Hoop Dreams Deferred

My brother and I at The White House 1991.

Where is Michael Jordan?

That’s all I could think about while out on the South Lawn of the White House awaiting the arrival of the 1990-91 Chicago Bulls championship team to meet with President George H.W. Bush. Wearing an official championship shirt and a MJ baseball cap, I clutched a Wilson basketball emblazoned with an authentic replica of MJ’s autograph, hopeful to get the real thing. My brother wore a matching shirt and a Bulls World Champion hat. Looking like we were from Chicago, but at the time we still lived in Washington D.C.

Bulls Championship Hat and MJ Signature from eBay

We were Bulls fans in Washington Bullets territory. In reality, everyone was a Bulls fan at the time because MJ was the coldest MF’er on the hardwood and a budding global icon. In addition to shirts and hats, I also sported a Bulls Starter coat with a distinctive imitation cement print lining during the winter courtesy of my grandmother and J’s on my feet handed down to me when my brother outgrew them. I looked like I just stepped out of an Eastbay catalog. While I may have been dripping in Bulls gear, my skills on the court had yet to begin development.

Front/back of Bulls Starter Coat. Reacquired from eBay in 2024.

Halloween 1993 dressed as Richard Nixon wearing Bulls Starter Coat.

What we didn’t know at the time was that MJ was skipping out on the meet and greet in order to do some high stakes golfing and gambling with a nefarious character named Slim at a resort in Hilton Head, South Carolina. All I knew was that his Airness wasn’t there and my dreams of meeting Black Jesus would not come true. Upon further review, that sounds like a pretty good time and a valid reason for skipping out on an event you have no interest in going to. Unlike say, my dad traveling from Chicago to Maryland for my cousin’s wedding and then staying in the hotel during the ceremony to watch a Team USA World Cup qualifying match against Ghana.   

Movie box cover for Michael Jordan “Come Fly With Me”.

I’d devoured Michael Jordan:Come Fly With Me and Learning to Fly – The World Champion Chicago Bulls Rise to Glory on VHS so I was an expert on the topic of basketball as far as I was concerned. The park down the street from where I lived had a caged in court where I’d watch middle aged men huff and puff while the young agile college students beat up on them. There was an eight foot rim for younger kids to shoot on while they built the strength to move up to a regulation goal but some jagoff teenager ripped it down with a ferocious dunk and it was never reinstalled.

Movie box cover for “Learning to Fly – The World Champions Chicago Bulls Rise to Glory”.

My family moved from Capitol City to the suburbs of Chicago and I was at suddenly at ground zero for the most prolific reign of excellence that Chicago sports has ever seen. I listened to the Bulls clinch their first three-peat on the radio with my heart pounding out of my chest when Horace Grant blocked future Mayor of Sacramento Kevin Johnson as time expired. Next thing I know, MJ is retired and the Bulls weren’t as much fun to watch. The absence of Mr. Jordan provided me the opportunity to extend my fandom to other burgeoning stars of the league. I rocked a black Shaquille O’Neal Orlando Magic jersey, later paired with the Reebok Shaq Attack 3 (which came with a whippet dispensing device) and some black and white striped Marithé + Fançoise Girbaud jorts to complete the outfit. 

My original Shaquille O’Neal Champion Replica jersey. Made in USA.

Reebok Insta Pump that came with Shaq Attack 3 shoe.

The first player to really grab a hold of me was Chris Webber. C-Webb had swag before anybody was calling it that. Black socks, long shorts, bald head; he was authentically himself. I liked him when he was busting fools during his two years at University of Michigan but really started to appreciate him after he was drafted first overall and traded by Orlando to Golden State for Penny Hardaway. I became a Warriors super fan for the time being. My collection of Chris Webber basketball cards was small and limited in scope. There were doubles and triples of most of them. He was only a rookie so there weren’t many cards featuring him available on the market. One with him and Avery Johnson still stands out to me and can be picked up online for today for under three bucks.  

Chris Webber rookie card with Avery Johnson.

