| The irony is that they were always best in transition. |
| During the Chicago Bulls' glory years, as they would eventually be known, defense to offense was but a blur, a seamless act that was somehow both cruel and graceful as the NBA's best mounted scoring runs and eventual routs with regularity. |
| Great days for beat writers, who could hammer out game stories by halftime, so sure of the outcome by then. Greater days for Bulls fans, who soon took for granted the wonder of a team at its very peak. |
| It became harder as it went on, to be sure. By the third championship, routs were becoming infrequent, boredom prevalent and Michael Jordan relied on as never before. And the transition game, as perhaps a warning of things to come, became laborious. It would not become literal however, until Oct. 6, 1993. |
| Jordan saw it coming. He saw the signs just as clearly as he saw the end of his career. It was late January of '93, and already Jordan was tired. His knees ached and his spirit sagged and an air of mediocrity was all around him. |
| The Bulls were 28-13 at the time, holding on to first place in the Eastern Conference, but something wasn't quite right. They were about to play the Rockets in Houston, and for Jordan, that meant an earful from Vernon Maxwell, a matchup he hated and relished at the same time. |
| But slumped against his locker that day, acutely aware of the changes that had taken place over the last couple of years, his mind was anywhere but on the game. Discussion among Jordan and his teammates had turned more and more lately toward contracts and playing time, toward the future rather than the present. And if it didn't exactly depress him, well, it had him thinking. |
| "It's human nature that when success comes around, everybody's fat and everybody's independent, when before everyone was supportive and connected and tight," he said. "All championship teams go that way. |
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