If we were to commission a psychiatrist to work up a profile of the standard crazed Chicago sports fan, sort of a police artist’s psychological sketch, it would go like this:
Subject believes, because voice of Dick Butkus tells him so, that it is possible to knock the cholesterol (both the good and the bad kind) out of a ballcarrier. Has a Messianic complex with symptoms of acute Krause syndrome. Has a soft side like Ernie Banks, who, according to our subject, “continues to get screwed by the Nobel Peace Prize people.” Believes it is possible to levitate, claiming to have seen “my brother” Michael Jordan do it. Insists Mike Ditka’s apricot hair color is natural and is prepared to settle the discussion outside. Apropos of nothing, says Jerry Reinsdorf should be nicknamed “Ranch House” because, like Comiskey Park, there isn’t much upstairs. (Note: Subject cackled after last statement.)
Oh sure, go ahead and mock us. We used to collect championships like recycled cans around here, but then Michael retired and went into macromanagement. (As the Washington Wizards’ president of basketball operations, he vows to show up for the big stuff, including, but not limited to, Judgment Day.) Maybe that makes us like aging starlets, our faces painted while we live in the past. Go ahead and laugh. But what is the saying? Walk in our spikes awhile and understand why we are who we are.
Our preference would be to define ourselves by our heroes. It’s easier that way. So we’re Payton’s stiff arm and Singletary’s eyes and Sandberg’s cool and Sosa’s tape-measure blasts. Better that than defining ourselves by the Cubs’ past or the Blackhawks’ future.
But there’s a whole group of people with whom we identify and some we’re still trying to forget. They’re ingrained in our consciousness, mental signposts telling us who we are and where to go. Albert Belle telling us we’re idiots for example.
We’re a lot of things in Chicago, but we have been shaped more by individuals than by teams, aside from those lovable, losing Cubs. Well, yes, there were the six NBA titles, but in many ways they were more Michael, Scottie and Phil than the Bulls.
We are whom we cheer for and whom we boo. Here is a list, most certainly subjective, of the best and the worst of Chicago, and others in between. Feel free to disagree but be prepared to rumble. We’ve mastered some of Butkus’ tackling techniques, right down to the foaming mouth.
THE SIX ABSOLUTE LOCKS
Michael Jordan
He has left town, but when the guy takes a step in Washington, out of reflex, someone in Chicago kneels. He’s the best mix yet of talent, drive and class. Along with Muhammad Ali, he’s the most recognizable athlete in the world. When Europeans think of Chicago now, they think of Jordan and not Al Capone. That means the image of the city is a shaved head, not a scarred face. Much better use of a razor, don’t you think?
Walter Payton
If Jordan was tongue-wagging, knitted-brow determination, Payton was pure joy. For years he was a one-man gang with the Bears. Then came 1985, and he finally earned his due, even though, through a boneheaded decision, William Perry was given the chance to score near the goal line, and Payton wasn’t given nearly enough chances. Payton was a hero in this town well before he died of cancer last year. Now we can add bravery to Sweetness’ record.
Mike Ditka
Da Coach wasn’t born here and didn’t go to school here, but he symbolizes Chicago’s working-class roots. Could he coach? Yeah, he could coach, but more than that, he could fire up a team and a city. He ran on pure emotion–that and a healthy dose of self-promotion. Chicago loved his passion and that he brought the town a Super Bowl title. Of course he could have been a bore-you-to-tears actuary, and the city would have loved him as long as he delivered a championship.
Ernie Banks
Mr. Cub is the love of baseball incarnate. Some people see the face of the Cubs’ futility when they look at Banks’ smile, but that’s missing the point. When Banks wiggled his fingers around his bat, it was like watching a concert pianist warm up. His was the sweetest sound in the whole place. No he didn’t get a World Series title, but he is proof positive that winning isn’t everything.
Dick Butkus
How could anyone be this ferocious? Butkus was, in a word, scary, and watching him was like watching–from a safe distance–a tiger hunt. Butkus said that when he was younger, he practiced tackling by running full speed into a tree. No one discounted that he did just that. He was crazy, but we were proud to say the insanity ran in our family.
Bobby Hull
Hull was naturally strong, so strong in fact, he had actual, defined muscles long before athletes began lifting weights. His slap shot was barely visible. His toothless smile might have been an affront to modern dentistry, but it worked for us.
THE SIX YOU CAN’T ARGUE WITH
Gale Sayers
He likely would have been in the top category had his career not been cut short by injury. His six-touchdown game in the mud his rookie year spoke of promise and incredible talent. That promise was so strong that he remains a household name in Chicago. What might have been is open to debate. What was, was pretty darn good.
Sammy Sosa
Sosa might eventually stand with Jordan, Payton and the rest as a Chicago icon, but for now, he’s still making history as he goes along. Two phenomenal years–66 and 63 home runs–are a nice start. Now that he’s going to be here a while, will he be remembered fondly or will his grumbling cast a shadow over his legacy?
Stan Mikita
He was Hull’s sidekick, Gehrig to Ruth, though on a smaller scale. He led the NHL in scoring four times and won the MVP award two times. Not bad, Tonto. Mikita transformed himself from a chippy pest into a skill player and in the process became a crowd favorite for the way he brought grace and class to the game.
