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This is a friend of mines post on FB. JD Gershbein. He was 33 at the time of this. Here is his account of some things...starting now.
With ESPN airing #thelastdance, which chronicles the Chicago Bulls dynasty of the 1990s, I felt compelled to share what was an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime experience.
I have a tough time these days convincing people that I was on a first-name basis with Michael Jordan during the Chicago Bulls’ first two NBA Championships of their first 3-peat (the 1990-91 and 1991-92 seasons). Until, that is, I show them THE photo (below), which was taken in the team’s training room at the old Chicago Stadium after the Bulls beat the Portland Trailblazers in the NBA Finals in June 1992 to repeat as NBA Champions. And just in case you were wondering – it is NOT Photoshopped. (I have it super-sized and framed in my workout room at home.)
More on that after you get a bit of the back-story:
Prior to the start of the 1990 season, I was asked by my close friend, John E. Morales, then a sports broadcaster in the Chicago market, if I would like to work alongside him as a spotter and associate media producer of Bulls’ coverage on WTAQ-AM Radio. (At the time, the Bulls were one of a handful of teams that broadcast their home games in Spanish. TAQ was the outlet. John was the color commentator.)
It was not going to be a paid gig. I would get an all-access free pass to each home game (including locker room privileges) and be entrusted with getting pre- and post-game interviews from players and coaches for use on the broadcast. It did not matter that I did not speak Spanish. Having been extensively media trained in radio and TV broadcasting in high school and college, I was well-equipped to handle the work.
I thought about it for a nanosecond and said, “HELL, YES!”
The Bulls were turning the corner as an NBA powerhouse. Although they had their lunch handed to them by the Detroit Pistons in the Eastern Conference Finals the year before, this was a new year. The Bulls had swagger. They looked like a team that was poised for bigger and better things. Jordan, already the league’s wunderkind, was on the brink of becoming a legend.
Early on, I established myself as a credible presence in the building. Before each game, during the shootaround (warm-ups), I strolled the floor with John’s cassette tape recorder strapped over my shoulder, microphone in hand, taking it all in. My main assignment was to get “the keys to the game” comments from Bulls’ Assistant Coaches John Bach and Tex Winter. Not only were they total gentlemen, they were experienced at handling these questions night after night and still sounding fresh.
From there, I would head to the team locker rooms (visitors first, then ours). Security and time were tight in the Bulls’ locker room. There was a certain gravitas attached to the job. Basically, you had to grab your sound bites and get the hell out.
Michael, of course, was the go-to guy. He was very accommodating to the media before and after games, taking a seat on the swivel chair in front of his locker, and responding to whatever came at him. Reporters would swarm his stall and fight for every inch of available space, enveloping his glistening dome in a sea of faces, shoulders, hands, wires, and microphones. (In media parlance, this is known as a gangbang.)
While this was happening, I was off to the side, talking to other players, eyeing the scene at MJ’s locker. After most of the network and newspaper folks peeled off, I angled in, casually lifted the mic into position, and rolled tape. Eventually, I was the last guy standing. Just me and Michael. Not wishing to pull out the same canned comments, I would frame questions for him in interesting ways and occasionally weave in a bit of subtle humor. I then turned off the recorder, and stuck around for an extra minute to chat with him. MJ was incredibly cool with me. He called me by my name. Asked me about my life. And he would always compliment me on my choice of neckties.
(One anecdote I often share is that MJ would wear a pair of shoes only once and then retire them after each game. Before every game, there would be a fresh box of Nike kicks waiting for him on his chair. Off to the side was a five-foot high stack of shoeboxes with his discards or extras, undoubtedly earmarked for auction. One night, as he was getting ready to lace ‘em up, he was looking pensively at the stack. I said, “You know, Michael, you can only wear one pair at once.” It must have been the mood he was in. He laughed a genuine, hearty laugh, stood up, slapped me on the shoulder, and said, “You’re right.”)
During games, I was in pinch-me-I’m-dreamingland, occupying the first seat off the Bulls’ bench on Court Row—right over Coach Phil Jackson’s left shoulder. My responsibilities were to keep a running book (log) of the action and feed real-time info to the guys calling the game—stats and insights that they could not possibly piece together while focused on the play. Mind you, this was pre-Internet. The technology was quite crude. In-game updates took a bit of time to prepare.
As the season wore on, my confidence grew. I was contributing to the broadcasts. I looked like I belonged and was having such fun. I mean, come on. How could I not? The old, iconic Chicago Stadium was abuzz. Every night took on a playoff-type atmosphere. The Bulls were playing championship-caliber basketball. There were celebrities and notables in attendance every night, many of whom I was able to interview. There was an amazing meal before the game. And I was getting regular one-on-ones with the greatest athlete of my lifetime.
Fast-forward to summer 1991: The Bulls steamrolled through the playoffs, taking down the LA Lakers in the NBA Finals to win their first-ever championship. The road to SoCal went through Detroit where the Bulls exacted their revenge on a cocky Pistons team in a rematch of the Eastern Conference Finals (a 4-game sweep!) that—in what is arguably one of the most egregious displays of poor sportsmanship—saw the beaten Pistons steam off the court without making eye contact or shaking hands with the victors. I was on hand for all the home playoff games and traveled to Detroit and L.A. for both clinchers.
I was back with WTAQ for a second season in 1992 with the opportunity to watch the now-Defending World Champion Chicago Bulls. Media attention on the Bulls intensified and demand for access was off the charts. The WTAQ team was bumped from its cushy courtside seats to a center-court press box in the mezzanine. A bit removed from the prestige of floor level; still, a great view of the game. I picked up where I left off, toting the tape recorder and capturing content.
The Bulls did what they were expected to do. They breezed through the regular season, cranked it up in the playoffs, and punched their ticket for a return trip to the NBA Finals against the Portland Trailblazers. This time, they clinched the thing in front of the home crowd, erasing a 15-point deficit at the start of the fourth quarter in Game 6 to win it by four points. Bobby Hansen’s 3-pointer (his only points of the game) on the Bulls’ first possession of the quarter keyed the victory.
The celebration that ensued was quite something. I stayed at the Stadium until 3:00 AM, hanging out, drinking champagne, savoring the experience. Right before I left, I walked into the trainer’s room one last time and there was MJ kicking back on one of the tables, still in uniform and gripping the cigar he was carrying around all night, his then-wife, Juanita, at his side. As fate would have it, the Bulls team photographer (his name eludes me) strolled into the room. I orchestrated a photo opp to which Michael graciously obliged. (Requests to the players for photos by media folks were considered taboo. But I figured, WTF.) I arranged to pick up the finished slide a few days later from the photographer, who told me that it was the last available shot in his camera on his last roll of film.
Unfortunately, my run with the Bulls ended there. I did not return for a third season with WTAQ. As we know, the Bulls went on to win four more NBA Championships in the 1990s, withstanding a two-year gap (MJ’s temporary retirement) between 3-peats, capping off the dynasty with a win over the Utah Jazz in that tumultuous 1997-98 Season.
For those of you who did not live through this era, or are too young to remember, you at least have the highlight reels. We who were there will not soon forget the day-to-day drama, the excitement that gripped the city, and how astonishing it all was. I am eternally and sincerely grateful that I was able to experience a thick slice of Chicago sports history firsthand.
What a ride!
_________________ @audioidkid spaulding wrote: Also if you fuck someone like they are a millionaire they might go try to be one.
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What a time that must have been
