Eleven Rings: The Soul of Success (15 page)

Working with Mumford, Michael adopted a new way of leading based on what worked best with each player. With some players, he decided, he would get
physical
, either by demonstrating what needed to be done with his body or, in Scottie’s case, simply by being present. “Scottie was one of those guys for whom I had to be there every single day,” says Michael. “If I took a day off, he would take a day off. But if I was there every single day, he would follow.” With other players—Dennis in particular—Michael would go
emotional
. “You couldn’t yell at Dennis,” he says. “You had to find a way to get into his world for a few quick seconds so that he could understand what you were saying.” With still others Michael would communicate primarily on a
verbal
level. Example: Scott Burrell, a forward on the 1997–98 Bulls. “I could yell at him and he would get it,” says Michael, “but it didn’t hurt his confidence at all.”

One person he didn’t have to worry about was Kerr. The fight had forged a strong bond between the two players. “From that day forward Michael looked at me differently,” Steve says. “He never picked on me again. He didn’t trash talk with me anymore. And he started trusting me on the court too.” Adds Michael, “I have the most respect for Steve because, one, he was thrown into a situation where he really had no chance of winning. And, two, he stood up. When I started fouling him, he came back at me. Which got me angry. But that’s where the mutual respect comes from.”

From Michael’s perspective, the second run of championships was harder than the first because of the personalities involved. Most of the players on the first championship teams had been together for several years and, together, had fought many battles. As M.J. says, “We’d go up the hill and get knocked down, knocked down, and knocked down, until we climbed over it as a group.” But during the second run, most of the players didn’t know one another very well, yet everybody expected the team to win right out of the gate. “I think we needed Phil more for the second run than the first,” says Michael now. “In the first run, the egos hadn’t set in yet. But in the second run, we had a lot of different personalities to mesh together and the egos were really strong. And Phil had to bring us together as a brotherhood.”

—

All the pieces fell together beautifully. We didn’t have a dominant big man like the sixties Celtics and other great teams from the past, but these Bulls had a remarkable sense of unity, on both offense and defense, and a powerful collective spirit.

Everything we did was designed to reinforce that unity. I had always insisted on structured practices with a clear agenda that the players would receive ahead of time. But we also started organizing other aspects of the team process to create a sense of order. In general, I used discipline not as a weapon but as a way to instill harmony into the players’ lives. This was something I’d learned from years of mindfulness practice.

That season we asked the players to arrive at the training facility at ten every morning to do forty-five minutes of strength training and warm-ups. Michael preferred to work out earlier at home with his private trainer, Tim Grover, and that year he invited Scottie and Harper to take part in the program, which they dubbed “the Breakfast Club.” By ten they, too, would show up to warm up for practice, which started at eleven. We’d focus on refining our triangle skills, as well as our defensive goals for the upcoming game or week. Then we’d move into an offensive segment, including a full-court scrimmage. I’d often put Pip or M.J. with the second unit and see what influence their presence would bring to the practice. Afterward, the guys would hang around and work on their shots, and our trainer, Chip Schaefer, would get them recharged with fresh blended fruit drinks. If we were headed for a road trip, we might go upstairs to our team room and have a short video session.

At first Dennis tried to skirt the rules, as if he were playing a game. One rule was that players had to show up for practice on time with their shoelaces tied and all their jewelry put away. Dennis would often appear with one shoe untied or a piece of jewelry hidden somewhere. Sometimes I’d give him a silly fine or make a joke about his appearance, and other times we’d just ignore him. I told him that it wasn’t me he had to worry about if he came late to practice; it was his teammates. Once he realized that none of us were really interested in his little rebellions, the problem went away.

One thing I loved about this team was that everyone had a clear idea about their roles and performed them well. Nobody groused about not getting enough playing time or enough shots or enough notoriety.

