Charles Barkley’s uniform hangs, all over, low and loose. The shorts are pulled up in back, over his considerable ass, but they can be said to be high on the waist only in comparison to the front, where they dip beneath the line of his somnolent and impervious gut at about the level of the string on a bartender’s apron. The legs of the shorts are wide, allowing ample room for the thighs to move at that rolling, half-track gait they appear to be best suited for. The jersey hangs loose too, heavy with sweat, so that early in the game, the white letters that spell “SIXERS” across his chest have already darkened to a bluish tint. Even the shoulder straps, which he uses to mop his face and brow, are soaked. The jersey trim creates a faint V-neck, which hangs above the wrinkled fabric below like the yoke on a beast of burden. Barkley’s face is round, but not loose; his shaven head is smooth and taut (except for the rolls on the nape of the neck), and his eyes are large and expressive, augmented by versatile, volatile eyebrows above and a mustache below. There isn’t a thing that happens on the court that doesn’t affect him–noticeably–whether it’s a basket by a teammate that prompts him to hammer the air, or an iffy foul call that registers as arched eyebrows and pursed lips. When he pulls up to shoot, just beyond the three-point line, and his features go blank and both feet set and he raises the ball as if to sight on its center for the basket, you can count it. Because it’s going in if he has to will it in, which he does.
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The Sixers are one of the few teams in the league (including, probably, the Detroit Pistons) that can put five starters of equal strength on the floor with the Bulls. Mike Gminski at center, a mobile offensive player who prefers the outside, causes problems for Cartwright; Rick Mahorn, the Bad Boy transplanted from Detroit, matches up with Horace Grant at strong forward; and in the most volatile pairing, a clash of opposite styles, Barkley gets Scottie Pippen at “small” forward. Even in the backcourt, which is usually considered the Bulls’ strength, the Sixers match up well. Johnny Dawkins–yes, the same player the Bulls passed up to draft Brad Sellers years ago–gives John Paxson fits at point guard, and Hersey Hawkins is the sort of scorer who can limit Michael Jordan’s offense by forcing him to play defense.
For the most part, the bench was a disappointment for the Bulls this season. Stacey King was the first player off the bench and B.J. Armstrong was either the second or third, and they played erratically, as rookies will. At midseason, when center Bill Cartwright went down for a few weeks, King and redshirt rookie Will Perdue filled the gap, and the Bulls went on an extended winning streak. But when Cartwright returned, both King and Perdue wilted as reserves. Armstrong was the Bulls’ most improved player over the second half of the season, but–small and prone to errors–he was still questionable going into the playoffs.
The Bulls’ second-half strategy was based on two elements: drive to the basket–don’t settle for jump shots, and, on defense, make the double-team less predictable. As Jackson said after the game, Barkley “had a hard time reading the double-teams. Who was going to come, was it going to be Cartwright, was it going to be Pippen? Sometimes Bill came and went high, sometimes Scottie was going and is always after the ball. But when Bill goes it’s hard for him to read over the top.”
