I'm writing this in St. Paul, in the wee hours of January 27th, 2020. Over 12 Hours after the world learned of the sudden death of NBA Legend Kobe Bryant, who at 41 years old, along with his 13-year old daughter Gianna, and 7 others, perished in a helicopter crash in Calabasas. Kobe & Gianna were on their way to her game, where Kobe was to be coaching.
I found out these tragic details 2 hours after it happened. I awakened from a nap, aided due to being sick with the flu and pushing through a diet of medication, water, and Ginger Ale. I tell you this because this flu has delayed my own travels. I am going home to Chicago to be with my family as my grandmother, 90 years old, passed away after months of serious illness.
These two stories intertwine because they have a common theme shared, in the love of the game of Basketball.
I was born in Chicago, in June of 1989. The night that I arrived into the world, Game 2 of the NBA Finals had tipped off. Joe Dumars scored 33 points as the Detroit Pistons won 108-105 and took a 2-0 series lead over Magic Johnson and the Los Angeles Lakers. The Pistons would go on to win the NBA Title in a 4-game sweep less than a week later. Before that series, my family was watching those "Goddamn Pistons" (my Mom's words) beat His Airness Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls in the Eastern Conference Finals.
I would soon learn, in the same rapid pace that I did to walk, eat, & talk, that in my family, one of the most important things was Sports. And from every October to May (later on, into June), there were nights when dinner was made by Mom (or most times brought home by dad via takeout) & eaten between 5 & 6pm, any chores and cleaning or bath time had to be done after that because at 7:05pm, we were in the living room. The TV was on either Channel 9 or 28, and we sat together to watch the Chicago Bulls.
I was mesmerized by the Bulls intro. They would cut the lights at Chicago Stadium and as the ringing notes of "Sirius" by The Alan Parsons Project would blare through our speakers, they would show the uber-90's pixelated video of animal Bulls, turning through downtown Chicago, heading west onto Madison Avenue. And then the legendary voice of Ray Clay boomed. "AND NOW! The Starting Lineup! For Your! Chicago Bulls!!!!" And as he announced their position, college, height and name, the build-up peaked at the end. "From North Carolina! Head Guard! 6'6" Michael Jordan!!!" From that moment on, I was hooked. I would even get my parents to cut off the lights for every home game so that I could recite the lineup at the same time.
The Bulls were a way of life as a small child. You'd be hard pressed to find a photo of me between the ages of 2-8 NOT wearing the colors of Red, Black & White or an emblem that wasn't the Bulls logo. Every pair of Jordan's that dropped, I had them. And not in the crazy collector way that people wait in line and hoard them for years now, but it was because my mom wanted those shoes to match when I wore my #23 Jordan jersey at that given point in the season.
5 days after my 2nd birthday, there was a bigger celebration. The Bulls just beat the LA Lakers 108-101. Chicago just won the NBA Finals 4 games to 1 to clinch their first ever NBA World Championship. I remember the celebrations everywhere. My mom on the couch crying, my dad lighting his pipe and cracking open a bottle of Cook's champagne. The news showed people running into streets and cars being flipped over. Sure, some assholes made it a dark moment by firing off guns and looting stores, but once that night time hooliganism settled down, days later, on a sunny afternoon in Grant Park, there were the Bulls. Led by His Airness, carrying the Larry O'Brien Trophy, with a cigar in his mouth, and the whole team wearing T-Shirts with each player drawn in a caricature form. This was something that brought a city that is divided by so many factors, Race, Color, Religion & Neighborhood, together as one unit. That day, we all were just Chicagoans, celebrating our championship team.
As the next 2 years became a Rinse & Repeat cycle for the Bulls, winning Titles again in '92 and '93, my love for the team continued to grow. I kept wearing Red, Black & White. We kept eating dinner before 7 and the Bulls kept winning. Then came the morning of Wednesday, October 6th, 1993.
Breaking News Special Report from Channel 5 News: After 9 Years in the NBA, Michael Jordan walks away from Basketball, Retiring at the age of 30.
