In its advertisements for last Sunday’s National Basketball Association All-Star Game, NBC revived Michael Jordan’s last-second series-winning shot against the Cleveland Cavaliers from the playoffs of two seasons ago. It only appeared for an instant at the end of the ad: Jordan sinks the shot and then throws a series of fists in the air. We knew what it was right away, however; its use in the ad reminded us what an indelible moment it is. And we fleshed out the vision ourselves: it was Jordan hitting the last-second shot after Cleveland had taken the lead with eight seconds to play in the fifth and deciding game of the first round of the playoffs. Craig Ehlo, who remains a nemesis for the Bulls, guarded Jordan determinedly but loosely–not wishing to draw a foul–and went reeling and spinning off the court as the shot went in. Coach Doug Collins ran down the side of the court and then into the center of the court to join his celebrating team. Announcers Jim Durham and Johnny “Red” Kerr went wild as the crowd went silent, with Kerr screaming “Yes! Yes! Yes!” and Durham responding “Man, Redhead!” That’s an audio tape WLUP still revives when the witty repartee on that station needs a little punching up.
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Chicago is, of course, one of the nation’s media centers, so one would expect that we’d have more-than-competent radio announcers doing the play-by-play for our various sports teams. Yet we must admit that Chicago is especially blessed with distinctive if sometimes overly, um, idiosyncratic crews. Baseball has long been the game best suited to radio; its rhythms and pauses welcome conversation for the fan in the stands, and they are equally accommodating for the analyst. The White Sox have struggled with their radio crews of late, but the Cubs always have Harry Caray and Thom Brennaman, both of whom we like, even though both have more than their share of critics. Caray is a baseball institution who has earned the right to make however many errors he can. He has a voice that sounds like baseball, and if he keeps the listener in the game trying to spot his miscues, well, good. Brennaman has almost the opposite problem. He’s so professional and smooth he gets knocked for acting older than his years, for putting on airs. If he were 47 instead of 27, however, he’d be well respected. As it’s radio, we just pretend he’s 47, and we don’t mind him a bit. Wayne Larrivee and Hub Arkush do a terrific job with the Bears, and last season they filled the vacant Dick Butkus ex-jock spot with a suitable foil, Gary Fencik. Pat Foley also has his critics among fans of the Blackhawks, but we love to hear him shout, “And he scoooores,” in that voice like a hockey-crazed opera tenor. As for Durham and Kerr, they cross over so many dichotomies–homers/experts, cheerleaders/analysts–so quickly and so gracefully that we’ve come to respect them as much as any other sports-radio crew in the city.
The game was important for the Bulls because they were in desperate need of a big win. In their last home appearance, the players had been eloquent about how inconsistently they had played on the road and how playing well on the road was the touchstone of any team with aspirations to win the championship. The game in Detroit was their final game before the All-Star break, and it was the last game of a sequence that saw them play nine of ten on the road. They were coming off road losses in San Antonio and in Los Angeles to the Lakers, a nationally televised game in which the Bulls, including Jordan, had gone utterly flat in the fourth quarter. In fact, Durham and Kerr informed us, the Bulls had won only one game on the road against a team with a winning record since November (a surprise of the 76ers in Philadelphia); this record was obviously beginning to weigh on the team’s confidence. The Bulls were developing a reputation for being something of a head case, a team that had improved its talent since last season but that still hadn’t jelled.
Rodman and Laimbeer are two of basketball’s most notorious villains. Rodman is an avowed hot dog with a fondness for cantering up and down the court like the steed of a military officer. On this evening, he had the phrase “Wild Thang” shaved into the hair at the back of his head, complete with musical notes. Laimbeer is a cheap-shot artist and a constant complainer in his relations with the referees. He had his cheek broken in preseason play and has taken to wearing a clear plastic mask to protect his face during games. Kerr called him “the Phantom of the Palace” because the Pistons’ home arena is called the Palace, and there is something about Laimbeer of one of those classic screen monsters. Like the Phantom of the Opera, like Michael Myers, like Jason, he is masked, but his is a clear mask. Cinema ghouls wear masks typically to hide their disfigurements–both psychic and physical. Laimbeer wears a mask, allowing that he is a freak, a tortured soul, but it allows others to see through it, as if he were proud of his faults and eager to put them on display, as if he were satisfied and happy in what he has become.
“Yes!” Kerr screamed.