Warriors gear filled my dresser drawers. I received a black eye from my brother for accidentally wiping chocolate on his SEGA CD system while styling myself in a Salem caricature shirt. I rocked his replica jersey, Warriors replica shorts and the classic Warriors Starter Pullover. When it came to on the court attire, I donned a Nike University of Michigan practice jersey. He got traded to the Washington Bullets and I quickly scored his new #2 jersey in red.

Chris Webber caricature shirt by Salem Sportswear circa 1993. Reacquired in 2025.

Front view of my original Chris Webber Champion Replica jersey. Made in USA.

Rear view of my original Chris Webber Champion Replica jersey. Made in USA.

Front view of my original Chris Webber Michigan Replica jersey.

Rear view of my original Chris Webber Michigan Replica jersey.

Front view of Warriors Starter Pullover Jacket. Reacquired in 2023.

Rear view of Warriors Starter Pullover Jacket. Reacquired in 2023.

Me wearing my Starter pullover and replica Warriors shorts.

Before I knew anything about BEEF (balance, eyes, elbow, follow-through), my love for the game was influenced by the hours I’d spent playing the basketball video games of the times. Arch Rivals on Nintendo had just as much to do with fighting as it did basketball so I doubly enjoyed that. NCAA Basketball on Super Nintendo taught me the foundations of the sport through its gameplay and user manual. Bill Laimbeer’s Combat Basketball gave me an aneurysm from its stupidity. NBA JAM took over when it got ported into the home from the arcade.

NCCA Basketball for Super Nintendo Cover Art.

Bill Laimbeer’s Combat Basketball for Super Nintendo Cover Art.

A real passion for basketball began as I started to play in an organized youth recreational league where the talent (mine included) was limited and most games featured more airballs than points on the scoreboard. I saw the cinematic masterpiece Blue Chips at the Lake Theater twice while still well under the suggested age where some material may be considered inappropriate for children. That summer my dad bought an adjustable height hoop from Sears and paid somebody to install it in our driveway. As soon as the C-Webb Nike Air Max Sensation became available in `95, I begged for them until my parents caved and bought them for me.  

Chris Webber Nike Air Max Sensation.

As a 12-year-old basketball player I embarrassingly missed nine or ten breakaway lay-ups in one game. Full steam ahead, not another player within 30 feet of me and I choked. I missed some of them by a mile, some right off the rim, one might have missed over the backboard too. Only recently it dawned on me that this could have been the inciting incident for the unresolved performance anxiety that I still experience.

1996 River Forest Foresters team photo after a tough loss.

Our uniforms consisted of only the fifty/fifty Fruit of the Loom Best tagged masterpiece. The players wore whichever shorts they had available to them, so it wouldn’t be strange to see some Umbro soccer shorts on one teammate, a Nike bathing suit on another and jean shorts or khakis on somebody at the end of the bench. I typically wore some light blue Orlando Magic replica shorts made by Champion. For such a wealthy suburb, it’s hard to imagine now that they couldn’t have provided us with a more cohesive look. We didn’t get to select our own numbers, but 25 is a size large. At the time Steve Kerr wore that number for the World Champion Chicago Bulls giving me plenty of opportunity to think I could shoot three pointers as well as he did.

Front view of River Forest Forester’s jersey shirt from 1996.

Rear view of River Forest Forester’s jersey shirt from 1996.

The two best players in my public school’s sixth-grade class weren’t on the team because their parents wouldn’t allow them to participate due to their poor grades. During one game, our starting point guard broke his leg after heaving up an insignificant half-court attempt as the final buzzer sounded. Our coach, a six-foot eight inch, 300 plus pound, Coke-bottle glasses wearing, barely employed, park district approved, non-parent and future Illinois Department of Corrections inmate always had white gunk around the corners of his mouth. Coach Steve was an off-the-rails, hot-headed, pea-brained psychopath we’d come to know and fear. Eventually Coach Steve’s reputation for using expletive words, his uncontrollable outbursts of rage, poor personal hygiene, and unsafe supervision of children was deemed harmful enough that he became persona non grata in the Village of River Forest, Illinois but not before he scarred and scared many.

The Foresters were a rag-tag group but unlike the Bad News Bears, the Mighty Ducks or Charlestown Chiefs we would not go on to surprise anyone by making it to the finals or taking home the gold. Mediocre is the best way to describe the brand of basketball the Foresters played. Win or lose one thing for sure was that Coach Steve would be worked up and acting like a maniac who had no business being around children.

