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Section 316, Row 9, Seats 11 & 12 Six Rings, One Shoebox A memorial for the Chicago Bulls, 1991–1998.

This is a memorial page. Not for a person, for a team. Nobody died. But something is over, and I don't know what else to call a page about it. My name is Terri Gorski. I'm 35, I clean teeth for a living on the Northwest Side, and since 1988 my dad and I have split a partial plan up in the 300 level, first at the old Stadium on Madison Street and then across the street at the United Center. He's 67 now and still climbs the stairs faster than me. In the top of my closet there's a Florsheim shoebox with every stub from every game we went to, plus the ones from the playoffs that I watched at home, because I tore out the TV page from the Sun-Times and kept those too. Last winter, after Michael retired and everybody else got traded, I took the box down and went through it on the living room floor. This page is what came out.

Six Finals. Six wins. Never once needed a Game 7.

1991

BULLS 4, LAKERS 1. Clinched in Game 5 at the Forum in Los Angeles, June 12. Magic against Michael, and everybody said it was about time. We lost Game 1 and then won four straight. I watched the clincher at a bar on Milwaukee Avenue, and when they showed Michael in the locker room crying with his arms around the trophy and his dad right there beside him, the whole place went quiet for a second. Then it went crazy. That was the first one. Nothing is ever like the first one.

1992

BULLS 4, TRAIL BLAZERS 2. Clinched in Game 6 at Chicago Stadium, June 14. We were there. The only clincher we ever saw in the building. Portland was way ahead going into the fourth quarter, and Phil put in the bench guys with Scottie, and they chipped and chipped and the whole Stadium was stomping so hard the balcony moved. I'm not kidding, you could feel the floor go. Afterward the players got up on the scorer's table and danced for the crowd. My dad, who is not a hugger, hugged a total stranger from Cicero. The stub is in the box, a little bit wet from beer.

1993

BULLS 4, SUNS 2. Clinched in Game 6 in Phoenix, June 20. John Paxson, wide open, three-pointer, 3.9 seconds left. Then Horace blocked Kevin Johnson's last shot and it was over, 99-98. Three in a row. I watched it at my Aunt Dolores's with the whole family, and my cousin Rich knocked the bean dip onto the carpet when Pax let it go, and nobody has ever mentioned it since. That October Michael retired the first time, and we all thought that was the end. It wasn't.

1994: Michael played baseball for the Birmingham Barons, and my dad followed the Barons box scores in the paper every morning like it was the pennant race. He came back to the Bulls in March 1995 wearing number 45. Orlando beat us in the playoffs that spring. Then Dennis showed up.

1996

BULLS 4, SONICS 2. Clinched in Game 6 at the United Center, June 16. Father's Day. 72-10 in the regular season, best record in the history of the league. We didn't have tickets to Game 6, so I went over to my folks' and watched with my dad. When it ended Michael grabbed the ball and went down on the floor and wouldn't let go of it. It was his first title since his father died. My dad got up and went out to the garage for a while and when he came back he didn't say anything and I didn't either. That's the one I think about most.

1997

BULLS 4, JAZZ 2. Clinched in Game 6 at the United Center, June 13. Game 5 in Salt Lake was the one where Michael was sick as a dog and scored 38 anyway and had to be held up by Scottie at the end. Then Game 6 back home, tied late, and Michael drew the defense and kicked it to Steve Kerr, and Steve hit it. Then Scottie tipped away the inbounds pass and Toni went in for the dunk. 90-86. My dad had gotten us two tickets from a guy at his union hall and we were up in the very last row, and I screamed until I had no voice for three days. I had to clean teeth with hand signals.

1998

BULLS 4, JAZZ 2. Clinched in Game 6 at the Delta Center in Salt Lake City, June 14. Everybody knew it was the last year. Scottie's back was so bad he could barely run. Michael scored 45. Down one at the end, he stripped the ball from Karl Malone, walked it up, crossed over, and hit the jumper with 5.2 seconds left. 87-86. Then he just held his hand up there in the air like he was posing for a statue. Which, if you've been to the United Center, he already had one. Two days later there was a rally in Grant Park and I called in sick for the first time in six years. I have never felt less guilty about anything.

How It Ended Summer 1998. Phil Jackson's contract is not renewed. Tim Floyd from Iowa State is hired. The league locks the players out on July 1 and there is no basketball at all until February. January 13, 1999. Michael retires. Again. I heard it on the radio in the car in the parking lot at work and just sat there. January 1999. Everybody else goes. Scottie to Houston. Steve Kerr to San Antonio. Luc Longley to Phoenix. Dennis gets let go and ends up with the Lakers for a little while, which I think surprised even Dennis. February to May 1999. The Bulls go 13-37. My dad and I go to every one of our games anyway. The 300 level has a lot more legroom now. June 1999. Steve Kerr wins a fourth straight ring with the Spurs, and I was happy for him, I really was. The Lakers hire Phil. And the Bulls get the first pick in the draft and take Elton Brand from Duke. So there's that.

Still in the Shoebox Stubs from 212 regular season games, 1988 to 1999. I counted in January. The 1992 Game 6 stub. Beer-stained. Priceless. A Sun-Times front page from June 1993 that my Aunt Dolores had laminated. A foam finger with the pointing part chewed off by our old dog, Scottie. (Yes, named for him. Yes, I know.) A piece of the Stadium's upper balcony railing. Don't ask where I got it. It was going to be torn down anyway. A 1996 72-10 T-shirt, too small since about 1997. Our stubs from Game 5 of the 1998 Finals, the one we lost at home by two. If we'd won it, they'd have clinched in front of us. Oh well.

The Ones Who Played Michael Jordan. Six titles, six times MVP of the Finals. Enough said. Scottie Pippen. The only other guy there for all six. The best teammate there ever was, and I will fight about this. Horace Grant. Goggles and rebounds on the first three. Went to Orlando in 1994. Bill Cartwright. The center on the first three. Elbows like a folding chair. John Paxson. See 1993. That's all anybody needs. B.J. Armstrong. Looked about fourteen. Could shoot. Dennis Rodman. Rebounding title every year he was here, and a different hair color every week. Toni Kukoc. Sixth Man of the Year in 1996. Still a Bull. Bless him. Ron Harper. Came here a scorer and turned into a defender because that's what we needed. Steve Kerr. See 1997. Luc Longley. Seven-foot-two Australian. My dad called him the Big Koala. Phil Jackson and Tex Winter. The triangle offense. I still don't totally understand it. That's okay.

Somebody on a newsgroup asked me why anybody would make a memorial for a basketball team when they're all alive and rich. Fair question. Here's my answer. For eight years, every June, the whole city was happy at the same time. Cab drivers and nuns and guys on the el and my dad. It might never happen again in my life. That's worth a candle.

Fans who've stopped by since February 1999:


Tell me where you were for Game 6 (any Game 6): [email protected]
Last updated August 8, 1999