for the young players, to show that they were willing to make sacrifices to win a championship. Three or four other players joined in, and they continued to abstain till the end of the season.
RIGHTEOUS ANGER
Not everything went smoothly, however. On April Fool’s Day, Stacey King, who had been carping at reporters about not getting enough playing time, walked out of practice. This act of rebellion had been building for months. Stacey, a forward who had been one of the nation’s leading scorers in college, was having a difficult time adjusting to his role as a bench player. I had been patient with him, but the selfishness of his remarks pushed me over the edge. I decided to fine him $250 and suspend him for the next game, which would cost him about $12,000 in salary. When he showed up for practice the following day, we got into a shouting match in my office. I lost control and called him a “fat ass” and a few other less flattering names.
I wasn’t proud of my performance, but my tirade had a positive effect on Stacey. Before that episode he had a distorted view of his role on the team, and some of the veterans felt he needed a dose of reality therapy to bring him in line. They were right. After sitting out a game and thinking over what he had done, he dropped the attitude. He never gave me a problem again.
As a rule I try not to unleash my anger at players that way. When it happens, I say what I have to say, then let it pass, so the bad feelings won’t linger in the air and poison the team. Sometimes what my father called “righteous anger” is the most skillful means to shake up a team. But it has to be dispensed judiciously. And it’s got to be genuine. If you’re not really angry, the players will detect it immediately.
Most importantly, eruptions shouldn’t be directed at one or two members of a group; they should encompass the whole pack. The first time I got visibly angry at the team, after a loss to the Orlando Magic during my first year as head coach, the players were speechless because they had never seen that side of me before. It was right after the All-Star Game, which had taken place in Orlando, and many of the players had been hanging out in Florida all week, chasing women and partying every night. I was angry because we had blown a 17-point lead, and it was clear that the players’ extracurricular activities were sapping their energy. After the game I kicked a can of soda across the locker room and gave the players a fire-and-brimstone sermon on dedicating themselves to winning and doing everything possible, on and off the court, to become champions. The next day the flock of groupies that had gathered around the team was nowhere in sight.
ONE INSTANT IS ETERNITY
We ended the 1990–91 season on a romp, beating Detroit in the final game, and finished with the best record in the conference: 61–21. Then after beating New York, 3–0, and Philadelphia, 4–1, in the early rounds of the playoffs, we faced Detroit again. The Pistons were hobbling after a tough series against Boston and several of their players, including Isiah Thomas and Joe Dumars, were nursing injuries. But that didn’t make them any less arrogant.
This time we didn’t have to use Michael as much as we had in the past. He didn’t have to score 35 to 40 points a game because Scottie Pippen, Horace Grant, and the bench had learned how to take advantage of the openings Michael created by acting as a decoy and drawing the Detroit defense in his direction. In Game 1 he went 6 for 15 and scored only 22 points, but the reserves—Will Perdue, Cliff Levingston, B. J. Armstrong, and Craig Hodges—went on a surge in the fourth quarter and put the team ahead to stay.
As we moved toward a four-game sweep, the Pistons got more and more desperate. Scottie, as usual, took much of the abuse. Forward Mark Aguirre was relentless. “You’re dead, Pippen, you’re dead,” he jabbered, according to an account in The Jordan Rules. “I’m getting you in the parking lot after the game. Don’t turn your head, because I’m going to kill you. You’re fuckin’ dead.” Scottie just laughed it off. In Game 4, Dennis Rodman shoved Pippen into the stands so hard it took him a few seconds to stagger to his feet. As he got up, Horace rushed over and screamed, “You play, you play!” Scottie shrugged it off and kept playing. “They really weren’t focusing on basketball,” he told reporters afterwards. “Basically Rodman’s been making those stupid plays for the last couple of years, but I’ve been retaliating and giving him the opportunity to let that work to his advantage. We put our main focus into basketball, as we have all season.”
Scottie wasn’t alone. Everybody on the team was slammed around. John Paxson was thrown into the stands by Laimbeer. Other players were tackled, tripped, elbowed, and smacked in the face. But they all laughed it off. The Pistons didn’t know how to respond. We completely disarmed them by not striking back. At that moment, our players became true cha
mpions.
