The Round Mound in the Heavens

By Pico Iyer

Earth and air are the two unvarying components in any basketball game -- which is to say, flesh and spirit. No-look passes and jump shots are the feathers of the game; offensive rebounds and blocking out are the hard muscle underneath.

As the Phoenix Suns and the Chicago Bulls meet in the finals of the National Basketball Association play-offs this week, in a squaring-off of styles that the nation's sports fans have been anticipating all season, the collision of immovable force and irresistible object will be more reverberant than ever before. For despite the presence of two dozen redwoods in uniforms, the cameras, our eyes and endorsement makers will be focused on a clash of shaven- headed close friends: Charles Barkley and Michael Jordan. On paper, the league's Most Valuable Player this season vs. the greatest player in the sport. In practice, a bowling ball of a man who hurtles downcourt at top speed, knocking down everything in his path, against the coolest bird around, who has a part-time home in the heavens. The Round Mound of Rebound against Air Jordan.

The postcard-perfect contrast extends far beyond the court, however. Barkley, as he solemnly intones in a controversial new television commercial (he wears controversy like a second skin), is "not a role model." He is "paid to wreak havoc on the basketball court." And off. Barkley's charm -- and his curse -- is to be as free and spontaneous with his mind as with his body, and to throw off wisecracks and elbows in a barrage of no-nonsense, forward-driven bursts of speed that threaten always to whirl out of control. At the Olympic Games last year, one of the most frequent sights was of Jordan (or Magic Johnson) alternately delighting in Sir Charles' abandon and trying to rein him in. When Barkley published his autobiography last year -- Outrageous! -- he compared some of his teammates' skills unfavorably with those of his grandmother and then, turning on his ghostwriter, threatened to become the first person in history to sue himself for libel.

Jordan occupies a different and more difficult position, at the center of "Be Like Mike" ads that have put him at the forefront of many young boys' dreams. Everywhere you look, there is Michael -- referred to (like Elvis or Madonna) by his first name only, and asked by foreign journalists whether he is an extraterrestrial or a god. The pressures of such a position are his shadow: as the Bulls defeated the New York Knicks last week, people were talking about Jordan's late-night visit to an Atlantic City casino and his gambling habits as much as about his effortless scoring of 54 points in a single game. A new book written by a self-described compulsive gambler claims that Jordan made wagers on golf games that resulted in debts as high as $1.25 million, an amount the star says is "preposterous." As a result of such publicity, Jordan is a man who is guarded everywhere except on court. He has to shop in stores when they are closed, to stay away from streets, to talk only with the trusted likes of people such as Barkley. His checks written to a convicted criminal, and his no-show at a White House reception, are regarded with more wonder than his grace. Only on court, it sometimes seems, is he able to be himself: relaxed, free and utterly open.

If Barkley's burden, then, is that he cannot be other than himself ("That's Charles just being Charles" is the rueful and affectionate comment of those around him), Jordan's is that he cannot be other than immortal. Barkley reminds us again and again that he is not sufficiently recognized; Jordan doubtless feels that he is recognized too much. Barkley, in fact, seems not so different from the laughing and imprudent rest of us. The new Sun, you could say, is a hero because he is so human -- overweight, gregarious, hotheaded, a 6-ft. 5-in. man who, through willpower alone, outjumps giants and outraces sprinters; Jordan is a hero because he is transcendent.

The championship series is, of course, more than just a clash of titans. Barkley, for example, is attended by his equally spherical protege, Oliver Miller, an eager rookie who might have been deemed too fat for the league before Barkley redefined the limits of flesh; Jordan's constant partner is the silken Scottie Pippen, who might have been regarded as one of the kings of the game were he not in the company of royalty. The Suns' coach, Paul Westphal, is a serious, articulate Christian, a poster boy for Sun Belt conservatism; his opposite number on the Bulls, Phil Jackson, is a famous alumnus of the '60s who reminisces about his drug experiences, gives his players books like Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance to read and checks into hotels under the names of favorite Sioux warriors.

The greatest irony, though, is that if any team seems fragile here, it is the flighty Suns. Despite the massive presence of Barkley, they had to slip past their opponents in the play-offs as if through cracks in half-closed doors. The Bulls, by contrast, triumphed over their opponents, including the revitalized New York Knicks, with the sleek solidity of returning champions. Which only shows, perhaps, that the various constellations on both teams are perfectly aligned with their central stars. Suns and Bulls: the names alone tell us that for the next two weeks we will be witnessing a heavenly conjunction of earth and air.