northside7
New member
There was a follow-up question that I probably should have asked. Why wouldn't you want to coach Kobe as he's transitioning out of his prime?
In my defense, I knew the answer: Would YOU want to coach Kobe after his prime, when he still thinks he's great … but he isn't? Or Jordan? Or anyone else with a healthy ego who's accustomed to being the best, or one of the best, but those days are over and they're the last to realize it? Jackson had spent the past two decades carefully avoiding that specific scenario. In late March, it looked like he made the right gamble: The Lakers had just rolled off 15 of 16 victories and reestablished themselves as The Team To Beat. Kobe did have one great year left in him. Or so we thought.
As we dug into our food, neither of us could have imagined that the Lakers would win four playoff games … total.
Think of any great NBA coach and one distinct image jumps into your brain. I think of Red Auerbach sucking on that cigar, a condescending smirk on his face, watching the last minute of a playoff victory and delighting in the knowledge that he had Bill Russell and nobody else did. I think of Pat Riley wearing an expensive suit with his hair slicked back, the epitome of Hollywood cool, gesturing at Magic to keep pushing and pushing. I think of how Jerry Sloan's hangdog face wore every defeat, every terrible officiating call, every bad break, everything. I think of Gregg Popovich dressed like Sean Connery in an "SNL" "Celebrity Jeopardy" sketch, surrounded by his players during a crucial timeout, holding a chalkboard, diagramming some complicated play and knowing his players were smart enough to run it.
When I think of Phil Jackson, two guys come to mind: Young Phil and Old Phil. Young Phil was skinny with dark hair and a goofy mustache; he looked like he came from another era, like someone Larry Dallas would bring over to the Regal Beagle to meet Jack Tripper. Old Phil didn't look anything like Young Phil: white hair, a clean-shaven face, a heavier frame, and a body that was scattered in nine different directions. Still, Young Phil and Old Phil had one thing in common: They kept their cool at all times.
That trait defined Jackson as a coach. He couldn't be rattled. He never overreacted. He measured every response, thought out every media barb, dealt with every player with the same steady hand. These past 20 years weren't exactly easy for Jackson, even if the narrative has morphed into "Well, anyone could win eleven titles with Jordan, Shaq and Kobe!" In 1992, a best-selling book called "The Jordan Rules" nearly imploded the Bulls. In 1993, his best player disappeared for 18 months. In 1997, the relationship between Scottie Pippen, Michael Jordan and Bulls general manager Jerry Krause became so contentious that Jackson asked Krause to stop traveling with the team. In 1998, Dennis Rodman started partying so much that Jackson and a few others had to have a makeshift intervention. In 2001, Shaq and Kobe's relationship started to deteriorate, a three-year spiral that bottomed out when Kobe was accused of sexual assault. In 2005, his general manager traded his second-best player for Kwame Brown. In 2007, Kobe spent the summer and the first month of the regular season desperately pushing for a trade. Jackson managed everything. There were times when he failed -- the 2004 Finals, most notably -- but you could never say he lost his cool.
His defining moment happened during the 1994 playoffs, when Pippen refused to re-enter Game 3 against New York after Jackson called the final play for Toni Kukoc. Instead of laying into Pippen after the game, Jackson trusted his players to handle the immediate aftermath. It ended up being done by Bill Cartwright, who screamed at Scottie with tears rolling down his face, incredulous that one of the league's most unselfish players would undermine that dogfight of a season -- when the Bulls somehow remained contenders with Jordan playing baseball -- by acting so selfishly.
Jackson waited for the room to calm down, judged the moment for what it was, chalked it up as an aberration and moved on. More than a few coaches would have abandoned Pippen, claimed that he lost the team, pushed for him to be traded that summer. Jackson knew that Pippen's mistake came from a complicated place, a Molotov cocktail of insecurity, ego and frustration about his unfair salary. When Jordan left, everyone pushed Scottie to be the leader -- including Jackson -- but the Bulls didn't pay him like other franchise players, and now they were giving away his "You the man!" moment? Jackson wanted to understand why Pippen handled it so poorly, figured it out, determined it wouldn't happen again (hopefully), and defended him going forward. Coaching isn't just about calling plays, riding the officials and figuring out strategies. Really, it's management more than anything else. You manage people. Jackson managed people better than anyone.
