This was a few weeks ago, and I was watching the Bulls with a friend who scouts for another NBA team. We were talking the kind of inside basketball stuff these scouting gypsies love when I asked casually, “So what do the Bulls run?”
It’s scout talk for a team’s system of play and overall philosophy.
“I don’t know,” the scout replied.
I laughed and asked, “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what they do,” the scout said. “They don’t seem to believe in anything.”
And when everything is stripped away–all the losses, the internal tensions, the trades, the drafting of youngsters, the losses, having to hang around with Jerry Krause, the disagreements with players . . . did I mention the losses?–the reason Tim Floyd resigned Monday was something of an exasperated acceptance that he was in over his head.
Floyd probably beat the firing posse by a couple of weeks. His relationship with his boss, Krause, had deteriorated badly, and he had so totally lost his players that it would take him years with the help of bloodhounds to find them again.
Floyd had become a man on an island with little hope of rescue. The players weren’t going to get much better, and certainly not quickly, and Krause was beginning to pine for a new coach, much as he did in the latter stages with onetime proteges Doug Collins and Phil Jackson.
A Bulls insider likened the Floyd-Krause relationship to an affair. Floyd had started courting Krause in the 1990s when Krause still was smitten with Jackson. Marriages as built-out affairs rarely last, it was suggested.
Floyd had become so resentful of Krause it was not uncommon, players said, to hear Floyd mumble an expletive on the bench when it was suggested he put in a player he believed Krause favored, like Dalibor Bagaric.
Similarly, Krause had lost his ardor for Floyd. A large part of Krause’s reasoning in hiring Floyd–and Krause has had a good eye for young coaches–was that Floyd would work well with youngsters.
Krause’s essential plan was to rebuild the Bulls after the Michael Jordan era with young players and high draft selections.
Krause saw the engaging Floyd as someone who would relate with youngsters because all the players he’d coached before came directly from high school. And Floyd emphasized aggressive defense, in keeping with Krause’s belief that basketball hinges around active defense and a system on offense.
But that became a problem immediately. Floyd sought and pursued the Bulls’ coaching job, and Krause often hires with the idea of developing a friendship. Having fallen out of love with Jackson, Krause became enamored of Floyd. Sensing an immense opportunity, Floyd reciprocated. He believed he could put up with a few years of losing. He always thought college work was too hard and that the NBA would be easier: You just coach every day. And he’d coached all his life.
In college, there was the recruiting, the baby-sitting, the worry over grades and behavior, the speeches, the alumni gatherings. Floyd was often heard to remark how much easier he now had it than did his college colleagues.
But unfortunately, he wasn’t much unlike his control-freak college colleagues, such as Rick Pitino, John Calipari and P.J. Carlesimo. They managed less from philosophy and belief than force of personality. All had disastrous runs in the NBA despite charming personalities that mostly captivated local media. They could bewitch the big alumni contributors; they just didn’t want to.
Floyd wanted the NBA life but never really understood it.
In Floyd’s first two seasons, the issues didn’t show up dramatically. In the post-lockout season the Bulls had mostly leftover veterans, and the following season they were clearing space to bring in young free agents to form a nucleus, trading Toni Kukoc after drafting Elton Brand. Floyd was at his alumni-enchanting best.
But as the Bulls failed in the free-agent market in the summer of 2000, Floyd began to realize the future was coming through the draft, and it wouldn’t be coming quickly. An incident that summer was a sign of events to come.
The Bulls’ teenage recruiting future began with the draft-day trade for 19-year-old Jamal Crawford, who’d played just 17 games in one season at Michigan before being declared ineligible for accepting a gratuity. It was in the summer league, and assistant Bill Cartwright was coaching the Bulls. Crawford, playing point guard, was instructed to make a pass inside to Marcus Fizer, for whom Floyd had lobbied in the draft.
But Crawford, a playground-type player, saw Ron Artest open under the basket and whipped a pass inside. The Bulls were trailing by two points with a few seconds left, so Artest backed up to shoot a three-pointer but stepped out of bounds.
In the locker room, Cartwright told Crawford he’d gone against the play and explained why. A little defensive, Crawford responded it wasn’t his fault, and Artest joined in to say he’d called for the ball from the rookie.
Floyd, who had been sitting in the stands, spoke up in the locker room. In front of the team, he shouted that this was why Crawford had been thrown off the Michigan team and he was untrustworthy.