The Pistons, on the other hand, gave up being champions long before the final whistle blew. In the final minutes of Game 4, which we won 115–94, four of Detroit’s starters, Thomas, Laimbeer, Rodman, and Aguirre, got up from the bench and walked out of the arena scowling. On their way out, they passed by our bench without even acknowledging our presence.
After that series, the finals against the Los Angeles Lakers were anticlimactic. The Lakers won the first game in Chicago, 93–91, on a late three-pointer by forward Sam Perkins, but that was their last shining moment. After that our defense took over, pressuring Magic Johnson, keeping the ball out of his hands and double-teaming their post-up players, James Worthy and Vlade Divac. We won in five games, taking the last three in L.A.
The emergence of John Paxson as a clutch shooter was another key. When Jordan was pressed, he often dished the ball to Paxson, who shot 65 percent from the field during the series and scored 20 points in the final game, including the shot that sealed the win. After Game 4, Magic summed up the situation beautifully: “It’s not just Michael. He’s going great, but so is the team. It’s one thing if he’s going great and the team isn’t. Then you have a chance to win. They’ve got Horace playing well; Bill is playing solid; and their bench is playing outstanding. They’ve got the total game going.”
Before the final game, the Disney organization asked Jordan if he would do one of their “What are you going to do now?” commercials. He said he’d do it only if the ad included his teammates. This was a sign of how far Michael, and the team, had come. It brought back memories of the 1973 Knicks. After we won the title that year, Vaseline wanted Bill Bradley to do a post-victory commercial, but he suggested the company use his teammates instead. As it turned out, Donnie May, Bills stand-in, ended up playing the starring role.
Here I was again at another victory party in L.A. After we stopped for a moment to say the Lord’s Prayer, the champagne started flowing. It was an emotional scene. Scottie Pippen popped the first bottle of bubbly and poured it over Horace Grant’s head. Bill Cartwright took a sip of champagne and sighed, “Finally.” Sam Smith reported that B.J. Armstrong, Dennis Hopson, Stacey King, and Cliff Levingston serenaded Tex Winter with an impromptu rap song: “Oh, we believe in the triangle, Tex. We believe, yeah, we believe in that triangle. It’s the show for those in the know.” His eyes filled with tears, Michael Jordan hugged the championship trophy as if it were a newborn baby.
Strangely, I was somewhat detached. This was the players’ show, and I didn’t feel the same euphoria they did. But there was one last point I wanted to make.
Midway through the festivities, I gave my last speech of the season. “You should know,” I said, “that many championship teams don’t come back. This is a business. I’d like to have all of you back, but it doesn’t always happen. But this is something special you have shared and which you’ll never forget. This will be yours forever and it will always be a bond that will keep you together. I want to thank you all personally for this season. Now, get back to the party.”
Nine
THE INVISIBLE LEADER
A good merchant hides his goods and appears to have nothing; a skilled craftsman leaves no traces.
—LAO-TZU
John Paxson once came across a Chinese fable in the Harvard Business Review that he said reminded him of my leadership style.
The story was about Emperor Liu Bang, who, in the third century B.C., became the first ruler to consolidate China into a unified empire. To celebrate his victory, Liu Bang held a great banquet in the palace, inviting many important government officials, military leaders, poets, and teachers, including Chen Cen, a master who had given him guidance during the campaign. Chen Cen’s disciples, who accompanied him to the banquet, were impressed by the proceedings but were baffled by an enigma at the heart of the celebration.
Seated at the central table with Liu Bang was his illustrious high command. First there was Xiao He, an eminent general whose knowledge of military logistics was second to none. Next to him was Han Xin, a legendary tactitian who’d won every battle he’d ever fought. Last was Chang Yang, a shrewd diplomat who was gifted at convincing heads of state to form alliances and surrender without fighting. These men the disciples could understand. What puzzled them was how Liu Bang, who didn’t have a noble birth or knowledge comparable to that of his chief advisers, fit into the picture. “Why is he the emperor?” they asked.
Chen Cen smiled and asked them what determines the strength of a wheel. “Is it not the sturdiness of the spokes?” one responded. “Then why is it that two wheels made of identical spokes differ in strength?” asked Chen Cen. After a moment, he continued, “See beyond what is seen. Never forget that a wheel is made not only of spokes but also of the space between the spokes. Sturdy spokes poorly placed make a weak wheel. Whether their full potential is realized depends on the harmony between. The essence of wheelmaking lies in the craftman’s ability to conceive and create the space that holds and balances the spokes within the wheel. Think now, who is the craftsman here?”
