Derrick Rose, Thank You and Goodbye

The first “Woj Bomb” of the 2016-17 season didn’t come from The Vertical’s Adrian Wojnarowski. Instead, it was K.C. Johnson who lit the fuse when he broke the news that Derrick Rose had been traded from the Chicago Bulls to the New York Knicks along with Justin Holiday and the Bulls’ 2017 second-round pick. It is time to say goodbye to Derrick Rose the Bull.

I have a confession. I hated basketball. Yes, I played pick-up games with my friends for years, even daily throughout the summer, hitting the cracked blacktop surface of the double-rimmed, half-size courts at the local university. We’d go out night after night until the lights went out, later if the moon and surrounding light of the city could illuminate our target.

But, I had stopped watching professional basketball in any serious capacity. The cause: the 2006 NBA Finals.

A friend was house-sitting and had us all over to watch one of the games, I forget which, between the Dallas Mavericks and the Miami Heat. A lot of details escape me, but I remember wanting Dirk Nowitzki to get the win. I also remember the way the games were called by the refs and the massive free throw disparity between Miami and Dallas depending on where the games were played. Maybe that isn’t how it went, but that is how my brain chose to remember it. I was much younger, but I gave up on the professional game.

He gave Bulls fans hope. He brought the long lost sheep, like me, back to the flock. He made everyone believe that the days of MJ and Pippen could be realized again, and sooner than we thought.

Well, maybe I lied. I didn’t ever fully give up on the sport, though it definitely faded into the background.

That changed in a major way four years after that summer of indignation in 2006. The cause: the 2010 Chicago Bulls.

I had been keeping tabs, like I mentioned, on the world of basketball while still protesting the 2006 Finals as if my self-imposed exile from the game was going to compel David Stern himself to fly his winged chariot to my apartment in Wisconsin and plead with me, begging for forgiveness.

But the Bulls were good again. Yes, I remember watching and reading a lot about Ben Gordon. Yes, I definitely bought the Muscle & Fitness issue that featured Ben Wallace and faithfully incorporated his bicep routine into my workouts (even at a similar amount of weight, eventually!). But all the things that Chicago was doing couldn’t compare to how compelling the team was when led by their native son, Rookie of the Year-winning Derrick Rose.

He gave Bulls fans hope. He brought the long lost sheep, like me, back to the flock. He made everyone believe that the days of MJ and Pippen could be realized again, and sooner than we thought. He made everyone believe that the Bulls could defeat the man in Cleveland who had been nationally anointed to take over the vacated throne of our own Jordan.

My personal journey with the Bulls since the arrival of Rose was much like the journey all Chicago fans took while Derrick was in town. He was, and still is, the native son that brought pride and belief back to a city and a global fan base.

April 10, 2011; Orlando FL, USA; Chicago Bulls point guard Derrick Rose (1) shoots over Orlando Magic small forward Hedo Turkoglu (15) during the second quarter at the Amway Center. Mandatory Credit: Kim Klement-US PRESSWIRE /

In April of 2012, I took my girlfriend (now wife) to a game at the United Center for her birthday. Excellent seats, first row. Personally, I had never been that close to game before or since. We each bought Rose jerseys. The game was against the Washington Wizards. The Bulls lost. C.J. Watson started, Butler played 4:54 and Rose was a scratch.

To top it off, the Wizards made a fourth-quarter comeback and won the game. That game was the reason that I thought Kevin Seraphin might be a good NBA player with 21 points and 13 rebounds. It took me years to realize he just wasn’t all that great and the Bulls had a bad night.

Rose was everything you could ever ask for a storyline. He was the product of Simeon and Illinois Mr. Basketball. He did well enough at Memphis, leading his team to the title game where they fell short against the Kansas Jayhawks. Rose was then a No. 1 overall pick in a draft that had the most unlikely team winning the lottery – his hometown Chicago Bulls.

Winning the Rookie of the Year, then becoming the league’s youngest-ever Most Valuable Player, helped Rose get a lucrative deal and spawned the term “the Rose Rule.” Rose also led a push by Adidas to compete in the American basketball market. They signed him to a whopping 14-year deal which had incentives that could have pushed the total value north of $300 million.

He led his team playing like a fearless daredevil, driving and kicking, slashing, finishing through contact, elevating for earth-shattering slam dunks. Until it was gone.

As I sat in my apartment thinking about how to write this, I asked my wife if she remembered watching the game that was the beginning of the end. She did. We were in my old apartment that I shared with two of my closest friends in college. We remembered that game and the time that we drove six hours to Chicago and spent an unholy amount of money to watch them lose to the Seraphin-led Wizards without Rose.

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I asked my wife again, if she remembered. This time, I was asking about the game we watched when Derrick injured his other knee. She did remember it. We were watching. It was almost poetic that Pooh went down in Portland – the Rose City. Then it was a long season of hoping against hope that a healthy Rose, unfairly struck down by whatever false beings claimed to be lords over basketball while allowing this tragedy to befall our Rose.

In April 2014, I took my fiancée (now wife), to another Bulls game. This time, the game was in Minnesota against the Timberwolves. A much short drive and the tickets were a gift. Still, Rose had been traveling with the team and going through warm-ups without playing. We thought that this might be the night. We arrived as Rose was finishing his pre-game shootaround. Even after missing considerable time, as a member of the visiting team, the power of Rose to draw crowds was real.

He didn’t play. The Bulls won.

We had missed another opportunity to see our beloved Derrick Rose stand triumphant in person. It almost didn’t matter the outcome or how anyone else played, we were there to witness Rose. Except, of course, it never happened for us.

That was the last time we saw the Bulls play live.

Now, Rose is gone. While it is nothing more than fantasy to intertwine my story of fandom or any aspect of the relationship that grew between my wife and I, the similarity of our experience in seeking out Rose was not dissimilar to his time with the Bulls.