As the months went on and losses mounted, such confrontations became embarrassingly regular. With a young team last season and Brand to deflect Floyd’s anger, there were only a few incidents. One was with Artest, when he wore a headband in support of the benched Crawford, whom Floyd had begun to blame for the team’s failings and was refusing to play. Floyd blew up at Artest over the headband and benched him.
This season Floyd berated Artest in front of the team for his dress on the sideline while injured.
Floyd’s anger also boiled over against Charles Oakley, which was well chronicled after Floyd cursed out Oakley and stormed out of practice last month, telling Oakley to coach “those [jerks].” The rest of the team didn’t appreciate the profane comment.
As Floyd was screaming at Oakley, fellow veteran Greg Anthony stood up and made an impassioned plea for compromise. It seemed to settle things down. Floyd politely said he appreciated the words, then cursed out Oakley again and stormed out of the room. Players left shaking their heads.
It was similarly tense with Ron Mercer, another veteran who is more sensitive than Oakley. Mercer is mostly a loner, not always a hard worker in practice but generally well-liked by his teammates. After one particularly bad game, though, Floyd singled out Mercer and said he’d never be anything in the NBA, that he stunk and always would stink.
Those kinds of rages might work in college, but Floyd, Calipari, Pitino and Carlesimo never understood they don’t work with pro players. The college season is maybe 30 games, and players are defenseless–their careers can be over if they’re thrown off a team. The coach is the king.
Chuck Daly, one of the great pro coaches ever, once explained his philosophy. He said he hoped to be good enough so his players would allow him to coach them.
What was worse for Floyd was losing the players’ respect as a coach.
Floyd ran the triangle offense most of his first two years with the Bulls but never seemed to embrace or understand it. Players said he constantly asked Cartwright for explanations, and his directions often didn’t make sense. Intimates said he believed Krause and Chairman Jerry Reinsdorf wanted him to run that system, so he did so to please them.
In fact, Floyd had no system. When he came to the Bulls, he talked about being an aggressive defensive coach, but the Bulls never exhibited typical defensive concepts. They rarely trapped or pressed. But Floyd was excused because it never seemed he had the talent to run such a system.
Floyd was really a seat-of-the-pants coach, and that didn’t truly emerge until the team added veterans this season. Oakley and Anthony said it was the first time in their years in the NBA they’d been with a team that didn’t use a playbook. Floyd would decide on plays almost every day, and that’s what the team would practice.
There also was little organization. Players said on days Reinsdorf was in the building, Floyd would be on time. But he usually was late, and there rarely was a practice plan. Players tend to feel comfortable with a regular rotation and routine. The Bulls had neither, and it continued to cause confusion. Even Phil Jackson taught basic elements of the triangle offense every day, always saying players need repetition. But there was little under Floyd.
The issue grew serious this season as Floyd seemed almost to defy Krause by not playing Bagaric or the two high draft picks, Tyson Chandler and Eddy Curry.
A friend asked Krause what he would have done when Floyd told the team he was going to quit if they didn’t get serious. Krause said if Floyd asked to be fired, he would have fired him. They communicated, but Floyd believed Krause had sold him out with the constant rebuilding and refusal to add quality veterans.
For his part, Krause came to feel that perhaps he’d made a mistake, that Floyd could not coach youngsters after all and was ruining the season.
It was clear the strain was beginning to get to Floyd. There was one postgame coaching session in which Bill Berry, now the interim coach, questioned an end-game strategy the team used. Floyd grew angry and stared hard at Berry for a long while, then was cool toward him for days afterward.
Coaches became reluctant to advise Floyd on the bench because of “the stare,” which would lead to games like one against Toronto last week. Even with the Raptors making a huge run, Floyd sat by idly. Even Toronto writers were questioning the coach’s indifference and reluctance to call timeouts.
In his first three years Floyd’s teams were praised for playing hard, but that often wasn’t the case this season. The Bulls lost a recent game on a dunk by a guard a few seconds before the buzzer. Players were lax in rotations, and passing and team play were almost nonexistent, for which Floyd blamed Krause acquisitions such as Mercer.
In recent weeks Floyd had barely any relationships with the training staff, the scouts or management. He seemed to prefer the college game, and staffers around the team said he seemed most excited when talking about college games he’d watched the night before.
The end seemed apparent, and the reality finally seemed clear. He decided he could stand no more. This was not the life for Tim Floyd, certainly not the life he expected it to be. As the old saying goes: Watch out what you wish for. You might get it.