Jordan focused on being consistent and stepping up, when needed, to deliver a decisive blow. In early December, after scoring 37 points against the Clippers, he announced to reporters that he felt “pretty much all the way back now as a player.” He joked about being compared to his former self all the time. “According to some people,” he said, “I’m even failing to live up to Michael Jordan. But I have the best chance of being him because I am him.”

Scottie felt liberated not having to live up to the Jordan legacy anymore and gave an MVP-level performance in his new role as chief orchestrator of the action, which felt much more natural to him. Harper also adapted extremely well to his job as multipurpose guard and defensive bulldog. Meanwhile, Dennis exceeded all expectations. Not only did he master the system in a short period of time, but he also blended perfectly with Michael, Scottie, and Harper on defense. “We basically had four attack dogs in the starting lineup,” says Kerr, “and they could all guard four or five positions on the floor. It was incredible.”

Dennis played the game with such wild enthusiasm that he soon became a fan favorite. People loved to watch him hustle for loose balls and pull down rebounds to ignite fast breaks. Early in the season Dennis started dyeing his hair different colors and tearing off his jersey after games and tossing it to the crowd. The fans loved it. “All of a sudden,” he said, “I’m like the biggest thing since Michael Jordan.”

The fifth starter was Luc Longley, a seven-two, 265-pound center from Australia who wasn’t as mobile and explosive as Shaq but was big enough to plug up the middle and force other centers off their games. His backup was Bill Wennington, who had a good short-range jumper that he often used to lure his man away from the basket. Later in the season, we also added two other big men to the lineup, James Edwards and John Salley, both of whom, like Dennis, were former Detroit Bad Boys.

At first Toni Kukoc balked when I made him the team’s sixth man, but I persuaded him that it was the most effective role for him. As a starter he often had trouble playing forty minutes without getting worn down. But as sixth man he could come in and give the team a scoring boost, which he did in several key games. He could also use his exceptional passing skills to reenergize the team when Scottie wasn’t on the floor. Meanwhile Steve Kerr played a key role as a long-range scoring threat; guard Randy Brown was a high-energy defensive specialist; and Jud Buechler was a talented swingman. In addition, we had two backup power forwards, Dickey Simpkins and rookie Jason Caffey.

We had absolutely everything in place that we needed to fulfill our destiny—talent, leadership, attitude, and unity of purpose.

—

When I look back on the 1995–96 season, I’m reminded of another parable that John Paxson discovered about the emperor Liu Bang, the first leader to consolidate China into a unified empire. In W. Chan Kim and Renée A. Mauborgne’s version of the story, Liu Bang held a lavish banquet to celebrate his great victory and invited master Chen Cen, who had advised him during the campaign. Chen Cen brought as guests three of his disciples, who were perplexed by an enigma at the heart of the celebration.

When the master asked them to elaborate, they said that the emperor was sitting at the central table with his three heads of staff: Xiao He, who masterfully administered logistics; Han Xin, who led a brilliant military operation, winning every battle he fought; and Chang Yang, who was so gifted at diplomacy that he could get heads of state to surrender before the fighting began. What the disciples had a hard time understanding was the man at the head of the table, the emperor himself. “Liu Bang cannot claim noble birth,” they said, “and his knowledge of logistics, fighting, and diplomacy does not equal that of his heads of staff. How is it then that he is emperor?”

The master smiled and asked them “What determines the strength of a chariot’s wheel?”

“Is it not the sturdiness of the spokes?” they replied.

“Then why is it that two wheels made of identical spokes differ in strength?” asked the master. “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 them. The essence of wheel-making 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?”

After a long silence, one of the disciples asked, “But master, how does a craftsman secure the harmony among the spokes?”

“Think of sunlight,” replied the master. “The sun nurtures and vitalizes the trees and flowers. 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 sun, individuals grow toward Liu Bang with devotion.”

Liu Bang would have made a good basketball coach. The way he organized his campaign was not unlike the way we brought the Bulls into harmony for the next three seasons.

