Suit Shopping With Rip Hamilton

Rip Hamilton, 34-year-old professional basketball player, took his daily stroll though downtown Chicago. He noticed the little things; cracks in the pavement, children strapped to large backpacks on their way to school, and the fearless pigeons, ready for all challengers of their 5x5 sidewalk space. These pigeons reminded Rip of the vaunted Detroit defense he was a part of not too long ago. He missed those days but was anxious to get on with his new life in Chicago. Life, however, was unwilling to cooperate.

On beautiful days like these - 65 and clear skies - Rip did not mind walking a mile to his tailor. Walking allowed for him to rid his mind of the injury concerns that plagued his first season in Chicago and the pressure of being the final piece to a championship puzzle. Bulls fan who noticed Rip walking alone down the street would react differently. Some would ignore him all together as if to say, 'you aren't shit if you aren't playing.' Others would slyly pull out their iPhones and snap pictures. Some would be bold enough to ask for an autograph or to pose for a photo. Rip accommodated all requests, always with a smile. He enjoyed the banter and good-natured inquiries about his mask but withdrew when the conversation took its predictable turn.

"When are you coming back?" someone would inevitably ask.

"I don't know. I just don't know. Hopefully soon."

Truth be told, no one was more disappointed than Rip himself. He'd recommitted himself to basketball after spearheading a team-wide insurrection of then-Pistons coach John Kuester. Were his injuries the result of his past transgressions? Perhaps karma rearing its ugly head? He sure hoped not.

Rip escaped the mob as quick as he came and continued on to his favorite tailor's shop [name retracted]. He trusted Christopher for more than just fashion advice. Christopher to him was an honorable man with his best interests in mind. He valued Rip's friendship as much as his wallet and would occasionally delve into more personal matters such as Rip's marriage or his mental health. These conversations, albeit brief, were revealing and only strengthened the bond between the two. Christopher was Rip's only acquaintance allowed to call him Richard.

Rip swung open the door only to find Christopher, arms already perched on the counter. He had a sixth sense when it came to Rip's arrival.

"Richard! So great to see you."

"Good to see you too, my man."

"I read in the papers that you're finally able to lift you arm above you shoulder."

"Yeah, well I've been able to do that. We just have to make it look like I'm making progress. As of now, I'm still a game-time-decision."

Christopher knew what game-time decision meant.

"I have just the thing," he said as he went scampering to the back. 

Christopher came out with a grey suit, already tailored to Rip's exact measurements.

"This suit exudes confidence and class. It speaks to your ability, even at an advanced age, to remain fit and sexy. People will see you in this suit and think, 'That's a man who isn't letting his injury get him down. He'll be back in no time, better than ever! Ready to score all the baskets!'"

"Ok. I'll try it on."

"Stunning. Absolutely stunning."

"I'm not sure," Rip said with some hesitation. He felt very uncomfortable challenging Christopher's opinion. "It's not exactly what I'm looking for, ya know?"

"Sure. What are you trying to convey?"

"I'm trying to be on some High School Reunion shit. Like, 'Look at me Now'-type shit. We're playing Detroit on Friday. That's a big one for me. I spent seven years there and won a championship. I want to show them how good I'm doing now. Like I don't need them. I'm good, ya feel me?"

"I have just the thing."

Christopher rushed into the back for a second time and came out with another suit, this time in black. 

"This suit says, 'You can't tell me nothin'.' This is a suit typically reserved for red-carpet events. With this, you'll be the sharpest-dressed man in the room! Make sure to keep that wedding ring on! You will be the envy of Detroit and might even be offered the mayoral position on the spot. Bow ties are all the rage right now!"

"Hell yeah. Alright. I'ma get into this."

"Impeccable!"

"Yep. This is it right here."

