With six seconds to play in the first quarter of the Bulls’ first playoff game against Atlanta, Will Perdue pulled down a rebound under the Hawks’ basket and dribbled a couple of steps into the open. He then passed ahead to John Paxson near the center line. Paxson must have checked the time when Perdue came down with the ball; now his inner clock was ticking. He dribbled downcourt, into the free-throw lane, and put up a 15-foot fall-away jump shot. It swished at the buzzer, giving the Bulls a 36-28 lead to close an almost flawless period of basketball. (A pair of missed Horace Grant free throws was the one flashback to the Bulls’ oftentimes muddleheaded ways during the regular season.) This sequence that brought the quarter to such a satisfying conclusion was like a long-lost friend. The Bulls were back, playing playoff basketball, and they looked like the two-time defending champions they are.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
The Bulls’ fourth-quarter comeback against the Portland Trail Blazers in last season’s final game was both one of the amazing events in Chicago sports history and an unfortunate tone setter for this season. Ever since, the Bulls have played with insouciance, with the attitude that no lead was insurmountable, no opponent too tough, no series of games too demanding–in short, that they could turn it on at will. This sort of confidence might seem a blessing, but it can easily become a curse. “That’s something you really have to prevent, especially in the playoffs,” says head coach Phil Jackson. A team can find itself too deep too late, like a swimmer caught in undertow. Or like the Bulls in their final game of the regular season in New York, two days after they’d surrendered the Eastern Conference’s top seed in the playoffs to the Knicks by losing in the last minute to the Charlotte Hornets. The ensuing loss in New York ended the season on a distinctly unconfident note.
Yet the Hawks also have their problems. It will take a center to beat the Bulls, and the Hawks’ is Jon Koncak, an overgrown pretty-boy surfer. The Atlanta bench is inexperienced. And Willis and Wilkins, while talented, have always had attitudes that seemed somehow unsuitable to winning. Willis, with his pencil mustache, reacts to foul calls as if he’s been brought the wrong wine. And Wilkins is a one-dimensional player, a dervish with the ball who does little when it’s not in his hands. Bob Weiss, schooled in the game by Dick Motta while a member of the great early-70s Bulls, has grown up to be the Hawks’ coach, but–with his bald head, bookish glasses, and conservative suits–he looks more like a school principal than a basketball strategist. During that first game, he seemed to be trying to keep order during a particularly unruly assembly.
That feeling is based–and this is most important–on a sound appreciation of where the team stands, an unwillingness to accept overconfidence. In this light, the failings of the regular season are past, but they remain painful lessons.
It’s in!