Mike Singletary
Those eyes. One look, and a running back wanted to run to his mommy. When Singletary gazed across the line with that silver-dollar stare, he was cross-checking what was in front of him with the hours of film study he had done. Then he would annihilate the ballcarrier. You wondered: How could this soft-spoken man be so nasty on the field?
Minnie Minoso
This will kill Sox fans, but Minoso was the Ernie Banks of the South Side; he brought an enthusiasm to the park every day. He was a good player, not great, but what he lacked in ability, he made up in personality and longevity. He played in five decades. That didn’t make him an ironman, it made him Iron Age.
Jim McMahon
McMahon doesn’t rank near the top of all-time great NFL quarterbacks but when he strutted, the city strutted with him. He was cocky and got away with it, though that might have had something to do with a team that had Payton, Singletary, Dan Hampton, Steve McMichael, etc. He was brash to a fault but he was our brash guy.
THE SIX WHO WERE MISSING SOMETHING
Phil Jackson
Jackson would argue that he wasn’t missing anything, which is just the point: He must have been absent when they were handing out the free samples of modesty and humility. It was as if Jackson was going to get his share of the credit, even if he had to use his bony shoulders to nudge someone out of the way. Never mind that his teams included Jordan and Pippen. His ironic look always said that the Bulls were so much more than that. Meaning himself, of course.
Ryne Sandberg
If he were a sound, he’d be a monotone. If he were a car, he’d be a mini-van. If he were your next-door neighbor, he’d be the guy rotating the tires on his lawn mower. Great player, wonderful power-hitting second baseman, but he didn’t connect with Chicago the way a player of his stature should have. Nothing wrong with that, but he falls short of icon status because of it. The man oozed vanilla.
Frank Thomas
Thomas is making a comeback. He finds himself among those in the lacking category, but there’s a bullet by his name. After seven years of excellence and two of misery (for him and us), the Big Hurt is back in a big way. He’s leading a Sox team that is one of the best in baseball. If he can continue it, he might be able to partially erase the 1998 and 1999 seasons, when his falling stats and rising complaints made the town roll its collective eyes.
Dennis Rodman
Nobody took a town by storm as much as Rodman did when he signed with the Bulls in 1995. He gave the team rebounding when it sorely needed it. The rest of it–the tattoos, the body piercings, the overly dramatic dives–was all theatrics. But that was OK too. Rodman finds himself in this category because he didn’t play in Chicago long enough. But Dennis? The wedding dress was a nice touch.
Carlton Fisk
He was as cold as a northeaster. He was all business all the time, and he could make a type A personality feel like a slacker. We were happy to have him when he was here, but there was always this nagging feeling that he was and always would be Boston at heart. His decision to wear a Red Sox cap into the Hall of Fame is affirmation. His falling out with Chairman Jerry Reinsdorf earned him bonus points in the eyes of many White Sox fans.
Scottie Pippen
What was Scottie missing? For starters, the 1.8 seconds he boycotted in the 1994 playoffs. It was that sort of boneheaded decision and others that kept Chicago from truly embracing Pippen. He simply made things hard on himself, as if it wasn’t a life unless it included turmoil. He could take a routine trip to the grocery store and turn it into an arrest and a contract dispute.
THE SIX WHO DIDN’T CATCH ON
Albert Belle
In Chicago we’re willing to look past a lot of things if it involves a world championship. Belle never got a sniff of a title here, and therefore his tendency to hate everything that moved generally didn’t go over well. We decided a long time ago that if we were going to get mentally abused, we’d look to the Cubs for it. Physical abuse, we could do without. Admit it, though. You miss that glare, don’t you?
Jerry Krause
Krause has always sought credit and love, in that order. He and Reinsdorf dismantled a Bulls team that had at least one championship left in it, and perhaps more. Think Jordan, Pippen, et al could have beaten the Los Angeles Lakers this season? Maybe. But Krause’s insistence on rebuilding in his own image (now there’s a mental picture) wiped out that thought.
Dave Kingman
A nicer guy, you could find–anywhere. Kingman had a nasty streak that could make a rabid Rottweiler look away. For all his huge home runs, he managed to alienate just about everyone he came in contact with–teammates, coaches, media, fans. You name it, he dissed it.
Jerry Reinsdorf
It is possible for an owner to be popular in this town. Bill Veeck did it by caring about the fans who bought tickets from him. Reinsdorf seems to have a certain disdain for, um, people. Many of the choices he has made–the decision to build new Comiskey Park in the style of a Vail ski slope, the breakup of the Bulls, etc.–all have alienated the faithful.
Bill Wirtz
See Reinsdorf.
Bobby Douglass
This one might be obscure to nouveau Chicagoans, but Douglass symbolizes just how bad the Bears used to be. During his run of terror, fans were moved to tears by the team’s sheer ineptness. In the middle of it was Douglass, who wanted to run first and throw fourth. Chicago had the best-running quarterback in the NFL, which was like having the hockey player with the best tan.
