The Jordan Rules by Sam Smith Read Free Book Online

disappointing season for him, and Armstrong, and Dennis Hopson, who also had been more wallflower than dancer for long stretches at a time. All had been discouraged by the intricacies of the offense, known to the players as “the triangle,” adapted from the teachings of assistant coach Tex Winter. But now they were serenading the grandfatherly coach in a rap version of the championship shuffle.
    â€œOh, we believe in the triangle, Tex, we believe, yeah, we believe in that triangle. It’s the show for those in the know. Goin’ to the triangle and goin’ to win a title.”
    Jackson could feel his thin lips curling into a smile. He admired the quirky Winter, and he had stuck with him, even when his star, Jordan, said he didn’t care for that particular system because what had Winter won with it anyway? And Jackson stayed with it even when the players grumbled early in the season and Winter came to him and said he should drop the system because the players had to believe in it for it to work. He would make them believe, Jackson insisted. And now they were singing.
    There was Jerry Krause, the Bulls’ general manager, joyous perhaps less from the win than from the fact that the players were treating him like one of the guys. A humorless man who lived for his job, Krause was the object of the anger some of the players felt toward the Bulls over money. Overweight and sensitive about it, Krause had been the kind of kid who’d had trouble making friends. But here were the guys, his guys, yelling out to him just as if he were one of them.
    â€œGetting laid tonight, Jerry?” came the shouts. Manly stuff, guy talk. “Gettin’ any, Jerry?” said one player as Krause’s devoted wife, Thelma, stood by.
    â€œYou know it,” Krause said happily.
    â€œPax, Pax,” Perdue chimed in. “What was it? About $100,000 per shot? Like a cash register. $1.1, 1.2, 1.3…”
    Owner Jerry Reinsdorf, nearby, could only laugh. John Paxson, the veteran with the all-American-boy looks, one of the lowest-paid starters in the league, had made five straight baskets down the stretch in the final game. Every time the Lakers had threatened, there was Paxson to take the big shot. And now his contract was up. “What were those shots worth, Pax?” bubbled Perdue. “Just going for the new deal?”
    And then there was Jordan. Jackson knew that was a smile that wouldn’t wipe off. The crying was done; it had come, unexpectedly and touchingly, in the locker room right after the game, in a huge release. He was the star who couldn’t win, they had said all these years, and now not only had his team won, but he had too in the biggest way, the way he’d always dreamed it would be: He was the Most Valuable Player of the series, chosen unanimously. One of the eleven electors had all but refused the ballot, saying, “Who else could it be?” And Jordan had done it against his archrival Magic Johnson, who had been held up by basketball purists as the exemplar of all that Jordan wasn’t: a great passer, a great teammate, a winner. Well, they couldn’t say that anymore.
    First they prayed. After rushing into the locker room, the Bulls gathered in a circle for the Lord’s Prayer, and then popped champagne bottles while looking for beer to slug down. Jordan collapsed into his seat for the TV cameras, but it was all too much. His head fell into the lap of his wife, Juanita, and he sobbed. His dad, James, who had never stopped telling him that he’d get to this moment, massaged his neck. But Jordan couldn’t stop. His body trembled and he tried to wipe away the tears of joy, of relief, of promise fulfilled at last. His stomach ached and his breath was short. He’d never felt better. Better than in college when he was a freshman and his North Carolina team won the NCAA title. That one was too easy. This one was a struggle, against odds and doubters for