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player ready...Not rain, nor sleet, nor idiot scheduling can bring gloom to Chicago sports. Not when the Bulls could win 70 games.
So what if the Cubs are diving facefirst toward double-digit shame. Relax. Applaud the splat.
Some teams are born lousy, some teams achieve lousiness, and some teams have lousiness thrust upon them. But only one team can be the Cubs, a triple threat.
Call me in June and let me know if the feeble coupling of Albert Belle and Frank Thomas is any more explosive than mixing chalk with spit. Take comfort when the White Sox are rained out.
The NBA playoffs are looming.
No season in Chicago starts until after the Bulls are finished. Not spring, not summer, not the Bears.
Don’t bother me with all the off-season reupholstering of the Bears. It is as superficial as it is inconsequential.
Yesterday’s mistake leaves, tomorrow’s mistake arrives, Rashaan Salaam stays. Just as long as none of the traffic makes Scottie Pippen late for the Knicks game.
Blessed are the Bears without a No. 1 draft choice. An alibi in the hand is worth two in the second round.
Don’t give me the name of the 40th-best player in the NFL draft, give me the Bulls’ first-round opponent.
Dave Wannstedt pointing to the draft list is like Terry Bevington waving to the bullpen.
Nag not on the prospect of an early Stanley Cup dismissal of the Blackhawks, who struggled into the playoffs with all the grace and promise of a goat passing swallowed keys.
Remember only that Michael Jordan has something left to prove.
This should be the worst of times, when the seasons mix and Chicago sports failures match so obviously, when it is sometimes hard to remember if Sammy Sosa is in the penalty box or Bob Probert is in the on-deck circle. And if not, why not?
Misery, thy name would be, should be, April.
But not when Toni Kukoc is healing.
Let the fiscally fundamental Cubs stare at the bottom line, and all they will see is that it looks an awful lot like last place.
Chicago would rather stare at Dennis Rodman.
It doesn’t matter if all the assorted White Sox stand mute in the corner or sit in the dugout with their thumb in their ear. What matters is whether Phil Jackson will get another job before finishing this one.
The Bears can sew Tom Carter’s name onto Donnell Woolford’s jersey and not only is there still no pass rush, it is not clear how much help Luc Longley may need in handling Alonzo Mourning.
And the Blackhawks? Well, if hockey mattered, Bob Pulford would be some other town’s troglodyte, although not at a place where winning and ticket sales have anything to do with each other, where being the next-to-last team into the playoffs is reason for heads to roll.
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Not only does Pulford apparently know where the bodies are buried, he’ll dig a few up every now and again and give them a shift on the ice.
The Hawks are a team that started so poorly that a return to inadequacy becomes reason for celebration. Making the NHL playoffs for the 28th season in a row sounds impressive, but only if attendance, like neatness, counts.
Coach Craig Hartsburg insists that there is pride in a Blackhawks jersey, which is the first time anyone has heard it called that.
The Bulls are Chicago’s pride, and after the Bulls, there is only the weather.