I was all in on my future in the NBA. First stop on my way to the hall of fame was in South Bend, Indiana to participate in the University of Notre Dame Head Coach John MaCleod’s youth basketball camp. There was unlimited soft serve ice cream and fountain soda in the dining hall. I had Papa John’s Pizza for the first time there. My friend got in trouble after being caught with a bunch of matchbooks. The school’s indoor pool had to be drained after a camper took shit in it. 

Front view of Nike shirt from John MaCleod’s Notre Dame Basketball Camp. Bought from seller in Dubai in 2025.

Rear view of shirt from John MaCleod’s Notre Dame Basketball Camp. Bought from seller in Dubai in 2025.

Oh yeah, there was basketball too. A week of working on skills, running sprints, getting split into teams then culminating with a tournament for camp supremacy. The best players in each age group played up a level or two to keep things honest. I might have looked good in my Dream Team II replica shorts but I was hardly one of the top players for my age. 

One camper stood out from the crowd of short white boys. Not because of their size, he was a short white boy as well. It was their extraordinary skill at such a young age and dominance of the older competition that made me remember a random 11-year old’s name three decades years later. Drew Neitzel was a certified bucket and soon to be legend. Just ask Devin Booker.

If memory serves correctly, I watched him knock down 20 straight threes from the top of the key playing knockout against damn near grown men. There was a rumor that Notre Dame offered him a scholarship on the spot. He ended up going to Michigan State, played in the Final Four, and is in the Spartan record books as one of their best players ever.

Front view of Drew Neitzel information card from Michigan State.

Rear view of Drew Neitzel information card from Michigan State.

I knew I had a long way to go if I was serious about a future as a basketball player. For the next couple of years, ball was life. In seventh and eighth grade I played for the middle school’s boys teams. Several of my former Foresters teammates were on the squad along with a few kids with actual skill who got their grades up enough to play on the team. My greatest feat came when I banked in two free throws with one second left to seal a victory for the Bulldogs!

The G.O.A.T rocking a very stylish warm up suit that I owned as a kid.

Eastbay listing for Jordan Game Short II.

Jordan Game Short II reacquired from seller in Bulgaria 2023.

MJ had returned from his “retirement”and was leading the Bulls to their second three-peat so I was back to rocking Jumpman gear on and off the court. I had the first Team Jordan model worn by the likes of Derek Anderson, Michael Finely, Vin Baker, Eddie Jones and Ray Allen to pair with a Jordan warm up suit with zipper sided pants. I always wore my Jordan Brand basketball shorts under my pants, ready to ball at any time. My favorite shoe I ever I rocked was the Air Jordan 11 IE Low Cobalt which I kept crispy with Kiwi Shoe Whitner. 

Air Jordan 11 IE Low Cobalt.

Eastbay listing for Team Jordan 1.

Nike was always the preeminent shoe and apparel outfitter for my hoop dreams, but I had donned Reebok from time to time. My mom brought home a pair of black and blue Pumps from a trip to South Korea in the early 90s when they were all the rage in the States. I grabbed a pair of OG Shaq Attack Pumps on clearance from Sportmart a few sizes too big so I would be able to wear them when I was older.  

Busted OG Shaq Attack Pump.

Busted OG Shaq Attack Pump.

Allen Iverson entered the conversation and I became a Reebok boy for a time. After receiving a grey hoodie with Iverson’s logo on the chest he became my idol of the moment. When his first signature shoe, The Answer, released a black colorway I asked my dad if he would go wait in line at the mall and pick them up for me. He agreed and I had to hide my disappointment when I realized they were not the white with black toe version I assumed they would be and instead came in all black with gold accents. That about ended my allegiance to Reebok. 

Allen Iverson Reebok Question in black and gold.

Allen Iverson Reebok hoodie.

