As weary as are the Bulls of talking about what is going to happen after whatever happens happens, so must the world be tired of hearing it.
Short goodbyes are always the best. The longer this one goes on, the less alluring it all becomes, and by my calendar there is still a full month of it to go.
The Bulls’ farewell began way back before the first game of the season, way before the “Seinfeld” crew got in line, and who among us does not wish all of those wholly imaginary gits of Gotham would just pack up their selfish little lives and get lost on the IRT.
The Bulls began leaving before the Titanic set sail, when Ellen was funny, and it will last past all that and Turkel too.
Not counting reruns, of course. What makes Michael leaving different from “Seinfeld” wrapping is once the score is final, there is no more market.
Doesn’t anybody just leave a note on the pillow anymore?
It will end, by my guess, in Los Angeles, where it all began, Jordan hugging his final trophy. The Jerrys should just let him take this one home.
Sure we’ll be watching. That is if we aren’t buried under Bulls trivia by then, under all the lasts and all the no mores.
Who said God is in the details? Apathy is in the details and the taller the pile the deeper the sigh.
This is beginning to feel like one of those airport sendoffs where after all the kisses and hugs and tears, the plane is delayed and what’s left is a concourse full of used confetti, wilted balloons and weary well-wishers looking at their watches.
By the time the Bulls actually leave, could it be to cheers of relief rather than to sobs of regret?
Who gets next week’s magazine cover, Jud Buechler? Who’s doing tomorrow’s diary, Dickey Simpkins?
Jordan says goodbye to North Carolina. Didn’t he just say goodbye to Newark?
What I’ve come to realize with the second round of the playoffs not yet over is this: We want it to end. We are ready for it to be over. We do not want the Bulls back together for another season.
This has become a grand, romantic, foolish adventure and we are enjoying it not in spite of but because it is so senseless. It has become as much our own sweet sorrow as the Bulls’.
We are cooperating in the finish, collecting our souvenirs, taking part.
Had I thought ahead at all, I would have invested in Kodak or Fuji, in camcorders and disposables, because never has an exit used up more film.
Not just by the professionals, although they are underfoot in record numbers with elaborate and intrusive cameras, parabolic microphones and transponder coordinates committed to memory.
For this we launched those satellites? Somewhere Werner von Braun is giggling.
Michael Jordan at the free-throw line sets off a chain of tiny flashbulb explosions. Talk about your thousand points of light. The estimate is low.
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Is that the last time Michael is going to blow his nose in a Bulls uniform? Give me two 8-by-10s of that photo, and a half-dozen wallet size.
How could the Bulls dare not to end it here, how could they even think of getting back together one more time? Jerry Reinsdorf is off the hook. He can make the grand gesture and not be held to it.
Too much of an emotional investment has been made for mere money to undo it.
Every eulogy may insist that it has ended too soon, but try to find the grief in anyone who learns he has bought a new dark suit for nothing.
We will make this long last march, gripe about how long it takes to get there and whimper at the finish.
But don’t ask us to go it again.
This is not the Hooterville train running in a circle. When this one leaves for the last time, it will not be allowed to come back.
Choo-choo. Choo-choo.