He did it by keeping his cool, always, which is what made it so jarring when Jackson unraveled in Game 3 of this month's Dallas series. Kobe couldn't save them this time; his prime was suddenly slipping away like Jackson had feared. Pau Gasol had fallen into a spiritual funk and couldn't be shaken from it. The last four players in Jackson's nine-man rotation were effectively useless; Dallas' bench was destroying them. Almost as a last resort, the Zen Master morphed into Norman Dale on the sidelines for Game 3, yelling and screaming more than ever before. There was one moment in the first half -- endlessly replayed all weekend, simply because it was so foreign to watch -- when Jackson laid into Gasol and pounded him in the chest for effect, the urgency practically spilling out of him. None of it worked. The Lakers lost.
Two days later, after Dallas had blown the doors off and turned Game 4 into a rout, two of Jackson's players basically quit on him. The first was Lamar Odom, who drifted through that series much like he drifts through his crappy reality show, finally deciding to leave for good with a premeditated body block of Dirk Nowitzki. A few minutes later, Andrew Bynum delivered a Triple H-like flying elbow to tiny J.J. Barea, earned an automatic ejection, then ripped his jersey off while being escorted away. As a Celtics fan, I couldn't have been more delighted to watch the Lakers disintegrate like that. It was like basketball porn. As a basketball fan? I hated it. That's not how Phil Jackson should have gone out: with him losing his cool, then his players doing the same. Those last two games had nothing in common with his career.
Like so many other times, Jackson could see Game 4 coming. Four of his five children had flown into Dallas to dine with him the night before -- a Viking funeral of sorts -- and once I heard about that, I knew that he knew. Your kids fly in on short...
In my defense, I knew the answer: Would YOU want to coach Kobe after his prime, when he still thinks he's great … but he isn't? Or Jordan? Or anyone else with a healthy ego who's accustomed to being the best, or one of the best, but those days are over and they're the last to realize it? Jackson had spent the past two decades carefully avoiding that specific scenario. In late March, it looked like he made the right gamble: The Lakers had just rolled off 15 of 16 victories and reestablished themselves as The Team To Beat. Kobe did have one great year left in him. Or so we thought.
As we dug into our food, neither of us could have imagined that the Lakers would win four playoff games … total.
Think of any great NBA coach and one distinct image jumps into your brain. I think of Red Auerbach sucking on that cigar, a condescending smirk on his face, watching the last minute of a playoff victory and delighting in the knowledge that he had Bill Russell and nobody else did. I think of Pat Riley wearing an expensive suit with his hair slicked back, the epitome of Hollywood cool, gesturing at Magic to keep pushing and pushing. I think of how Jerry Sloan's hangdog face wore every defeat, every terrible officiating call, every bad break, everything. I think of Gregg Popovich dressed like Sean Connery in an "SNL" "Celebrity Jeopardy" sketch, surrounded by his players during a crucial timeout, holding a chalkboard, diagramming some complicated play and knowing his players were smart enough to run it.
When I think of Phil Jackson, two guys come to mind: Young Phil and Old Phil. Young Phil was skinny with dark hair and a goofy mustache; he looked like he came from another era, like someone Larry Dallas would bring over to the Regal Beagle to meet Jack Tripper. Old Phil didn't look anything like Young Phil: white hair, a clean-shaven face, a heavier frame, and a body that was scattered in nine different directions. Still, Young Phil and Old Phil had one thing in common: They kept their cool at all times.