In eighth grade, every day at lunch we’d speed eat our food and spend the rest of the time shooting hoops in the school gym. Some of my teammates and I would play pick-up hoops at the two small colleges in our town honing our craft and running the team playbook against competition made up mostly of exchange students from Asia who were still learning the game. We held our own. It was hit or miss if we’d be chased off the court by the school’s security since we obviously didn’t attend the institutions. After the games we might head to one of our houses for a sleepover complete with Friday on VHS, Domino’s original crust and two-liters of Cherry Coke and Barq’s Root Beer. 

Good fortune struck me by way of having one of my teammates’ uncles as the head coach of Fenwick, the local private high school and my father’s alma mater. At the time they were ranked second in the state and led by future NBA 20 point per game scorer Corey Maggette. In the school’s sweatbox gym, from a seat behind the Fenwick bench, I watched Maggette dominate the game in every way possible. Jaw on the floor, in awe of his athleticism and skill which far exceeded any player I’d ever seen, he was a real life Jesus Shuttleworth. 

While watching a high school Lebron James play against Carmelo Anthony might have been must see TV in 2002, four years earlier on the campus of Northwestern University I witnessed the high school game of the decade. My dad brought me to see Maggette’s Fenwick Friars take on the Whitney Young Dolphins led by Quentin Richardson in a showdown between the state’s top two players and teams. 

Corey Maggette and Quentin Richardson in high school.

Get your popcorn ready. They’d be teammates on the Los Angeles Clippers in a few years playing for one of the most exciting teams along with Lamar Odom, Keyon Dooling and Darius Miles, but that night Q and Corey put on a show just the two of them. Richardson posted a light 28 points and 19 boards. Maggette matched him with 28 points and added 14 rebounds. The game went down to the wire as Whitney Young came out on top 58-55 thanks to late free throws to help send it home. The two stars scored half of their respective teams’ points and cemented themselves as some of the best to ever do it in Illinois high school basketball. 

This is no tale of my almost rise to stardom marred by a catastrophic injury or tragic ending. My delusions of grandeur in the NBA only lasted for a brief moment in time. I had neither the excessive skill or athleticism nor the desire and dedication necessary to attain them. I wasn’t going to be a late bloomer. Maggette and Richardson weren’t waiting for me in the league. 

I self-identified early that I didn’t have what it took to make it as a professional athlete, so I focused my attention on delinquent activities and became quite advanced at an early age. Basketball still meant something to me, just not everything. MJ retired again after his second three-peat, and it felt like my time to get out of the game too. My last dance was over.

I fixed my basketball jones through playing the next generation of basketball video games on Nintendo 64, Sega Dreamcast and later Playstation 2. The 2K series was in its infancy and had not yet supplanted NBA LIVE as the preeminent game in the market. My created player had a beard before I could grow one in real life, always wore high socks with tiny shorts and was rated 99 in every category. I’d turn off fatigue, extend the quarters to NBA regulation 12 minutes and drain three-pointers until my fingers blistered.

A piece of groundbreaking reality TV, Preps: Chicago Hoops aired on the Fox Sports channel in 2001 and provided unprecedented access to high ranking basketball recruits during their senior years. Future Chicago Bull lottery pick Eddie Curry was the main attraction but notable players like Julian High School’s Sean Dockery, Crane Tech’s Will Bynum, Whitney Young’s Najeeb Echols and Downers Grove North’s Kyle Kleckner all received extensive screen time. They were just kids being kids who happened to be some of the best high school hoopers in the Chicagoland area. Luckily the 65 episodes are available on YouTube in all their glory. 

Preps Chicago Hoops is available to watch on YouTube.

With my competitive playing career over by high school and no other school sponsored extracurricular activities school taking up my time, at the behest of my Chicago Journalism Hall of Fame inductee mother I joined the high school newspaper’s staff. My brother had been the sports editor the year prior so perhaps the newspaper advisor thought they were getting the next best thing. Sadly for him, I didn’t have the work ethic or ability that my brother possessed. Having a press pass granted me entry to all school programing and sporting events free of charge regardless if I was covering it. The same laissez-faire policy towards utilizing the press pass allowed me the ability to attend field trips I wasn’t supposed to be on and roam the halls to join my athlete friends randomly throughout the day, all under the guise of “covering” them for the paper.  

