Bulls Win and It’s Valentine’s Day Again

Sanity check.

So much news on television, so much to process, so difficult to separate it all and keep it from coalescing in your mind. So hard, in this age of omnipresent, hyperbolizing, 24-hour media, to distinguish reality from fantasy. For example. . . .

I believe, although I can’t be sure, I was on the couch in front of the set Sunday evening:

Waiting for the Viagra to kick in.

Praying that Pat Robertson would not send famine and pestilence to Los Angeles.

While watching NBC’s fawning post-game coverage of the NBA finals victory by the Chicago Bulls.

And wondering along with the rest of America whether Kenneth W. Starr would keep his team together and be back next year as independent counsel.

Like everyone else, I was obsessed with this question, utterly preoccupied, shuddering at the prospect of his team breaking up after it had contributed so much material to comedians and talk radio.

Like everyone else, including ever-obsequious NBC sports reporter Ahmad Rashad, I was awed.

“Kenny,” Rashad asked his dear friend Starr, while on his lap in the fetal position, “will you be back if Scottie comes back? Because Scottie is just an incredible warrior, and because there will never be another team like this unless it’s kept together?”

“I respect Scottie enormously,” Starr answered his dear friend Rashad, “but my decision will depend on whether we can make a deal for a university chancellorship that I still want or whether it’s already been promised to Michael Jordan.”

“Because Michael is an extraordinary human being who’s unguardable?” Rashad asked about his dear friend Jordan. “And because they should just give the chancellorship to Michael, get out of the way and let him do his thing?”

“Well, the university will make that decision,” Starr said with his usual sugary smile. “Until that time comes, I’ll just continue doing what I have been doing.”

“What do you think your legacy will be?” Rashad asked. “Will it be that you have every right to talk privately to sports reporters, that your moves are unbelievable, that your glittering record will never be matched and that you are a remarkable role model for kids?”

“I hope,” Starr responded with another smile, “that I’ve put some memories out there for some future independent counsel to follow. And of course, if not everything falls into place for me, I’ve still got the Wheaties and Gatorade commercials.”

“One final question, Kenny,” Rashad added as he brushed Starr’s jacket with his whisk broom, “and it’s this: You are so beautiful, man!”

At this point, I believe I dozed off for a bit. When I awakened, Rashad was on his knees in the Bulls dressing room, unlacing the sneakers of his dear friend Dennis Rodman.

With his teeth.

“Dennis,” he asked, glancing up after removing a sneaker and massaging Rodman’s foot, “will you be back if Kenny and Scottie come back? Because you’re a complex, misunderstood individual who’s great for the game, we all love you very much despite your antics, which are part of the color of this great sport, and we’d miss you very much if you did not come back, and that shade of yellow in your hair becomes you.”

Rashad resisted kissing Rodman’s toes, proving that he is not the patsy that his critics claim.

“I’ll be back if we can work things out,” Rodman said as Rashad gave him a pedicure. “But I can’t endure this disrespecting me from the Bulls. If I want to fly to Vegas during halftime, I have to be able to do it. Dennis Rodman has to be Dennis Rodman.”

“Do you think you’ve been unfairly harmed by your controversial spread modeling lingerie in Vanity Fair magazine?” Rashad wondered aloud while helping Rodman on with his pantyhose. “A spread that was tasteful and undeserving of the criticism that you’ve received for it, because you have to be you, and all of us have to respect that.”

I dozed off again. This time when I awakened, Rashad was in the shower, washing Michael Jordan’s back.

“And you’d take the late-night talk show over the university chancellorship?” Rashad asked. “Because you’d be the very best at both jobs that there ever was. And I’m not just saying that because I worship you.”

“I’ll take the talk show if Scottie is my sidekick,” Jordan said as Rashad lathered his hair.

“What about me, Michael?” Rashad asked.

“You’re already my sidekick,” Jordan answered.

Once again I nodded off, this time awakening to find Rashad in the parking lot, washing the luxury car of his dear friend Scottie Pippen.

With his tongue.

“Are you coming back, Scottie?” Rashad asked, pulling out his chamois. “I’m keeping my options open,” Pippen responded. “Are you coming back, Ahmad?”

Rashad saluted before answering. “I’ll take the summer and decide,” Rashad said. “But right now, Scottie, I’d have to say I won’t be back unless you, Michael and Dennis come back. We’re a team, man, and after what we’ve achieved together, just too good a team to break up.”