Rip pulled out his American Express black card and handed it to Christopher. He continued to look at himself in the mirror, admiring the fit. He had never looked this good in his life, he thought. Tayshaun Prince would surely be jealous of his situation. And the bow tie! Christopher really was a genius. Never in a million years would Rip have thought to wear a bow tie on the sideline and it absolutely worked. He was thankful for this suit. He was thankful for Christopher and his good fortune. He couldn't wait to bring it home and show his wife.

Christopher approached Rip cautiously. " Umm, Richard. There's a problem."

"What is it?"

"Your credit card. It's...it's been declined."

"That can't be right."

"I thought the same thing. I tried multiple times and they all came back declined."

"Shit. Let me call these people up."

Rip spoke for an hour with a representative of American Express. She assured him they would resolve his problem, but there had been problems with many accounts nationwide. They were working on it, she promised in broken English. She gave him no guarantee as to when he would be able to use his card.

Rip knew what this meant. No suit, at least not today. "I don't know what to do, Christopher. I have no means of purchasing a suit for the game."

Christopher thought for a second and smiled. "Don't you see, Richard? This is a sign."

Rip looked at him bewildered.

"It's a sign. You must return to play against your former team on Friday."

"But it's been so long. I can't do this."

"You can, Richard. You can. Believe in yourself and you will make all the baskets!"

He knew Christopher was right. This was something he had to do. He had to prove he could play to the city of Chicago, his teammates, and most of all, himself. At that moment, the pain in his shoulder temporarily subsided. He thought of the pigeons and the current Bulls defense. And it dawned on him, he was home. Different city, but home nonetheless.

"I'll be here Sunday," Christopher reminded him. "Just in case."

"That's It."

Peep the relaxed pose. I thought we had Game 5 in the bag.

Shock would be the appropriate word. The manifestation of "shock," especially amongst a large crowd will often turn raucous, and even violent. No such uprising occurred within the one hundred or so people filing through the Madison St. exit via the Third-Level United Center seats. Replace the Bulls jerseys with sports coats and fedoras, and you have an atmosphere reminiscent of the opening scene of Modern Times. Only one major difference: the figurative sheep in the movie are heading somewhere (to their grueling, soul-sucking factory jobs), and Bulls fans are leaving. Essentially walking away from the 2010-11 season.

In stark contrast to the ending of any sporting event, the mass is mostly silent, save for a few murmurs. Even if they wanted to discuss the game, it's unclear if they even knew what just hit them. Probably not. A teenager at the bottom of the stairs digs into his black backpack. He pulls out a Dirk Nowitzki jersey and throws it on. One guy begins to chant, "Nowitzki, Nowitzki..." He doesn't know the "W" is pronounced as a "V."

The symbolism is clear: Dirk Nowitzki will save us from validating the Miami Heat's season. They were good enough to beat the Bulls, but if they choke in the Finals? That would be almost better. One year down, five more to go. But Dirk Nowitzki isn't adding to the Bulls trophy case and the mass knows that. The Mavericks can win the title and it might make some of them feel good momentarily, but it won't change the fact the Bulls will end the season with practically every trophy except the one that matters.

The Nowitzki chants slowly fade as the man realizes no one is chanting along with him. But perhaps most amazing, is the teenager wearing the Nowitzki jersey expects no acknowledgement. He didn't try to play to the crowd or search for approval. He simply put the jersey on and continued to walk. His own one-man protest. But did he think the Bulls even had a chance at Game 5? Was the Nowitzki jersey just a precaution or the acceptance of an inevitable defeat?

After about ten minutes of silent waiting, my girlfriend and I squeeze into the #20 bus. We grab the two available seats closest to the driver. A massive woman with sad eyes and a shower cap atop her head sits across from us. She takes up two seats.

"Who won?" she kindly asks me. I can't tell if she's a sports fan, but I detect a tone of indifference in her voice.

"Not us," I mumble. I have the tendency to do that.

"What?"

"The Heat," I say.

"Oh," she responds softly.

In a strange way, her presence is very comforting. If anything, she reminds me that this isn't the end of the world. There are people, in the city of Chicago, on the bus outside of the United Center at that, who could care less about the outcome of this game. We don't say another word to each other for the rest of the ride.