As lowest ranking and least enthusiastic member of the staff I didn’t get to write about the sport I was most interested in right away. My first assignment was to cover the boy’s soccer team that I had been cut from the previous year. Next, I wrote about the track team coached by the gym teacher that kicked me out of class on more than one occasion. After writing about a cancer stricken basketball coach, I was placed on the varsity boy’s basketball team beat.  

The team was unexceptional, as was my coverage of them. The starting center couldn’t dunk and spent most of his time standing behind the three-point arc neglecting his duties on the offensive boards. The highlight of the season for me was the pasta eating contest at halftime one game. I must have eaten three plates of pasta with my bare hands and it still wasn’t enough to take home the trophy.  

Several former players that had voluntarily left the team formed an intramural squad called “The Quitters”. My squad, the Logjammers were named for the adult film within the movie The Big Lebowski, Logjammin’. Our jerseys were the unsold goods from my Ronnie “Woo Woo” t-shirt endeavor, recalled in Swing and a Miss. The team comprised of a group of teachers was called The Teachers. Grown men were playing against a bunch of teenagers, which probably wouldn’t be allowed in today’s schools. 

Forgettable other teams filled out the Intramural Basketball Association, or IBA as it was commonly referred to. A group of students more proactive than I promoted the games around the school and built a fan base of considerable size and enthusiasm amongst the supporters far greater than the level of competition deserved. The IBA Times was a ‘zine created for the upstart league. There was an official stat keeper, a commissioner, ballots for all-star voting and cheerleaders on the sidelines. It took on a life of its own.   

My friend wearing his IBA All-Star shirt.

I of course was not selected as an all-star due lack of skill. My participation in the three-point shooting contest held at the inaugural game was unimpressive and unplanned. As a fill in, my performance was poor. Were I to have had more notice to prepare myself, the results would have been the same.  

Intramural Basketball Association operations ceased. The games were still played since the school was in charge of that. Shit was still talked to one another but the students who led the charge stopped putting out the ‘zine, the stat keeper stopped showing up and the crowds regressed pre IBA levels, which were close to zero fans in attendance.

There was no feeling quite like receiving a genuine intramural championship t-shirt after winning the finals. It didn’t matter to me that I won during the winter quarter when all the varsity basketball players are in season and prohibited from playing. It pains me to this day that I trashed the shirt and pitched it. And it’s a good thing I won when I did since I was banned from playing intramural sports by the school shortly thereafter.

This Intramural Championship shirt is long gone and not likely to find its way back to my collection.

Come senior year I was feeling myself. After being admitted to the only three colleges that I had applied to I had an inflated sense of accomplishment, never mind the schools weren’t too selective. Announcing my intention to attend the University of Missouri gave me the encouragement to neglect school work for the most part in exchange for skipping class with other miscreant youths.  

In one particularly impaired episode, I’d arrived at the basketball court straight from a keg party at a spot in the woods called Devil’s Hill with Air Force 1 high-tops on feet. From the sideline I quickly made my displeasure with the referee known loudly with many vulgarities and gesticulation. After a brief back and forth I was ejected from the game and asked to leave the gym without any more disruption. Unlikely chance of that happening.

Busted old Air Force 1s from 2001.

Busted old Air Force 1s from 2001.

Expelled from the game and feeling like I had nothing to lose, I l ripped off a tirade that didn’t make much sense but felt appropriate. Yelling and going on about how I was moving to better things at Missouri and that I’d be playing BIG 12 intramural basketball so I didn’t need this small time high school crap anymore. A few middle fingers on the way to the door, a Breakfast Club fist in the air on the way out and poof! I was gone. I tried to pull a Costanza and show up the next week like nothing happened. That’s when security told me I wasn’t allowed to be there. 

On a memorable trip to Columbia, Missouri in 2002 during my senior year of high school, the Tigers were playing Kansas, the #1 team in the nation in the last game of the year before the conference tournament began. I’d safely made it to my brother’s apartment despite an ice storm and unsafe driving conditions on I-70 from St. Louis. His roommates had secured me a ticket to attend the game and provided me with Captain Morgan Spiced Rum in hip flasks snuck through the light stadium security. The atmosphere was frantic in the upper rungs of the Hearnes Center with students plastered from wall to wall for the Sunday 1pm start time. Mizzou put up a valiant effort and briefly took a lead in the last two minutes of the game but ultimately fell to the top team in the land.

