Chapter Thirteen: Rumors of Infighting within the Bulls Spread Throughout the League!

“Jerry, have you heard the news?” In Salt Lake City, just as Sloan was about to leave work and head home, his assistant coach Withers stopped him.

“Heard what? Did Karl get into trouble again, or is the ‘Magician’ making a comeback?” Sloan sneered. He had never cared much for league gossip.

“There’s a brawl within the Bulls! I heard it was a brutal fight! Not only was there bloodshed, someone was even carried straight to the hospital! They’re now trying to trade some of the players involved,” Withers explained.

“Is that coward Pippen finally fed up with Jordan’s personality and went after him?” Sloan’s eyes lit up. In the blink of an eye, he imagined several trade offers involving Pippen. If they could get Pippen, the Jazz’s dominance on both ends of the court would be unstoppable!

“No, it was Randy Brown, Jack Haley, Jason Caffey, and a second-round rookie named Lin who fought,” Withers read from his source, naming four unfamiliar players.

“Who are they? Ball boys or janitors?” Sloan fought every urge to curse at Withers. “I’m not even curious about these guys. Whether they fought or pulled guns on each other, I don’t want to know!”

Without another word, Sloan turned and walked away, not looking back. He couldn’t believe he wasted two minutes on some unknown rookies—that was a crime!

In Miami, having just left New York to become both president and head coach of the Heat with full personnel and trade authority, the ‘Mastermind’ Pat Riley immediately picked up the phone and called Klaus.

“Jerry, my good friend! I heard you’re planning a big trade?” Riley said.

“Yeah, I was thinking—how about Langley for your Mourning?” Klaus replied in the same sarcastic tone, lacking any sincerity.

“Cut it out, you fat, round-faced idiot. You know why I’m calling,” Riley snorted, skipping the pleasantries. “If things get serious on your end, come to me for a trade. For old times’ sake, I’ll give you an offer you can’t refuse!”

After hanging up, Riley glanced at the message from his source and deleted it with disappointment.

Boring. It was just a squabble among four minor players. He had hoped for some kind of internal fight involving Jordan or Pippen. Looks like he’d been excited for nothing.

In New York City.

“Did you hear, Patrick?” Inside the Knicks’ training facility, Starks whispered mysteriously, draping an arm around Ewing’s neck. “There was a fight in the Bulls! Rumor has it someone actually died this time.”

“What? Pippen beat Jordan to a pulp?” Ewing’s ears seemed to malfunction as he blurted out this sensational news.

‘New York’s malicious foul king,’ Anthony Mason, perked up and eagerly walked over. “What are you guys talking about? A huge conflict in the Bulls, Jordan beaten to death by Pippen and Rodman?”

Then Derek Harper came over, catching wind of the gossip. “What’s this? The Bulls were hit by a gang attack and over half the team was wiped out?”

Meanwhile, some distance away, Charles Oakley, only half understanding, relayed his own version to his younger teammates: “Jordan and Pippen both have gang ties. These two got into a direct fight, and outside the Chicago training center, they were surrounded by over a hundred gang members armed to the teeth!”

“And with neither willing to back down, they had a one-on-one battle in front of those hundred people, a fight to the death. Rumor has it Jordan lost an eye, and Pippen was carried away in a body bag!”

As the Knicks grew louder and more animated, debating who died and who was crippled, their newly appointed head coach, the ‘Mad Scientist’ Old Nelson, entered the locker room. Looking at this notorious band of league criminals, he curled his lip and said, “Stop the nonsense. The fight was between a second-round rookie and a few names I can’t remember.”

“A bunch of nobodies brawling. The guys you hoped got crippled weren’t even there!”

A chorus of boos erupted.

“Old man, how reliable is your info?” Ewing challenged with a cocky, impatient look, daring Old Nelson.

Actually, that was just Old Nelson’s opinion. Ewing was joking—or rather, anyone who met Ewing’s gaze felt he was provoking them, making their mood sour.

The same was true for Cassell and others.

They were simply too ugly, naturally radiating an aura of mockery.

“Monkey, if you want to check the facts, do it yourself instead of spouting nonsense here,” Old Nelson cursed and turned to leave, silently vowing:

This year, I’m definitely sending this monkey away and bringing in a shark!

In Detroit, the Pistons’ boss Chuck Daly was the only one in the league to call Klaus, trying to buy Lin Tian.

“Jerry, what’s the price for that troublemaking rookie? How about two future second-round picks? Two for one, a steal for you!”

“Sorry, Chuck, we don’t have any troublemaking second-round rookies. Just a well-behaved kid here,” Klaus flatly rejected the offer and hung up.

Daly could only shake his head helplessly.

The current Pistons were long gone from the tough ‘bad boys’ of the late 1980s. Now, their leader was a refined and gentle young gentleman—

Grant Hill.

Hill was perfect, an idol star in every sense.

But he didn’t fit Detroit at all. It was like a Michelin-starred restaurant in a slum—a clash of atmospheres.

Daly couldn’t trade this rising star, but he hoped to add some enforcers around Hill. Even if he couldn’t change Hill’s elegant style, he wanted to maintain the Pistons’ hard-edged reputation as much as possible.

Similar stories played out across more than twenty teams in the league. Groups eagerly discussed, hoping Jordan would be crippled, only to lose interest once they learned the fight didn’t involve Jordan at all, and then dispersed.

Who cares about a brawl among some forgettable nobodies?