Chief Sitting Bull, Jerry Reinsdorf, speaks softly and carries a big cigar. He might also be puffing out his chest at this point, because his fingerprints are all over a 1-2 executive team that defies NBA convention.
Never mind that during the glory years, general manager Jerry Krause and coach Phil Jackson oversaw a dynasty without sharing much love. If they nurtured mutual admiration, it was largely hidden, which is fine.
The ring is the thing, and they produced six.
Whether John Paxson and Scott Skiles bond more than their predecessors, or whether they ever go fishing together a la Krause and Tim Floyd, is unknown. But this GM, who some experts thought was too nice a guy to succeed, and this coach, who supposedly lacked social skills to reach modern millionaires, are having a wonderful time of it, thank you.
Where Paxson and Skiles veer from the status quo in this era of perpetual scrutiny is on this matter of ego. The hunch is that Paxson could assemble a roster and Skiles could direct it in utter seclusion — no crowds, no cameras, no commotion — and enjoy the process, like the basketball junkies they are.
The fact that Paxson and Skiles hold high-profile jobs in a city with a passion for pro hoops in a league that stresses entertainment even when the clock isn’t running apparently is immaterial to them.
Paxson and Skiles not only appear to be on the same page, they evidently prefer that page to be in the back of the playbook.
In the NBA, if you wear a silk suit, you are expected to insert yourself into the action by showing your face and providing a sound bite.
The NBA is certainly not unique in that department. Delusional behavior is everywhere, fueled by a mind-set that fans buy tickets or tune in to watch owners own, administrators administrate and referees referee.
The style-over-substance creed is nurtured on the college scene, where coaches obsess about looking important, and the code of conduct is rewarded by ESPN and its wannabe networks. If you are in the vicinity of a game, and you have anything to do with that game, even if you haven’t played a game in eons, or ever, you must perform. Hold that clipboard as if it contains the cure for cancer.
Paxson and Skiles are oddities in that they eschew the almighty BS factor. They respond to questions with thoughtful answers, but microphones and podiums aren’t their preferred milieu. They don’t live for the trappings of their existence; they live with them. If the Bulls play hard, that’s all that matters. And who plays harder?
Paxson might have felt compelled to assert his authority during tense contract negotiations with Skiles a couple of years ago. Instead, he stepped aside so Skiles could work it out with Reinsdorf. How many insecure peers, name a sport, would have allowed such a meeting without being in the front row?
Skiles’ sandpaper didn’t last long in Phoenix, and when he insisted months ago that Ben Wallace remove the headband or else, the $60 million question was whether old-fashioned values would prevail. Since then, how many disciplinary issues have the Bulls faced? If Skiles is such a stifling personality, why do his players stay overtime to practice their craft? If his face from Mt. Rushmore is so intimidating, why do they feel so free to express so much emotion on the court?
If Krause’s regime fostered tension that Jackson used toward an us-against-him motif, Paxson’s is about respect. This team’s only agenda is winning. Nice guys occasionally finish last. But sometimes, they’re last to finish.