The thing about those old Bulls teams? They were truly representative of the spirit and character of the City of Chicago itself: Tough. Gritty. No-nonsense. Big Shoulders. Works hard. No frills. At least that’s how it was back then.
But also... Chicago (and the Bulls) were lacking in some important things. Like having good weather and civilized politics and a more friendly environment among all the great neighborhoods.
But maybe the bad weather and rough politics and social challenges helped to shape what the Bulls were going to become. And also be representative of some of those things the old Bulls teams lacked that kept them from bagging the Big Trophy.
Old Chicago Stadium on West Madison Street was a hot and smoky (yes, way back when it was a VERY smoky) place where real Chicagoans packed the Old Barn to the rafters and screamed their hearts out. And when you left the place after the game your clothes just reeked. And for non-smokers... one could barely even breath any more when you made your way to your car or the bus. You were coughing for hours.
And speaking of smoky... it was not unusual for some interesting pungent ‘grassy odors’ to be smelled all around the Old Barn when the game tipped off. The Bulls game was an Event. And there were always those in the throngs who wanted just a bit more additional ‘spice’ to add the special occasion that was unfolding on the court.
We wanted the Bulls — (They were now ‘OUR Bulls!’) – to succeed. Just like every person crammed into those hard seats wanted to be successful in our own personal lives. We lived and died through and with those Bulls. They were us – and we were Them.
When the Bulls went up against the Association’s top clubs and elite talents... that was ‘us’ fighting against the odds to try to prevail over sometimes sexier and more skilled opponents.
And ‘we’ (as The Bulls) still ended up winning more games each season than we lost. Why? Because of hard work, dedication, passion, energy, and commitment. Tired of the feeling of being a Second City and wanting desperately to finally become a Number One.
Sloan and Van Lier never had a slow gear. They would never crack a smile on the court because it was just too damned serious and important. They had the look of actual raging bulls in their eyes and would scare the stuff out of panicked opponents.
Bulls Coach Motta even had to tell these guys to ease up a bit sometimes. That’s how intense they were. Coach didn’t want his guys burning themselves out.
The silky mid-range sharp shooting of Love would pile up points to compliment Walker’s one-on-one prowess. And Boerwinkle in the middle would be running the show because the Bulls offense was mostly being run through Big Tom. Van Lier would deliver the ball to Tom in the high post – he’d quickly swivel his head and scan the court – then he’d thread the needle with a sharp pass to whichever Bull had an opening.
And after scoring, the Bulls would take their places on the defensive end and dare the other team to come anywhere near. It was poetic and beautiful. Like nothing ever seen since.
Basketball has changed. The NBA has changed. Defense has become unsexy and optional. But not to the Walker and Sloan and Van Lier Bulls. They made defense a thing of beauty. And a City of hard-nosed, hard-working Chicagoans and suburbanites loved them for it.
Chicago has changed, too. The big factories are gone. The politics doesn’t look the same. The West Side is not as raw and gritty as it was back then. No more broken glass and big holes in the rocky cement pavement that comprised the Stadium’s parking lots. Wilt is gone. Kareem is gone. Magic is gone. Michael moved on.
But the City – and the Bulls – live on. They don’t look the same. They don’t sound the same.
But it’s still a great game played on an intense court by some of the best athletes in the World. And all this was built by guys like Chet Walker and the rest.
If you listen closely on Madison Street you can still hear Norm Van Lier or Jerry Sloan yelling smack at their opponent. You can still hear the sweet sound of singing twine when Bob Love drains another mid-range jumper. Or when Chet Walker drains his free-throws with the game on the line.
And yet, you might even smell the sweet odor of a special kind spice in the air – the sweet perfume of watching special human beings make a game with a big round ball and hoops at two ends look like a symphony.
In a City that hasn’t lost its passion to be a Number One.