I was between pre-schools at the time (Long story that you'll have to read my autobiography in order to hear all about that) and I remember being at home watching that hour-long press conference. Still at the edge of the bed in my parent's room. My dad was at work, in the emergency room and so he didn't know until getting home later that night. My mom was on the bed in tears watching this. Ironically enough, we had just suffered a death in our family with my great uncle passing away, but I didn't know him personally well. This hit me with shock that I had never felt before. I was confused as to why he was walking away and I was saddened because I saw how upset mom was hearing this news.
After that moment and as pre-season began, we still wore our Red, Black & White. We still ate Dinner before 7, but things were different. I didn't want to turn out the lights for the starting line-up. I couldn't get used to the fact that Pete Myers was our "Head Guard" now. Sure we still had Scottie Pippen and B.J. Armstrong and we keep hearing great things about this European guy named Kukoc. The Bulls went 55-27 that season and made it all the way to Game 7 of the Eastern Conference Semifinals against New York, when the aforementioned Pippen was fouled but the call was missed, the Knicks take a lead late and with an 87-77 finals score, the Bulls missed their first Conference Finals appearance since 1988.
Here's a good time to give you a brief introduction about my grandmother, or "Granny" as I always called her (and will continue to do so for the duration of this story)
Granny was a big sports fan like everyone else in the family. Her husband, John (who I called "John" instead of Grandpa because I always heard her yell his name out. This upset my mom and my uncles, but he was fine with it.) Played baseball in the Negro Leagues for a few seasons. She used to watch the games down in Mississippi and when they moved to Chicago with my mom in 1955, and 2 more children later, it was a foregone conclusion that the only things that were on TV outside of nightly shows & the news were sports. White Sox games during the summer, Bears games in the fall. My grandparents even watched some Blackhawks games at times, despite the fact that neither of them knew what was going on. Granny always would say, "I just like to watch 'em skate and fight."
So when Jordan-Mania took hold of the City in the Mid-80's, my family was All In. It was my oldest uncle who told my mom back in 1982, "I know you don't watch College Ball, but remember the name Michael Jordan. He's gonna be great someday." Over the years, my family embraced this squad and also grew massive hatred for their rivals. Whether or not it was Granny calling Knicks center Patrick Ewing "That ole' gorilla-faced boy", a 2-part insult because she couldn't quite pronounce "Ewing" and because, well he wasn't exactly a GQ model either. Or the first time I ever heard my mom call someone a bitch outside of a car was when she referred to Indiana Pacers star Reggie Miller ("I can't stand him, he's a bitch, all he does is bitch, bitch to the refs...")
If you've ever wondered why I often sound like a sailor with Tourette's, be it whenever I speak or write, look no further than the Phillips side of my family tree.
So as 1994 turned into 1995, I got older and started watching more and more sports like Boxing (another family tradition with my mom and dad) and Hockey (which outside of the random times my grandparents stumbled upon it, no one in my family actually watched "That game on ice with all white people." But that's another story for another time. Then came the Fax Heard 'Round The World.
"I'm Back."
After a brief, random stint playing baseball with the White Sox AA-affiliated Birmingham Barons, Michael Jordan hung up the cleats & glove in exchange for his own signature sneakers, returning to the Bulls in the Middle of the '95 season, leading the club all the way to the Eastern Conference Final before Shaq & the Orlando Magic derailed the comeback trail. (Both important notes to remember)
Things were at a fever pitch to start that 1995-96 season. With Jordan back for a full season and the addition of "Crazy Ass" Dennis Rodman, as most of my family would refer to the multi-color haired rebound wizard, it seemed like the Bulls were back on top. But no one expected the complete dominance they displayed nearly every single night en route to a 72-10 record. (since eclipsed by a 73-9 Golden State Warriors team a couple of seasons ago that lost the NBA Finals, blowing a 3-1 lead by the way)
It was Pandemonium, Happiness and Unity in the City Beautiful all over again. June came and the parades in Grant Park took place after my 7th, 8th and 9th birthdays as the Bulls clinched another 3-Peat. (© Pat Riley) However, as things were winding down on that 97-98 team, rumblings were made about how they wouldn't stick together after the season because Head Coach Phil Jackson was going to resign and Michael Jordan said he's never playing for another coach again. The writing was on the wall for the magic to again come to a close.
