Michael Jordan will be back and, to borrow from Jerry Reinsdorf, anybody who thinks the rest of the NBA can catch the Bulls next season is crazy.
Reinsdorf borrows from no one, even though he agreed Wednesday to supply the greatest basketball player ever with an estimated 1997-98 salary of $36 million after a skull session in Las Vegas, of all places.
The site of Jordan’s fantasy camp also is America’s gambling mecca, yet Reinsdorf knows that spending on Jordan constitutes just about the safest investment in the wacko world of professional sports.
Reinsdorf is the loudest voice in the wilderness preaching this dusty ideal of pay-for-performance, but Jordan is among the precious few athletes concerned more about earning his fortune than spending it.
Jordan seems immune to sloth and envy and the other vulnerabilites that tend to undermine a player’s spirit after all those trips to the vault. Jordan doesn’t even allow himself the usual complement of injuries, and as for enjoying life away from it all, he’s only 34.
Michael spends plenty of time with his family and his golf clubs, but he still cherishes the prospect of cutting an opponent’s heart out inside the lines, whether it’s January in Sacramento or the Finals in June.
Some players pick their spots to take a night off here and there. Jordan catches his breath during the dot races.
How much is he really worth? If Oprah pulls down $180 million for being the best at what she does, maybe Michael is a bargain at $36 million. If the Cubs get $40 million for doing what they do, he should renegotiate Wednesday’s deal on Thursday.
Ron Sirak, the enterprising writer for Associated Press, recently figured that Tiger Woods pumped $653.5 million to golf’s booty since he turned pro last August. TV ratings boomed, sponsors clamored, galleries swarmed. And that’s for one year’s genius.
Where do you even start with Jordan? He really is in a league of his own, as the NBA discovered during his baseball sabbatical. He built a tradition here, then a building, not to mention an entirely upgraded frame of reference that other teams here must acknowledge, often with reluctance.
Before Michael Jordan, mediocrity was the common fare in Chicago arenas. Now it’s a tougher sell. When baseball doesn’t draw in the spring, baseball blames Bulls fever. And this is the franchise that, one season before Jordan appeared in 1984, averaged 6,365 attendees per home game.
Reinsdorf admittedly didn’t appreciate Jordan’s message after the Bulls clinched their fifth championship. But Jordan was right on. This team deserves to defend until it can’t. Management should worry about not disintegrating like the Boston Celtics only after these Bulls abdicate.
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There is an inordinate degree of anxiety every summer about when to say when, but coach Phil Jackson nailed it. If the front office is so fixated on trying to win with another roster, what’s the hurry? That day will come, and soon.
In the end, Reinsdorf dismantled his White Sox instead, and in 22 Las Vegas minutes, he gave Michael what he had coming. For two stubborn giants, they do shake hands quickly.
Jordan has some strong opinions, but he didn’t become what he is by being meek. He can spell leverage.
This is his team, his challenge, his stage. And if the Bulls win again next season, the absolute last for Jackson and Scottie Pippen in Chicago, perhaps Jordan will decide it’s time to retire from public life. Then again . . .