As entertainment, the Bulls just keep on giving. Spaced judiciously, the assorted goings, comings and stayings of the derelict dynasty can take us through the summer and well into autumn, by which time the Cubs will settle and the Bears will be good for a chuckle.
The whole, jangling flea market will adjourn after the annual ring ritual, for which, I am assuming, most of the pertinent parties will have to buy their own airfare.
Will anyone who had anything to do with that sixth championship banner be on hand to see it raised, other than Toni Kukoc, keeper of the flame and default house pet?
Phil Jackson certainly will come back for one official, final bow and to see, if I understand the honor, his own banner hauled to the rafters. Jackson will be the first NBA coach to have his suspenders retired.
Or will the Grant Park party serve as the official farewell to these guys? Any reassembly of Chicago’s greatest sports treasure, even ceremonially, may be too raw a reminder for the neglected clerks of the Bulls, anxious to get on with proving that institutions win championships and the right selection of timeout music fills arenas.
After all, Jackson did not sail off on the Good Ship Bodhidarma with the organizational blessing of the Bulls, who at least should have provided party hats for the occasion.
Jackson left as he stayed, untraditionally and uncommonly, the most uncommon thing being not that he left on two wheels, but that he left on his own terms.
No blubbering like Ditka nor indignity like Zimmer, no propped up fabrication as is the habit of the Blackhawks, who–and this is just a guess–might very well have Jackson on their short list.
Jackson did seem a bit anxious to be rid of us, or regret-free to be leaving at least; too much concrete maybe.
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What he might understand is that we are all Jerry Krause and Krause is us, children of the city to which Jackson was just a tourist. He never was going to live among us. His heart is in the highlands; ours is in the cold cuts.
We may not like Krause either, but we certainly are familiar with his grub.
We did not understand Jackson and most decidedly we did not adore him. Mike Ditka wins one Super Bowl and he is forever Da Coach. Jackson wins six titles and he is Da Lucky Stiff.
The impending NBA lockout may abridge subsequent Bull amusements, but then what is actual is never as much fun as what is hypothetical anyhow.
So, what is the next item on the playbill, Scottie Pippen?
Pippen is as surely gone as is Jackson, yet what we need from Pippen is a series of sightings, down in Phoenix or out in Los Angeles, over in Houston, something to allow us to nudge a stranger and raise an eyebrow.
Is Scottie gone? This we will be able to say without words, just as holding one’s nose was all the communication needed to share the final “Seinfeld” episode.
If not the players, the players’ agents are duty bound to stir the pot, and the plot, for that is their jobs.
Dennis Rodman can provide biweekly glimpses, in different costumes, if any, dropping assorted crude sentiments on the state of the Bulls, growing more and more desolate as the obvious is made conspicuous.
Bringing Rodman back to what is left of the Bulls would be like dumping debris on a crime scene.
Lesser diversions like Steve Kerr and Luc Longley can fill in between the main acts, possibly as a duet.
Each bit of periphery will require the perspective and review of Michael His Own Self, of course, for no one is foolish enough to believe that any of this will matter if Jordan goes.
That will be the encouragement to keep it all alive, that Jordan responds, for that will mean he still cares, and as long as Jordan cares, there is a chance.
It is silence that is unacceptable.