They woke before dawn, headed out to the field, ready for target practice. But as so often happens to hunters, they didn’t get a chance to fire at their prey because they never even saw their prey.
The crowd at Grant Park Tuesday, which Mayor Richard Daley’s office estimated to be “close to 300,000,” would have given anything just for a chance at a long, hearty boo. Oh, what they would have done for a five-minute Jerry Krause speech, not a word of which would have been heard above the jeers.
Krause, the Bulls’ general manager, and Jerry Reinsdorf, the Bulls’ chairman, chose not to speak at the Grant Park rally for the same reason President Clinton chooses not to speak at Christian Coalition gatherings. This was not a crowd that could be won over.
With Krause and Reinsdorf oddly invisible at their team’s sixth championship rally, the masses had to find creative ways to express their disdain for the two. Boos came only in spurts. People flooded Grant Park for two reasons: to cheer the Bulls and beg that the team be kept together.
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Those who didn’t wear replica jerseys wore championship T-shirts that came in various shades of faded; they would all like a 1999 NBA Champions shirt to add to their collection.
Chants of “One more year!” filled the air when coach Phil Jackson was introduced and resurfaced when Dennis Rodman, Scottie Pippen and Michael Jordan stepped to the microphone. Jackson gave the crowd little hope that he would return, saying that “this was our last dance and it was a wonderful waltz.”
The crowd booed what may have been Jackson’s final words to them as Bulls coach. They also booed Pippen when he made a similar remark.
The boos were directed not at Jackson and Pippen but at Krause and Reinsdorf.
The fans’ sentiments were summed up by one sign: “United we stand, divided we fall.”
These fans are not ready to give up their champions just yet.
“No way,” said Jennifer Omik, a 17-year-old student who held up one of many signs requesting “one more year.” “You have to keep going. It’s not through yet.”
Fans are eager to squeeze as much as they can out of the dynasty, the first of its kind in Chicago in most fans’ lifetimes. Julio Martinez, 70, a North Side resident who cheers for the White Sox, Cubs, Bears and Blackhawks as well as the Bulls, said Jordan and friends made the Second City first-class in the eyes of many.
“It brought Chicago a lot of joy and happiness,” Martinez said. “When people said this is our last one, it made me very sad that we couldn’t keep a team like this.”
The fans, it seems, will go to extremes to keep these Bulls in their lives. Rodman said that if he ever married anybody again, “it would be these 12 guys right here,” but he and the other Bulls had several offers in the gallery.
“Michael, will you marry me?” asked one sign, before politely adding, “Sorry, Juanita.”
There was also the mundane “We love you Michael,” the rarer “Love ya Toni,” and even rarer “I (heart) Kerr” from a woman in a No. 25 jersey.
“I’m sure they’d make great husbands,” said Rosa Roman, 45, of the Northwest Side. “Or maybe ex-husbands.”
If you can’t be with the Bulls, it helps to be like them. Just ask Rodman look-a-like Mike Jones, an auto assembly plant worker from south suburban Riverdale. Jones, 28, whose face, with strong jaw and deeply set eyes, bears a remarkable resemblance to Rodman, said he admires Rodman and met him twice, both times in Las Vegas.
“If I would have dyed my hair green, I don’t think I would have gotten out of here safe,” said Jones, who sported a No. 91 Rodman jersey and signed autographs. “I just like to have fun with it.”
If any of those marriages did occur, Reinsdorf and Krause would surely not be part of the wedding party.
“They’d be stupid to break them up,” said John Meier, 27, of Humboldt Park. “They can get one more.”
The prospect of breaking the team up broke up fan Phyllis Laba of Oak Forest.
“I cried when I heard Jackson had cleared out his desk last week,” Laba said. “This is our cry to do it again–a plea for another chance.”
Some fans conceded that this was the last season and instead relished in the memories of the six championship titles.
“This is it for Chicago,” said Jean Credit of Joliet. “I wanted to be here for Michael’s last time.”
There was at least one fan in attendance who wasn’t thinking about next year’s Bulls. Joe Gibson, a 34-year-old computer operator from Davenport, Iowa, was clad in a Jazz hat and jersey. He came to Chicago Tuesday compliments of a Davenport radio station.
An admittedly devout Jazz fan, Gibson lost an on-air promotional wager: If the Jazz won, the station would send him to Salt Lake City, but if the Bulls prevailed, he was to brave the elements amid the huge throng of Bulls faithful.
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Shortly into an interview with a reporter, standing just steps inside the park, Gibson was promptly serenaded with chants of “Utah (stinks)” followed by flying food. As more reporters and interested passersby gathered around, others pelted him with lemons, peanuts, sticky cola drinks and assorted other food.
“I’m not scared,” said Gibson, although his quavering voice belied him. “I was sent here to take a heap of abuse.”
Unlike Reinsdorf and Krause, Gibson stood there and took it.