"It's alright, we just need a little help," a man who steps onto the bus a few stops later says. "We just need to get rid of Boozer and we got three picks this year. We just need to get that boy [Rose] a little help." If it was only that easy.

As I step off the escalator up to the second floor of Ogilvie Train Station a man in a suit approaches me from my right. He takes one bud out of his ear and asks if the Bulls won. I tell him they didn't. "What?" he screams, as shocked as he is angry. A man to my left confirms, "The Bulls lost?" I nod my head. They both go on their way.

I'm the bearer of bad news. The guy in the Rose jersey intent on bringing everyone's mood down. Kill the messenger. Tomorrow is Friday for God's sake.

My girlfriend is in line at Dunkin' Donuts. I lean against a trash can. The confident, "I'm with the GOAT" swag from the picture above has disappeared. I feel like an extension of the trash can. A woman sitting near me is bundled in blankets from head to toe. She must have at least three blankets wrapped around every inch of her body. She has three blankets, a small coffee, and a beige handbag. It takes her a moment, but she is able to adjust the top half of her first blanket enough to peek her head out.

"Did we win?"

"No," I smile.

"So that's it?"

"That's it."

It took uttering those two (three?) little words to finally accept what had happened an hour ago. This was it. I remembered back to last summer when this current roster was being constructed. I remembered scouring the Internet, hoping for the latest news, or amusing myself with some of the rumors. I remembered, as the season drew on, feeling the Bulls would win every game they played. I hadn't felt like that since 1998. I remembered thinking, sometime in February, that the Bulls were good enough to win it all.

I realize now that I've never felt so strongly about a team as I do this one. The 1990s Bulls were an inheritance. I wasn't alive during the down years and too young to remember the battles with the Pistons. I was lucky enough to be born in 1987 in the state of Illinois. My childhood coincided with the second half of Michael Jordan's career and some of the greatest teams in NBA history. My childhood was the Bulls and I did nothing to deserve it. I was simply born in the right place at the right time.

The 2011 team felt more like a well-deserved promotion. I continued to support the Bulls through the 2000s and this year's team felt like repayment for the ups and downs (mostly downs) endured over the last decade. If any fanbase could claim to have paid dues, it's Bulls fans born into the glory of the 1990s who continued to stick around through the 2000s. On the Jumbotron before the game they showed a mix of highlights from the Championship teams and juxtaposed them with the 2010-11 highlights. Knowing already this wouldn't be they year, I nearly cried. A successful Bulls team, to me at least, is more than just having fun and watching good basketball. A successful Bulls team is a large chunk of my childhood and it's that feeling that I always hope can be recreated.        

On the train ride home I pondered the different ways to write about this game. I thought about what I believed to be the slanted calls in the third quarter, the deja vu moment when Rose missed his second free throw to tie the game (I was at the December 18th game against the Clippers when Rose missed the game-tying free throw with less than a second left), fuckin' Boozer, our lack of 4th quarter offense, the unbelievable way LeBron took over the 4th, etc. It wouldn't occur to me until the next day that the only way I could appropriately write about this game was to relay the moments after and the interest this team garnered, even amongst people who probably didn't watch a game all year.

I attempted to give the Bulls a standing ovation moments after the game ended. I stood and clapped alone. Maybe it looked too much like I was applauding the Heat, or maybe others weren't willing to follow the lead of a man screaming obscenities all game. Either way, I felt the Bulls' season-long effort deserved to be recognized. This was never supposed to happen. But somewhere along the line, all of us became so convinced this was the year.

My girlfriend and I stepped off the train and made our way to the 7-Eleven across the street. Dark and nearly one in the morning; the traffic lights were turned off. All we saw were a bunch of flashing red lights. Kind of fitting. My brother had parked the car in the 7-Eleven parking lot. He sat against the hood smoking a cigarette.

"How did ya like that third quarter?" I asked.