Issue No. 4
1998 NBA Finals | Game 6
From the Rafters is a series of essays revisiting classic NBA basketball games through the lens of one modern, cooped up fan (who is hoping maybe it’ll come back soon?). If you enjoy reading it, please forward it to the basketball fans in your life. If you’ve been sent this newsletter from a friend you can subscribe below. Thanks for reading.
For the last few weeks, I’ve been struggling to recall my earliest NBA memories—trying to find the “Rosebud” of this endeavor, if you will. There’s one fragmentary image that sticks out, though. It’s a blurred recollection on a cathode ray tube. I’m curled up on my grandparents’ maroon leather couch in their Wilmington condo watching the Chicago Bulls on WGN.
Like my paternal grandfather, Michael Jordan was from this part of North Carolina. We used to visit for two weeks every summer, and inevitably my grandfather would drive us around the city to show off what was new in Wilmington. Eventually, we’d head downtown on Market Street and pass Whitey’s diner—supposedly, he told us, where Jordan himself once worked. At seven or eight years old, this was transformational information.
Back then, my grandparents split their time between Wilmington and Chicago. My grandfather was only a casual basketball fan, but I remember reading Bulls box scores with him and getting caught up in the excitement of the city’s first back-to-back NBA championships.
If it’s not obvious yet, these insignificant biographical details, which I thought connected me directly to Michael, cemented my fandom in his team too. I grew up near Pittsburgh, which obviously doesn’t have a pro team to support, but what impressionable child of the ‘90s wasn’t obsessed with Jordan anyway?
Chicago’s championship reign lasted the formative years of my childhood—between the ages of six and 13—and all of my memories of those teams are embedded within others, like pressed stems stuck in the pages of an autobiography.
Alongside the story about Whitey’s diner, there’s the memory of my mother waking me up to tell me that the Bulls won the title—after John Paxson hit the ‘93 game winner—which I missed because I couldn’t bear to watch when the score got too close.
Then there are the VHS tapes of Jordan’s classic dunk contests—Dazzling Dunks and Basketball Bloopers for one—that my maternal grandfather checked out from the downtown library. Plus, the tickets he bought for us to see the Bulls play a preseason game in Pittsburgh. Like the rest of the world, we’d soon learn of His Airness’s shocking first retirement, but at least we’d get to see Pippen, Armstrong, and Grant when we had the chance.
Sometime later that summer, my dad took me and my brother to a Carolina Mudcats Double-A baseball game so we could watch the greatest basketball player alive patrol center field against the home team.
As blurred as the memories start, they end similarly with a family vacation to Disney World, during the ‘97—or was it ‘98 Finals? I only realize now, after thinking back on this period, that these touchstones to NBA basketball are the blessing. I’ll catch up on the individual games, but for now I’m glad to remember the supportive family around me when I fell in love with the sport.
So while there’s been plenty of ink spilled on this subject during the last month, I couldn’t help but to tune into ESPN’s Game 6: The Movie to compare that experience to the usual Hardwood Classics presentation. Besides, I think I might have been in a Mickey Mouse shaped pool the first time around.
This is, of course:
The Last Shot
It’s been almost three months since I watched a basketball game in high definition. I can endure that annoyance during an off-season, but the 2020 NBA playoffs should be heading toward the Finals right now, and dammit this sucks. The first thing I notice then is the detail. In fact, I only recommend watching Game 6: The Movie for the details.
The NBA’s archival film footage of the 1998 Finals—which was used for The Last Dance and featured prominently in its final episode—looks glorious. It’s Game 6 in Salt Lake City. The Chicago Bulls can clinch their sixth championship, and culminate their second three-peat with a win. The Utah Jazz are desperate to avoid becoming an historical footnote yet again. Poor Stockton. Poor Malone. You know the story.
The footage has been exhaustively re-constructed to match NBC’s original broadcast, but it includes new, behind the scenes vignettes like John Stockton unloading his minivan before tip-off, and Phil Jackson diagramming plays in the Bulls’ huddle. I watched this version shortly after the standard-definition broadcast, and I was floored by the fact that no one at ESPN took a moment to edit any of Bob Costas’s condescending schtick (or even his Dateline ad read). For posterity’s sake I’m glad they kept everything intact, but get a load of this righteous indignation during the fourth quarter dustup between Dennis Rodman and Karl Malone:
“They’ve got to call a flagrant here….He and Karl Malone, regrettably, are scheduled to wrestle in one of those bogus events next month. Why Malone wants to lower himself to that is anyone's guess, and Rodman apparently wants to start the wrestling now.”