I mention Magic and how the Playoffs would run into my birthday. When I turned 8, my parents took me to Disney World, which for every other 8-year old on planet Earth would be a megadream come true. Problem was, I was no regular 8 year old, I barely watched Disney programs and while wearing my usual Bulls attire, I had some asshole Orlando Magic fan who was on the clock as Chip (or Dale, one of the rodents. Doesn't fucking matter) take my cap and throw it to the ground. My mom saw the rage fill up in my face as I wanted to fight an adult dressed as a mascot on my birthday. Anyways, back to the Bulls
The landscape of things were changing in the NBA in 1998. There was a work stoppage looming, and tons of new, talented faces were coming into the league like Kevin Garnett, a South Carolina native who played in Chicago for his senior year of High School before getting drafted by Minnesota and the young son of a former NBA Journeyman who grew up traveling the world before settling down in his hometown of Philly. He too, would enter the NBA straight out of High School. His name, Kobe Bryant.
As I was beginning to enter my teens, I went through changes like any other child. I wanted to dress differently, pleading with my mom to buy me clothes that weren't always Red, Black & White and instead wearing jerseys from other teams that I would see from games or highlights on SportsCenter. "Mom, Shaq is going to the Lakers. Can I get his jersey, please!?" And just like that, among the Red and White and Black #23, #33, #91 and #7 jerseys was a gold #34 Shaquille O'Neal jersey.
When MJ hung up his signature sneakers for the 2nd (and what still to this day feels like the final time. We really don't count those 2001 days with the Wizards) My mother also seemingly retired from her long post as a Bulls fan. The team was reduced to rubbish as became an instant cellar-dwelling club under Tim Floyd as coach and while everyone else withdrew from them, Granny stayed loyal. She watched through the years of Jay Williams becoming a literal draft bust due to an unfortunate motorcycle accident, Ron Artest playing inconsistently while none of us knew he swapped his own Gatorade out for Hennessey. Elton Brand and Kirk Hinrich and Ben Gordon. It was brutal stuff, a clear 180* turn around from the days of Jordan & Pippen.
As my love for Hockey grew, I eventually started to quickly drift away from the hardwood. However, I was never completely away from it because my new hobby grew from something that I later would find out was a quiet family tradition: Gambling.
My grandfather, John, drove cabs during the week and would make side cash on the weekends playing in card games at houses, shooting pool at various halls or shooting dice on train trips through Wisconsin and Michigan. I recall my mom telling me about seeing John come home on Sunday nights. Most weekends, dumping tons of cash out of a pillowcase. Some weekends, he'd come home broke. A couple of occasions, Granny would have to bail him out of jail. Despite his side hustle, John never bet on sports. Mainly because of the rule regarding the sport he played, Baseball, forbid the act. His son, my uncle also played Baseball growing up, and to my knowledge, never bet on the game. And myself, who even with a fledgling attempt at pitching later on in H.S., to this day I don't handicap or wager on Baseball.
But Basketball was a completely different story. Every day, as a kid, I would love to read the newspaper. Always the Sun-Times, rarely the occasional Tribune or the Chicago Defender if I was over at Granny's house. The sports section always started in the back and I would read Right to Left and at the end of the section would be a tiny box with the lines and spreads for the games. Football, Baseball, Basketball and Hockey were always listed when applicable, sometimes boxing if there was a big fight on deck. I learned quickly how the point spread worked and once I got into high school, I caught the gambling bug. First tricking classmates into thinking I was a complete square bettor before then quickly building up a bankroll and then eventually booking games myself. It was a fun way to make it through a miserable point in my life where I had left my friends from Grammar School to go to an All-Boys, Catholic school in a completely different part of town. And over those years, that's when I got to take notice of the Post-Jordan Renaissance that was the NBA with Kobe and Shaq and KG and Allen Iverson and Vince Carter (who, at 44, is still in the league now as I write this) and what was once an clean, innocent love for the game has basically turned into a mercenary-like tolerance for the sport. The Bulls weren't good anymore so I only care about covering the spread. Besides, these guys might be good BUT they aren't Michael Jordan Good.
