Four of them hang there now, like tidy tea towels, the proudest laundry in Chicago sports.
The Bulls took care of one last bit of housekeeping Saturday night from the season of all seasons, a familiar but still riveting ritual for the home folks, the raising of the championship banner to the rafters of the United Center, a harder job than disposing of the 76ers.
“It seemed to take forever to get up there,” said Phil Jackson. “I had to tell those guys to pull faster.”
Twenty-eight hands tugged at the rope, including those of John Salley and James Edwards, now excused to get on with their lives, hefting the thing to its final place just as all the hands had pulled together for 72 victories and the NBA championship.
After a mishap with one of the corners, causing it to hang briefly like a huge, used nosewipe, the newest banner snuggled in beside the rest. Proper symbolism would have left two open spaces for the years without Michael Jordan. The Houston Rockets should have the grace to put parentheses around theirs.
NBA Commissioner David Stern passed out those most coveted trinkets of glory, the championship rings, the fourth such to Michael and Scottie, one less than Magic and Kareem, just to remind the Bulls that they still are not the team that has done everything, no matter that their new jewelry reassuringly proclaims them “Greatest Team Ever.”
Stern allowed as how, in the 50th anniversary of the NBA, this is a team “whose place in history is assured.”
Like saying the Renaissance might deserve its own chapter.
Each ring contains 72 diamonds. Had the Bulls known precious gems were involved, possibly they would have gone ahead and won the other 10 games.
“This year, last year,” said Michael Jordan, bringing the evening together for the assembled worshipers, “we plan on being back here in June.”
Jordan customarily keeps his promises.
Between now and then, the hardest part may be simply staying awake. The Bulls have played the first two games against uninspiring opponents, yawning as if they’ve punched the snooze alarm.
For the home opener, the scheduled guests and NBA bottom-dwellers were the 76ers, a team of incompatible egos, and owners of the top draft choice, young Allen Iverson, not a sharer by nature.
If the 76ers plan on building around this kid, they will have to get the basketball away from him first.
Derrick Coleman remains as unreliable as a politician’s promise, and Jerry Stackhouse is another of a half-dozen ambiguous new Jordans.
“Philadelphia is an interesting club, full of youth and energy,” said Jackson, without obvious regret.
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And yet the Sixers’ tomorrows are greater than the Bulls’, in number if not in deed. They are at least at the beginning of something–anarchy, from the looks of it–and the Bulls are at the finish.
Last year was a season to stir the imagination. This one is for the heart to treasure, each game one fewer from the pile, each Jordan moment one less petal on the rose.
Motives will have to come where the Bulls can find them. Jordan always has the promise of a ninth scoring title. Pippen can enhance his presence in the world of commerce and boost the wages from his next employer. Rodman will doubtless use the season for his own eccentric purposes. It is Jackson’s job to mix and manipulate.
There was in the pregame ceremony a sense of sadness as well as exhilaration, for this could be the last such ritual for the most enduring set of sports heroes ever in Chicago.
Even if there is another at this time next year, the leading figures will already be scattered, Jackson to his own special wilderness or to shepherd another team, Jordan to retirement or the open market, Pippen into the bait bucket of rebuilding and Rodman into blessed obscurity, a freak without a franchise.