I’d sooner listen to Michael Cole, WWE’s rightfully-maligned commentator, read from the phone book than have to hear any more from Costas. And I definitely don’t want to watch an entire game in this “Movie” format again—which is like trying to play FIFA20 with only the “Dynamic” camera angle available. The close-ups are amazing, sure. Rodman’s neon green hair absolutely pops on a modern flatscreen, but these scenes are rightfully reserved for clip shows and documentaries.
Take for example Phil Jackson’s triangle offense. I’ve tried to educate myself about the keys to the legendary, semi-improvisational system, but it’s….a lot to take in. This Finals Game 6 is not a glorious representation of that offense—Jordan struggles for much of the first and third quarters with little help—but watching the Bulls work the ball around the court in the triangle is at least enjoyable, didactic viewing for a hoop head. However, the nature of the close-up footage cuts out all of that context—“Who’s making the cut? What are their options in the post?”—and good luck making sense of anyone’s defensive coverage.
Fortunately, the extra footage from the documentarians helps keep you in your seat when the gameplay drags. As Scottie Pippen infamously heads to the Bulls’ locker room to receive treatment on his injured and aching back, two cameras follow. You can see similar shots in each version of the broadcast, but the filmed version lingers a little longer (with the NBC cameraman also in frame) and it zooms in on the closed door of “Dressing Room #4.” You can feel the weight of the moment in these scattered segments.
Another detail: with 20 seconds to play in the half, the camera picks up Steve Kerr, Chicago’s back-up point guard, confirming with his bench that they have one foul left to give away, and then you see him immediately wrap Stockton up in his arms to commit it. Plus, anytime Dennis Rodman dives after a loose ball it’s a majestic and compelling moment enhanced on film.
Aside from the highlights, the rest of game isn’t quite so glorious. Chicago commits four—four!—illegal defense fouls in the first half, and neither team plays with real precision. During one stretch in the first quarter, Utah blows two layups, then Chicago’s center Bill Wennington grabs a rebound but flubs his pass to teammate Toni Kukoč, which Utah intercepts and fumbles out of bounds. Later in the third quarter, the Jazz are whistled for three—three!—shot clock violations. It’s a trying experience to witness at times.
Aside from the final, brilliant 41.9 seconds of this game, your reward, if you choose to pursue it, is an incredible second quarter sequence from #23. He finishes a lob, hits a three, then a 15-footer, and finally the patented baseline fadeaway. Classic MJ.
Yes, the “Last Shot” is a story about Chicago’s final championship, Scottie Pippen’s injured heroics, and Jordan’s unequaled basketball brilliance. But, there is another, smaller narrative thread that deserves some attention.
John Stockton, like Pippen, spends a chunk of this Game 6 in the dressing room getting medical assistance on his back. His five assists are well under his season average, and the Jazz are left to live and die by Karl Malone’s play in the low post. In the fourth, Jerry Sloan (who sadly passed away just last week) specifically calls out his team for not running more screens and getting out on the fast break. Despite that, it nearly works—the Mailman notches 31 points, 11 rebounds, and seven assists— until it doesn’t.
That glorious moment at the end, when Jordan swipes the ball out of Malone’s hands, runs down the court and drains the game-winner? It’s foreshadowed throughout the game. Malone is the only option for the Jazz, and he is stripped of the ball again and again with his back to the basket. The season before, in another title-clinching game against the Jazz, Pippen told the world that “the Mailman doesn’t deliver on Sundays.” In ‘98 Malone did, but without nearly enough help to force a Game 7 against the Bulls.
Then again Michael Jordan is the greatest of all time. He can’t lose. Even I knew that at 13.
Instant Replay
Watch Game 6: The Movie.
Watch the original broadcast.
Basketball Reference box score.
Out of Bounds
In light of The Last Dance, and its further beefening of Jordan and rival Isiah Thomas, it’s delightfully ironic to pair Thomas (and Jordan’s former Bulls coach Doug Collins) with Bob Costas on commentary.
Nothing says Jazz like a cold one, brewed from Rocky Mountain Spring Water.
I wonder how Phil Jackson picks out which ring he’s going to wear? Maybe some match certain suits and watches better than others.
When Dennis Rodman rebounds and smothers the ball like a python on the kill, he’s the only guy who can make the skill look cool.
The Bulls absolutely do not win this game without Scottie Pippen. The hype is real. It’s truly a gritty and monumental performance from him, and another good reason to watch.
There’s nothing wrong with the hand check on defense, prove me wrong.
Flagrant Fouls
The very purple towels the ball boys hand out to both teams.
There’s no jazz in Utah (and few lakes in L.A.).