But as the 2000's moved along, and the growth of the internet and the cell phone came to be, Granny still had her Bulls. She too, was a gambler. She loved to spend time just across the Indiana border over at "The Boat", a term we still use now despite the fact none of the casinos have to be in the water of Lake Michigan anymore. Her and my mom would spend hours smoking their menthol cigarette brands of choice, spinning away change on the slot machines. And when they would get tired, they would go home. And Granny would most likely be getting to her TV by 7:05 so she could see those Bulls play.
Eventually, I Graduated High School (barely, with an exact GPA of 2.0, but an ACT score of 27 that thankfully helped me, along with learning how to play Bass Guitar during that decade, helped me get into College) and I moved from Chicago to St. Paul, Minnesota. And when College and Music didn't work out, I turned to my other hobby of Betting, which somehow led to the career I have now. And while I became famous for betting and handicapping Hockey and of course everyone bets Football, it was Basketball that really helped float my career and build my bankroll. I'll never forget Friday, January 21st, 2011. That day, I found out that in the middle of a 5-game road trip that many key players of the Utah Jazz had come down with stomach flu or food poisoning heading into Boston. The Celtics were laying -6 points with total of 193.5. I put down a ton of money on a Side/Total Parlay, not only because the information was strong, but also I knew that the money I had in my betting account wouldn't potentially be there much longer because of some legality issues with this particular book. Boston wins 110-86. Both Favorite and Over hits, and my buddy and I hit the strip club that night like the world was ending. I got paid my money days later before their shutdown, and I was able to take care of bills without an actual full-time job for awhile off that winner.
And even as things started to change in the NBA with teams playing lackadaisical defense, foul calls and reviews at an all time high and key players pulling out of game last minute quicker than they pull out of their side pieces the night before, while ironically calling the missed on-court action "Load Management", Betting on the NBA had become more difficult over the years. Meanwhile, back home, Granny still watched the games. No spreads or action required. Just enjoying two teams getting up and down the court. Even if the Bulls weren't on, she'd watched during the rebirth of the Lakers, with Kobe and Pau Gasol, the Dynasty of the San Antonio Spurs and the countless "Big 3" runs in Boston, Miami and Golden State.
Over the years, Granny suffered from rapid hearing loss and basically resorted to reading people's lips to understand them or having a notepad near her for communication. She became very ill just before this past Thanksgiving and spent 37 days in the hospital. When I flew home for the Christmas holiday, I saw her along with my mom and my 2 uncles. Her health was in a rapid decline and we knew that her time here on earth was nearing a close. While my mom and uncles put together the plans for her final days, making sure that she would have proper, comfortable care, Granny called me over to her hospital bedside, she asked me about 2 things. One, she had a taste for peanuts, so I made sure to bring a couple of small bags for her to eat. And two, she asked me when the Bulls were playing next. Using the same notepad that I am writing this story on, I typed out to her:
The Bulls beat Washington in Overtime last night. They play Detroit on Saturday.
She looked at my phone, then looked up to me and nodded in approval.
Christmas Day was the 2nd to last time I saw Granny, as we all gathered to her house, where she was transported and stayed until her passing on January 23rd, I made sure to go into her room and set the channel so she could watch the annual NBA marathon of games that take place on that day.
Flash forward to today. I write this with tears in my eyes for many reasons. Granny is gone. And in a sudden tragedy, Kobe Bryant and his daughter are gone. While it's to be expected that a 90-year old woman with health issues would pass away, it's a complete shock to hear of a 41-year old athlete and his 13-year old daughter to be taken away in that fashion.
I've realized in the last 2 weeks that I've been watching a lot more basketball than usual. A good chunk of it is still because of gambling. Football's wrapping up and I've been on a nice roll live betting on some of the TV games that air nationally. But what prompted me to write this was in realizing why I've been drawn back to basketball. Sometimes you just need something to bring back the memories. Even if it's not the days of Jordan & Pippen anymore.
R.I.P Kobe Bryant 1978-2020
R.I.P Verna "Granny" Phillips 1929-2020