The disciples were silent until one of them said, “But master, how does a craftsman secure the harmony between the spokes?” Chen Cen asked them to think of sunlight. “The sun nurtures and vitalizes the trees and flowers,” he said. “It does so by giving away its light. But in the end, in which direction do they grow? So it is with a master craftsman like Liu Bang. After placing individuals in positions that fully realize their potential, he secures harmony among them by giving them all credit for their distinctive achievements. And in the end, as the trees and flowers grow toward the giver, the sun, individuals grow toward Liu Bang with devotion.”
THE MIDDLE WAY
Many coaches are control-oholics. They keep a tight rein on everyone from the players to the equipment manager, and set strict guidelines for how each person should perform. Everything flows from the top, and the players dare not think for themselves. That approach may work in isolated cases, but it usually only creates resentment, particularly with the NBA’s young breed of players, who are more independent than their predecessors. Witness what happened to Don Nelson when he was head coach/general manager of the Golden State Warriors. He got into a battle of wills with a sensitive star, Chris Webber, that destroyed the team and ultimately forced Nelson to resign.
Other coaches are far more laissez-faire. Feeling helpless about controlling their players, who generally make much more money than they do, they give them total freedom, hoping that somehow they’ll figure out a way to win on their own. It’s a difficult situation: even when coaches want to exercise more control, the league doesn’t give them much ammunition with which to discipline players. Fines of $250 a day, the maximum that coaches can mete out, are meaningless to the new generation of multimillionaires. When Butch Beard took over as head coach of the New Jersey Nets in 1994, he instituted a simple dress code for road trips. Free spirit Derrick Coleman objected to the policy and, rather than cooperate, paid fines the whole season. Given this climate, some coaches believe the only sensible solution is to pander to their players’ absurd demands. They coddle the top two or three stars, try to keep the next five or six players as happy as possible, and hope that the rest don’t start a rebellion. Unless they’re incredibly gifted psychologists, these coaches inevitably end up feeling as if they’re being held hostage by the players they’re supposed to be leading.
Our approach is to follow a middle path. Rather than coddling players or making their lives miserable, we try to create a supportive environment that structures the way they relate to each other and gives them the freedom to realize their potential. I also try to cultivate everybody’s leadership abilities, to make the players and coaches feel that they’ve all got a seat at the table. No leader can create a successful team alone, no matter how gifted he is.
What I’ve learned as a coach, and parent, is that when people are not awed or overwhelmed by authority, true authority is attained, to paraphrase the Tao Te Ching. Every leade
r has weaknesses and screws up some of the time; an effective leader learns to admit that. In coaching the Bulls I try to stay in touch with the same “beginner’s mind” I learned to cultivate in Zen practice. As long as I know I don’t know, chances are I won’t do too much harm.
My shortcomings are painfully obvious to me. I have high expectations and don’t hand out praise easily. That places an unrealistic burden on some of the players, particularly the younger ones, making them feel that whatever they do will never be enough. Though most players find me compassionate, I’m not a touchy-feely kind of guy who’ll slap a fellow on the back and console him when he doesn’t perform. I also can be stubborn and intractable, and sometimes I get caught in conflicts with players that rumble on in the background for months before they get resolved.
THE LESSONS OF COMPASSION
The prevailing myth in sports, and the business world, is that managing from the top down and keeping your charges constantly guessing about their status within the organization is an effective way to stimulate creativity. A friend of mine who works for a large corporation told me about a meeting he attended that showed how pervasive this style of management is. His company had been losing some of its best performers to the competition, and top management was perplexed about how to keep the remaining workers happy. A young female executive who had recently been promoted to a senior-level position suggested being more nurturing and compassionate to the worker bees, to encourage them to be more productive. She was roundly attacked by almost everyone at the table. The solution, as top management saw it, was to hire a bunch of “superstars” from outside and give everybody else the message that if they didn’t improve dramatically, they would soon be history. Shortly after the meeting, the boss instituted that policy, and, not surprisingly, productivity declined even further.