December 1, 2018

The 90s were a great time to be a child. Everything was dubbed “extreme”, everything was colorful and weird, people let their freak flags fly, pop culture was strange but easily digestible.  In retrospect, it seems like people weren’t as afraid to take chances and at least to me there felt like there was a little bit more substance. 

What a time to be alive, especially if you were a suburban Chicago basketball fanatic. My parents like to remind me that I was up from the time the sun came up until the time it went down I would be in the driveway shooting hoops. The Bulls were something that for the most part, my entire family could get behind. By the most part, I mean Brett and Drew couldn’t care less. Once on a trip to Orlando, my father took Todd, Brett and Drew to a Magic game. Brett about flipped his shit when the game went into a fourth overtime. “Is it over yet?!” he said. I, on the other hand, remember when the Bulls beat the Supersonics in the finals and I ran around the block shouting “We won!” with a replica championship banner on my back.

 I’d watch games on television with my father while he passed out on the couch from a long day of carpentry. The Bulls and Michael Jordan were, of course, the hottest ticket in town. I’m spoiled and was able to go to a few games during my youth. My father worked around a network of folks who had season tickets. It was always such a great feeling when he’d come home with an envelope containing tickets that had images of the players on them. Part of the fun was guessing who would be on them. I’m pretty sure I still have them somewhere.

Everything was basketball. Shoes, clothing, home decor, school supplies, even films. I loved “Eddie” starring Whoopie Golberg and probably could have saved my parents a lot of money if we’d just bought the VHS instead of renting it every time we went to JC Flicks. Shout out to Coolio for heading the soundtrack. My parents were very supportive of my basketball endeavors and even took me to Michael Jordan’s restaurant. If I recall correctly, there was some sort of sectioned off portion were my father said something to the effect “That must be where Michael dines. We must have just missed him.” 

The day of a game was extremely tough to get through. Usually, we’d get the tickets well in advance and the countdown would begin. Bragging to friends that I was going to the game after school, I at least for that day, was the envy of all other middle school sports fans. My father played a little basketball in junior college and I’m told he was pretty good. I even had a teacher reiterate this to me before.  Every time we’d go to a game, my father would always say something like “Who knows Shaun, someone might get injured and I might have to suit up.” If I’m being completely honest,  I’m sure the first time he said this I believed him. 

The anticipation was over and a plan was set. I’d heard Dennis Rodman gave out his jerseys after games and to no one’s surprise, I wanted that jersey. Again, I was spoiled (but humble) and as a superfan, had many jerseys of my own in various colors. Even a red Kukoc jersey. 

I’d assembled some supplies. Multiple colors of temporary hair dye, a fat sharpie, and a neon pink sign. This of course was complemented by my Bulls shorts, Bulls jersey, Bulls warm-up jersey, Bulls jacket, tear-away pants, and Dennis Rodman Converse shoes. I was ready. 

I’ve always enjoyed the drive to Chicago. Seeing the skyline from I-55 never ceases to amaze me. As most do when they arrive at the United Center, we toured around the place. We saw the Jordan statue, looked around at the life-size cutouts of the team, put our hands on the molded basketballs comparing our hands to Shaq’s and other NBA players. We pass the people selling raffle tickets, and the groups playing music. The smell of nacho cheese is prevalent.

We had great seats. We were probably about 13 rows up on the corner of the court. My father, Todd, Brett, Drew and myself were all there. The Bulls were playing the (Vancouver) Grizzlies and the only reason I remember this is because on the opposite side of my sign that said “Dennis, can I please, please, please, please have your jersey?” My brother wrote something cheeky directed towards Bryant Reeves. 

With about six minutes left in the game, the Bulls were up by quite a margin. As I mentioned before, my father worked around many people with season tickets. As fate would have it, the property developer he worked under was walking up the aisle in an attempt to beat traffic, The Bulls, of course, were imposing their will over the Grizzlies. After exchanging pleasantries with my father, he surrendered his courtside seats to us as they were no longer any use to him. We concocted a plan that two of my brothers would go courtside for the first three minutes left in the game and I, along with Todd would go down for the last three minutes of the game. 

When I arrived courtside I was ecstatic. Right behind the basket, the Bulls lined up for free throws. There I was sitting about 10-15 feet from Michael Jordan, the greatest player to ever play the game. The man who set the bar for future NBA players like me (cough, cough), the man who cost my parents a lot of money in sneakers and memorabilia. At the time, this was perhaps the best three minutes of my life.

The game ends, the Bulls win and fans start to head for the exits. Not us. Not Todd and myself. This was the big moment we were waiting for. In my mind, there was no one more deserving of this coveted game-worn jersey. We stood their patiently as the players did interviews and eventually made their way towards the tunnel. 

At the time, Dennis was dating or married to Carmen Electra. She too had been sitting courtside. Dennis made his way towards her as he was swarmed by media and other hangers-on. This is it, my heart is pounding, my legs are shaking and my sign, though it feels like it weighs a ton is in the air. 

Dennis looks directly at me, he points and removes his jersey. My eyes widen, he winds up and throws. I’m so excited I could puke but before the jersey can even take flight, a man who for some reason I remember to look like Newman from Seinfeld swiped the jersey. We think he was Carmen Electra’s assistant or something but this was just a wild assumption.

We head back towards the thirteenth row as my father and brothers witnessed what had transpired. I snap up my tear-away pants, throw on my pullover jacket and unlike the victorious Bulls, I leave defeated.