When I arrived on campus the following fall to start my collegiate career, the Mizzou Tigers were a good squad. Kareem Rush had just been drafted in the first round to the Lakers, so it was Ricky Paulding’s team now. The man in the middle Arthur Johnson held down the paint while billionaire Josh Kroenke came off the bench to launch threes. A young Quinn Snyder was coaching the team and he was rumored to have partied with students on the weekends. 

Posing with a Ricky Paulding poster in dorm room 2002.

In the first round of the NCAA tournament that year, the Tigers took on The Southern Illinois Salukis who had been featured on MTV’s True Life: I am A College Baller and reached the Sweet Sixteen the year prior. Narrowly avoiding an upset, the Tigers eked out a one point victory. Next up were the Dwayne Wade led Marquette Eagles which went to overtime and saw “Sleepy” Steve Novak drop three 3-pointers in OT to help seal the victory for Marquette on their way to the Final Four. I watched the first two rounds at The Old Heidelberg where my brother worked as a dishwasher and I was allowed to drink underage as long as someone over 21 ordered the drink for me. I dined on the famous Marty’s Wings and fried clam strips while housing double Jack and Coke, which made the overtime loss a bit more palatable. 

My brother and I outside The Old Heidelberg in Columbia, Missouri in 2002.

All of my intramural and academic pursuits were hampered by my desire to enjoy the nightlife that Columbia had to offer and I left the school without a degree or championship shirt. I’d find my way to Carbondale, Illinois and enroll at Southern Illinois to join more degenerate youths neglecting their studies and struggle to wake up for eight in the morning lectures. The Salukis were in the midst off their most prolific stretch of basketball, making the NCAA tourney six years in row from 2002-2007, but never captured lightning in a bottle and made a deep run. A couple of 40s of Big Bear malt liquor while watching Jamal Tatum and Daren Brooks and we had ourselves a nice little Saturday night. 

My brother and I representing  SIU and MIZZOU.

I suffered through the Bulls’ post-Jordan years along with everybody else. We think about what could have been a dynasty with 1999 first overall pick Elton Brand dropping 20 and 10 on everybody’s head, future Defensive Player of the Year and Circuit City employee Ron Artest along with eventual 3-time winner of the Sixth Man of the Year Jamal Crawford not being given enough time to coalesce. Brand was moved on from in a foolhardy draft day trade two years later in favor of another player who would win Defensive Player of the Year for a different team, Tyson Chandler. 

1999 1st overall pick Elton Brand.

1999 16th overall pick Ron Artest (Metta Sandiford-Artest).

From 1999 to 2006 the Bulls had top five picks in six out of seven years and were in the top ten each year. The team was hot garbage. They whiffed on 2000’s 4th overall pick Marcus Fizer, blew it on 2nd overall pick/reality TV star Eddy Curry in 2001 and got unlucky that 2002 2nd overall pick Jay Williams wrecked on a motorcycle and had to retire after his rookie season. 2003 and 2004 brought Kirk Hinrich and Ben Gordon who each had respectable but unprolific careers with the Bulls. In 2006 the braintrust of the front office drafted multiple time all-star LaMarcus Aldridge 2nd overall, except they traded him away on draft night for the unfulfilled talents of Tyrus Thomas.  

2000 4th overall pick Marcus Fizer.

2001 4th overall pick Eddy Curry.

2002 2nd overall pick Jay Williams.

After college, the desire to be clad in the hottest basketball gear waned but my love for the game remained. Luol Deng came into the fold via draft trade in 2004 but it wasn’t until 2007 that the squad started drafting pieces that would make eventually turn them into contenders to be sent home in the playoffs the Boston Celtics, Cleveland Cavaliers or Miami Heat. Drafting Joakim Noah in 2007 was like the team receiving a heart transplant with his infectious energy and disdain for our rivals. After having only a 1.7% chance to win the #1 pick in 2008 the Bulls beat the odds and ended up with hometown kid Derrick Rose much to the pleasure of the loyal but downtrodden fan base. Even the new look squad filled with promising young players rarely made it out of the first round. 2009 featured one of the great playoff series of all time when the Bulls took the Celtics to seven games as the seventh overall seed. There were two single overtime games, a double OT and a triple OT. The city was on the edge of its seat for those two weeks.