That trait defined Jackson as a coach. He couldn't be rattled. He never overreacted. He measured every response, thought out every media barb, dealt with every player with the same steady hand. These past 20 years weren't exactly easy for Jackson, even if the narrative has morphed into "Well, anyone could win eleven titles with Jordan, Shaq and Kobe!" In 1992, a best-selling book called "The Jordan Rules" nearly imploded the Bulls. In 1993, his best player disappeared for 18 months. In 1997, the relationship between Scottie Pippen, Michael Jordan and Bulls general manager Jerry Krause became so contentious that Jackson asked Krause to stop traveling with the team. In 1998, Dennis Rodman started partying so much that Jackson and a few others had to have a makeshift intervention. In 2001, Shaq and Kobe's relationship started to deteriorate, a three-year spiral that bottomed out when Kobe was accused of sexual assault. In 2005, his general manager traded his second-best player for Kwame Brown. In 2007, Kobe spent the summer and the first month of the regular season desperately pushing for a trade. Jackson managed everything. There were times when he failed -- the 2004 Finals, most notably -- but you could never say he lost his cool.
His defining moment happened during the 1994 playoffs, when Pippen refused to re-enter Game 3 against New York after Jackson called the final play for Toni Kukoc. Instead of laying into Pippen after the game, Jackson trusted his players to handle the immediate aftermath. It ended up being done by Bill Cartwright, who screamed at Scottie with tears rolling down his face, incredulous that one of the league's most unselfish players would undermine that dogfight of a season -- when the Bulls somehow remained contenders with Jordan playing baseball -- by acting so selfishly.
Jackson waited for the room to calm down, judged the moment for what it was, chalked it up as an aberration and moved on. More than a few coaches would have abandoned Pippen, claimed that he lost the team, pushed for him to be traded that summer. Jackson knew that Pippen's mistake came from a complicated place, a Molotov cocktail of insecurity, ego and frustration about his unfair salary. When Jordan left, everyone pushed Scottie to be the leader -- including Jackson -- but the Bulls didn't pay him like other franchise players, and now they were giving away his "You the man!" moment? Jackson wanted to understand why Pippen handled it so poorly, figured it out, determined it wouldn't happen again (hopefully), and defended him going forward. Coaching isn't just about calling plays, riding the officials and figuring out strategies. Really, it's management more than anything else. You manage people. Jackson managed people better than anyone.
He did it by keeping his cool, always, which is what made it so jarring when Jackson unraveled in Game 3 of this month's Dallas series. Kobe couldn't save them this time; his prime was suddenly slipping away like Jackson had feared. Pau Gasol had fallen into a spiritual funk and couldn't be shaken from it. The last four players in Jackson's nine-man rotation were effectively useless; Dallas' bench was destroying them. Almost as a last resort, the Zen Master morphed into Norman Dale on the sidelines for Game 3, yelling and screaming more than ever before. There was one moment in the first half -- endlessly replayed all weekend, simply because it was so foreign to watch -- when Jackson laid into Gasol and pounded him in the chest for effect, the urgency practically spilling out of him. None of it worked. The Lakers lost.
Two days later, after Dallas had blown the doors off and turned Game 4 into a rout, two of Jackson's players basically quit on him. The first was Lamar Odom, who drifted through that series much like he drifts through his crappy reality show, finally deciding to leave for good with a premeditated body block of Dirk Nowitzki. A few minutes later, Andrew Bynum delivered a Triple H-like flying elbow to tiny J.J. Barea, earned an automatic ejection, then ripped his jersey off while being escorted away. As a Celtics fan, I couldn't have been more delighted to watch the Lakers disintegrate like that. It was like basketball porn. As a basketball fan? I hated it. That's not how Phil Jackson should have gone out: with him losing his cool, then his players doing the same. Those last two games had nothing in common with his career.
Like so many other times, Jackson could see Game 4 coming. Four of his five children had flown into Dallas to dine with him the night before -- a Viking funeral of sorts -- and once I heard about that, I knew that he knew. Your kids fly in on short...
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