—

The start of the 1995–96 season reminded me of Joshua fighting the battle of Jericho. The walls just kept tumbling down. Every time we moved to a new city, it seemed, something would go wrong with the other team. A star player would be injured or a key defender would foul out at just the right moment or the ball would bounce in the right way at just the right time. But it wasn’t all luck. Many of our opponents didn’t know how to deal with our three big guards, and our defense was remarkably skilled at breaking down offenses in the second and third periods. By the end of January, we were 39-3, and the players started to talk about breaking the record of sixty-nine wins held by the 1971–72 Lakers.

I was worried that they might get drunk on winning and run out of steam before we reached the playoffs. I considered slowing down the pace, but nothing seemed to stop this juggernaut. Not even injuries. Rodman injured his calf early in the season and was out for twelve games. During that time we were 10-2. Then in March Scottie missed five games with an injury, while Dennis reverted to his old ways and got suspended for six games for head-butting a ref and defaming the commissioner and head of officials. Still, we lost only one game during that period.

As we approached the seventy-game mark, the media hype was out of control. ABC News reporter Chris Wallace dubbed the team “the Beatles of basketball” and designated Michael, Scottie, Dennis, and me as the new Fab Four. The day of the big game—against the Bucks—TV helicopters shadowed our team bus all the way to Milwaukee, with crowds massed at the overpasses on the interstate holding up signs of support. When we arrived at the Bucks’ stadium, a crush of fans was gathered outside hoping to get a peek at Rodman’s hair.

Naturally, we had to make the game dramatic. We were so wound up by the time the game started that we fell apart in the second quarter, hitting only 5 of 21 from the field for 12 points. But then we slowly clawed our way back in the second half and won in the final seconds, 86–80.

The main emotion we felt was relief. “It was a very ugly game, but sometimes ugly is beautiful,” said Michael. But his mind was already on the future. “We didn’t start out the season to win 70 games,’” he added. “We started out the season to win the championship and that’s still our motivation.”

We finished the season with two more wins, and Harper came up with a new Gershwinesque team slogan, “72 and 10 don’t mean a thing without the ring.” To inspire the players, I adapted a quote from Walt Whitman and taped it on their lockers before the first game of the playoffs, against the Miami Heat. “Henceforth we seek not good fortune, we are ourselves good fortune.” Everyone expected us to dance our way to the championship, and those are always the hardest kinds of games to win. I wanted the players to know that despite our remarkable season, the rest of the way wasn’t going to be easy. They would have to make their own luck.

And they did. We swept Miami and rolled over New York in five games. Next up was Orlando. To prep the players for the series, I spliced a few clips from
Pulp Fiction
into the game tapes. The players’ favorite scene showed a seasoned criminal, played by Harvey Keitel, instructing two hit men (Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta) on how to clean up a particularly gruesome murder scene. Midway through the proceedings he quips, “Let’s not start sucking each other’s dicks quite yet.”

Ever since we were humiliated by the Magic in the 1995 playoffs, we had set our sights on a rematch. In fact, we had rebuilt the team primarily with Orlando in mind. But the first game was anticlimactic. Our defense was just too overpowering. Dennis held Horace Grant to no points and 1 rebound in the first part of the game. Then Horace hyperextended his elbow in a collision with Shaq and was out for the rest of the series. We also shut down two other players who had hurt us badly the year before: Dennis Scott (0 points) and Nick Anderson (2). We ended up winning 121–83.

The Magic rebounded in game 2, but we broke their spirit when we erased an 18-point deficit in the third period and went on to win. They were also crippled by injuries to Anderson (wrist), Brian Shaw (neck), and Jon Koncak (knee). The only Magic players who posed any kind of scoring threat were Shaquille O’Neal and Penny Hardaway, but that wasn’t enough. The series ended, appropriately, with a 45-point scoring blitz by Michael in game 4 on the way to four-game sweep.