The heartbreak of watching D-Rose go down with a torn ACL at the end of game one against The 76ers in 2012 deflated the entire city of Chicago. We were the number one overall seed and legitimately thought it was our year. Not only was is not our year, it wasn’t our decade. And the following decade hasn’t been much better. Firmly entrenched as a middle-of-the-road team, the Bulls continue to draft poorly, develop players poorly, trade poorly and play poorly. The poor fans. 

But not poor players. When MJ re-signed in 1996 his salary of just over $30 million it made me choke on my Eggo Mini Waffles at breakfast after reading about it the newspaper. I couldn’t fathom anyone making that much money. Fast forward to now and the highest payed players make over $50 million a year. In 2030 Shai Gilgeous-Alexander is scheduled to make just under $79 million dollars for the season. League minimum for players with zero professional experience is $1.2 million. Even the bummiest of bums at the end of the bench are banking beaucoup bucks. 

Money can’t buy style but that won’t stop the players from turning the tunnel fit into the front row of fashion week. With all that cash it’s no surprise when you see a sick vintage T-shirt worn as a statement piece or a nod to nostalgia. Metropolis Vintage NYC, perhaps the finest purveyor of rare and sought after vintage tees has as been know to outfit ballers passing through the Big Apple. Mr. Throwback and RareVintage are top notch when you’re looking for vintage sports jersey’s and gear. Keep your eye out as wack bootlegs, counterfeits and reproductions have also found their way onto the backs of superstars and role players alike.  

The NBA League Pass promotion from Fan Duel has allowed me to check in on all the action across the country every night though I’m geographically blocked from watching the Bulls when I’m in southwest Michigan. Access to all that basketball watching and statistical analysis still hasn’t helped me win any bets I’ve placed. Whether marveling at the unmatched excellence of Lebron, Steph and KD or fawning over the new rising stars in the association, the best part of catching all the action is viewing the home team in-arena feed to watch the halftime exhibition. How else would I get to see DJ Paul of Three-Six Mafia put on in Phoenix or follow Red Panda from game to game?

DJ Paul live halftime performance in Phoenix.

As with most of my yearning for nostalgic and timeless pursuits of happiness I’m now able to view basketball from the perspective of my young nephew. The game has grown and changed since I was a young boy enamored with McDonald’s Dream Team souvenir cups and the Michael Jordan and Larry Bird “HORSE” commercial. Sadly, he’s shared in the same disappointment of having the community rim ripped down by an older kid.

1992 Dream Team McDonald’s souvenir cups.

To aid in his skills development he’s worn Jason Tatum’s and Luka Dončić’s Jordan Brand gym shoes bringing the past and present together for some good old fashioned consumerism. Playing the NBA2K series on PlayStation 5 gives me the opportunity to school him while hooping with the Jordan led all-time Bulls team, but the real treat is teaming up with him to drub the computer by 50 points. Perhaps someday he’ll be the recipient of Jamal Mashburn, Chris Webber, Shaquille O’Neal jerseys that I’ve held on to since the 1990s.

Front view of my original Jamal Mashburn Champion Replica jersey. Made in USA.

Rear view of my original Jamal Mashburn Champion Replica jersey. Made in USA.

C Webb, Shaq and Monster Mash jerseys.

The exercise of recalling these formative experiences brings me unbridled enthusiasm. Recapping them is a way for me to reconnect with my youthful exuberance and pine for the days of old when the Bulls were running over the NBA. These recollections stem from a place of personal growth and help solidify my desire to feel like a kid again. There was never a more of a fun time in my life than playing hoops in my driveway with friends and I am magically sent back to those days when I put on my Warriors pullover or peruse my family photo albums for images of my sometimes gone but never forgotten items of clothing. 

1990’s Bulls shirt on Screen Star tag. Purchased from Monarch Studios in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania 2023

Chicago Bulls 1991 Championship shirt originally purchased and worn by my father.