Well, here we are at the Ditto Finals. Same teams, same places, same time this year.
One small difference. Hardly worth mentioning.
I make it the Jazz in five.
This is an opinion I blurted out as I was leaving the United Center after Game 7 to a friend from the Los Angeles Times. He remembers these things.
He has been telling me that when it comes apart for the Bulls, it will come apart in a hurry, which is also the Reinsdorfian world view and one I resist on that basis alone.
Eventually all doomsayers will be correct–not original, but correct. Sooner or later, the plumbing goes, the tires wear and the roof has to be replaced. The only thing that lasts forever is fruitcake. And Emily Dickinson, of course.
Five games is not “in a hurry,” not when you consider the seven games that came before, or the 100 games a season the Bulls have been playing throughout this decade, or the fact that this basketball season might not end before the hurricane season has used up most of the alphabet.
My initial conviction came from instinct after seeing the Bulls look like they had just finished dogless in the Iditarod against Indiana. Two days later, after honest reflection, determined recollection and due consideration, my mind has not changed.
Because I have not picked against the Bulls in the ’90s, not with Michael Jordan on the team, this comes with no small cost, for now I am bereft of cheap shots, cheap jokes, cheap comments, the kind on which the Bulls always have made good, like co-signers on a spite loan.
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I cannot accuse Salt Lake City, for example, of being no more than a sagebrush snare, the rubble at the bottom of a mudslide, or sneer that truly Great Lakes are not named for condiments.
After the Jazz win I shall do my best to spread the news, by Pony Express if necessary.
Nor can I make fun of Salt Lake’s best restaurant, International House of Velveeta, and its architecture, High Plains Double Wide.
I must respect its haute couture and admire the sense of style that refuses to turn its back on polyester and chintz.
That sort of arrogant superiority is all over with now and I must look at the world through the eyes of a Utahan, which, on a clear day, can see Hooterville.
No longer is it possible to rely on one of Phil Jackson’s Zen homilies, such as a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single crossover step. The Bulls have finished that thousand and have another thousand to go. And that single step is just a bit slower than it used to be.
How much less versatile is “I told you so.”
Not everything is working against the Bulls in the rematch with Utah. Wait just a second and I will think of something.
Home court? The only reason, admitted by many Bulls, the Pacers did not win the last series was because they only had three games on their home court. The Jazz have four.
Ah, yes. But the Bulls have three games in the middle at the United Center, so all they have to do is win one of the first two and the advantage increases exponentially.
Age? Well, Utah is not able to get by on one box of birthday candles either. It has a bunch of guys who still can remember rotary phones, pull tabs and smoking indoors.
Jordan turned back his odometer by taking nearly two years off to stand around in a minor-league outfield. He has not missed a game since returning. Jordan is actually younger than Karl Malone.
Fatigue? All in the mind. Until the fourth quarter. And then it is in the legs. And it will be at altitude.
Intangibles? How about a ghastly ill Jordan saving the Bulls in Game 5 last year?
“I’m not ordering any pizza,” Jordan said.
Bad idea. Get the name of the pizzeria, the delivery guy and send me the check. I’ll pay to be wrong.
Nope. Can’t talk myself out of it. The Jazz in five. However, the Jazz winning the rematch with the Bulls will be like repainting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, only this time with a roller.
Well, maybe one cheap joke.