What I remember most is the soothing stench of Ozark lake water, the familiar feel of mildewed shag carpet between the tips of my toes and fingers, and sitting so close to the television that I could easily make out its pixels. Does that make it any less significant?
I was eight and Michael Jordan was sick. My grandfather was rooting for Utah; he loved John Stockton, and as to be contrary I pulled for the Bulls as much as I pushed for the Jazz. And as anyone born between 1988 and 1992 will tell you, the Jordan maelstrom was inescapable. We weren’t born Chicago fans but we might as well have been. There was just no other choice.
Game 5 was never in doubt. That’s not true, of course; the Bulls barely survived to regain control of the series. But my naïveté knew late-game Jordan heroics were inevitable. And that’s actually the only specific game sequence I know I remember. MJ hits the dagger jumper over the top of Stockton, staggers to the bench in Scottie’s arms and my mighty Bulls win.
The Flu Game isn’t my earliest NBA memory or even my fondest. But what it’s not doesn’t matter half as much as what it is – the first time I understood I was watching history. So don’t ask about Pippen’s shooting struggles, Chicago’s fourth quarter comeback or Ostertag’s surprising double-double. I’d be lying if I even tried to answer.
But that smell, that touch, that sight and that feeling I vividly recall. And I remember, too, knowing I’d still remember it all almost twenty summers later.