Only Jordan Can Control a Bull Market

Lyrics for $800, please. Answer: “Stephen Sondheim had him in mind when he wrote, ‘Isn’t it rich?-Aren’t we a pair?-Me here at last on the ground-You in mid-air.”’

Who is Michael Jordan?

Yo, Mike, you can come down now.

Last of the Wright Bros., Air Man, Holy Ghost of Hang Time . . . What else can we call him? His arms and legs, they’re so pliable, and the way he bends them, so they look like they’re coming at you from 800 different angles--he’s Gumby!

Elgin, Connie, Doc, they were all electrifying in their day, but Jordan has turned it up a kilowatt with those tongue-wagging, crowd-gagging, arms-waving, legs-splaying, morale-shattering, reputation-flattering, bullet-headed tomahawk jams. These are indoor gyms; where’s the wind beneath his wings blowing from?

Seriously, Mike, did I ever tell you, you were my hero? You’re everything I would like to be. Part of it, of course, is that you’re going bald. Those of us who’ve blazed that trail always appreciate a superstar athlete with faltering follicles. You’re our first bald sex symbol since Theo Kojak, if you don’t count Beldar The Conehead. (Kareem is in another category because of those goggles. Every time he trots onto the court I keep expecting Han Solo and Chewbacca to follow.) That Nike deal is sweet, Mike, but Rogaine would pay you billions. Think of it: “Hair Jordan.” Be still my foolish scalp.

How do you like his numbers so far? He averaged 39.8 against Cleveland, and he’s getting 34 against the Knicks--plus 11.5 rebounds, a preposterous total for a guard. Not that it’s new ground Jordan’s plowing: In a three-game set against Boston in 1986, His Airship averaged 43.7 points, and last season in five games against Cleveland, he went for 45.2. Only Jerry West (46.3 in a six-game series against Les Boulez in 1965) ever averaged higher.

No wonder CBS has devoted so much time and energy to Jordan. With Bird out, and Magic, by virtue of so many finals, having become the perennial closing act of the playoffs, CBS was eager for a new hook to hang its coverage on. Jordan is clearly ushering in the 1990s; if it’s time to rock ‘n’ roll, he’s Jerry Lee. So each little thing he does attracts camera overload. We see him before the game, pulling up to Chicago Stadium and climbing gingerly out of his Testarosa. We’ll see Michael wanna-bes make their fashion statement wearing black high tops. Everyone in Chicago wears them; the Bulls cheerleaders, probably even Mike Ditka. We talk to his mother--(CBS declared her Miller Lite’s player of the game on Mother’s Day. Society’s approaching the point where you’re nobody until you’re the Miller Lite something or other; you might as well be dead. Any day now CBS Sports will name Noriega Miller Lite’s dictator of the hemisphere and a $1,000 scholarship will be donated in his name)--his father, his trainer, his doctor. How does he feel? What did he eat for breakfast?

Could he always jump this high, or was he kidnapped by aliens, and injected with anti-gravity particles? We see television guys insinuate themselves into his life to make themselves invaluable to the hype; for example, Tim Brant breathlessly recounted a perfunctory conversation with Jordan: “Michael said to me, ‘I gotta tell you, Tim’ . . . “ (Why is it every time Brant reports a coach’s instructions to his players, someone’s always spittin’ or bitin’ or sniffin’ or scratchin’ or clawin’? He makes every event sound like alligator wrestling.)

The further Chicago advances in the playoffs, the more concentrated the CBS coverage. By the semis we’ll get hour-long specials about where Jordan does his dry cleaning, and his exclusive ratings of the seven Santini Bros. If the Bulls reach the final, Jordan will anchor the evening news instead of Dan Rather.

Most people can’t fathom the Bulls coming this far. Without Jordan, they’re Charlotte. They don’t have any players who’d automatically start on every other team. In fact, none would start on more than a handful. Other nondescript teams have ridden an irrepressibly hot player to the NBA finals: the Warriors won in 1975 with Rick Barry; the Rockets reached the final in 1981 with Moses Malone. But Barry had Jamaal Wilkes; Moses had Calvin Murphy. No guard has ever done so much with so little help as Jordan.

Switching Jordan to the point was the smartest thing Doug Collins did this season. (It’s hard to tell how good a coach Collins is, since all he’s required to say in huddles is, “Get the ball to Michael.”) He has the ball in the middle of the court, which means he sees the whole floor. And he initiates the action, which means everyone else must react to him. He’ll draw defenders to him like a magnet, then pitch off to a teammate as wide-open as a car wash. Think what the Bulls could do with a drop-dead shooter like the Bullets’ Jeff Malone. (Malone and Terry Catledge or Mark Alarie for Will Perdue and Chicago’s lottery pick, provided it’s lower than No. 1, 2, or 3, hmmm.)

Even with Jordan, though, it would take a miracle for the Bulls to win the NBA title. Which reminds me of a story: At the 1988 Final Four, Oklahoma Coach Billy Tubbs was answering questions at a news conference. Sitting next to him, moderating, was North Carolina’s droll sports information director, Rick Brewer.

“Billy,” Tubbs was asked, “do you think God is on your side?”

“Our side?” Tubbs responded, rolling his eyes. “I’ve never seen God in an Oklahoma Sooners uniform, have you? What number does he wear?”

Quicker than a heartbeat, Brewer said, “No. 23.”