Hey, Jerry Krause wasn’t ALL bad.
I just saw this in an NBC Sports story by K.C Johnson about Krause, connected to the Bulls ESPN documentary (The Last Dance) that is currently running:
“Believe it or not, [the late] Krause at one point held designs to become a newspaperman. He served as a copy boy and junior editor at the defunct Chicago Herald-American while a student at Taft High School. He loved the writings of Mike Royko but had a revelation one day while working on the rewrite desk that he didn’t want to be mediocre at his life’s calling. He had such respect for Royko and legendary sportswriter Frank DeFord.”
So I guess you can blame (or credit) Dad, at least a little, for Krause ending up with the Bulls.
Actually, I’m not surprised at all to read that Krause was a fan of Dad’s.
When Jordan was making his comeback with the Bulls in 1995, Krause (unsolicited) had his people call Dad to offer him a couple of (complimentary) tickets for his return home game (which wasn’t his actual “I’m Back” game, which was in Indianapolis against the Pacers a few days before). The offer came on game day, and I’ll always remember getting a call at work from him.
I was startled and actually kind of freaked when I got a message to call my father, because he’d never called me at work before, and I thought somebody must’ve croaked or something. He asked if I was busy that night, which was odd since I knew he knew what was going on.
“Hell yeah! I’ll be busy watching the game!”
“Oh, OK, never mind, I thought maybe you’d like to go to the game instead, but if you’d rather watch it on TV…” I practically hyperventilate even now thinking about that call.
Dad was as much of a Bulls/Jordan freak as I (and everyone else in the city) was, and HE was freaked to get the tickets, since even he would’ve had a hard time scoring them himself, big shot that he was. And no, they weren’t courtside — we had to do with 3rd row, behind the home bench. The players’ heads were higher up than ours when they stood. When they sat, we could hear Jackson’s voice during the time outs.
Yeah.
Of course, they lost. But nobody on the rowdy and giddy and packed CTA bus heading into the loop after the game (Dad had left his car in the Trib’s parking lot) seemed to give a crap any more than we did. It was the best bus ride I’ve ever had. Him too.
A few years later, after Dad had died in 1997, I thought I’d push my luck. We wanted to do something to honor Dad, and Karen and I ended up with an idea for a celebrity golf outing and silent auction charity event for something that would have had a personal connection to him. And autism sure did.
I’ll never forget, having just learned that Ben was autistic — and this was in 1995, back when autism meant one thing, a severe, life-shattering disorder — and calling Dad at his office. When I told him Ben had autism, he was silent for a moment before I heard a long exhale, and with a quiver in his voice, Dad said, “Is there ANYTHING I can do?”
At that point, I was still reeling and had no idea what was to come, but soon he was writing a check every month to help cover the backbreaking costs of Ben’s many therapies. These were the days before insurance companies paid for such services, which ran to the tune of about $30,000-plus a year. His check came every month until the day he died.
On that same call, he told me about a guy he had read about who was autistic but managed to become a golf pro. Dad wanted to find some way to offer hope and encouragement.
Near the end of the call, I was struggling to put into words what I was feeling. He said gently, “You have a special needs child.” He knew more about everything in the world than anyone I’ve ever known. He knew what autism meant. I just said, “Yeah.”
So I knew autism treatment and research would be something he would gladly give his name to. Proudly.
And he loved golf.
We’d already set up a non-profit, “in liu of flowers” option for people to donate money in his memory right after he died, The Mike Royko Fund for Autism Treatment and Research (long defunct). We were also members of a brand new California-based organization called Cure Autism Now, a.k.a. CAN (back when curing autism wasn’t seen by some as an affront but a desperately worthy goal). They were enthusiastic about collaborating and splitting the proceeds.
(CAN eventually merged with and were absorbed by Autism Speaks after that organization formed in 2005.)
My memory is surprisingly fuzzy about the details, though the stress and sheer work involved in organizing and pulling off such an event, especially considering how stressed our lives already were thanks to autism, was so far beyond anything I’d expected, it’s surprising I can remember anything at all.
I do recall that plenty of celebs pitched in, but the only two I remember, oddly, are Dweezil Zappa and Brian Doyle Murray, maybe because I was a fan of both and they were among the few I actually had substantial conversations with. Same with the sports figures, active and retired, from the Bears, Bulls, and Cubs, and maybe even the White Sox (maybe, because Dad was a lifelong Cubs fan, and you know what that means). I have zero recollection of which players. Sports writers and anchormen were also around.
We had celebrity chefs too, with tasting stations in the main ballroom with the auction items. And once again, I remember none of them, except Jackie Shen, who had known Dad and had a nice friendship with him. I don’t even remember eating anything, something that REALLY speaks to the stress.
One of the biggest time-sucks in setting this thing up was getting donations for the auction. And I thought an autographed basketball from the Bulls would be a real catch.
Remember, this was early in 1998, in the middle of the Bulls’ legendary “Last Dance” (as in the title of the documentary). Nothing would bring more cash than that.
But I knew, even if Jerry Krause was a fan of Dad’s (they’d never met), that something like that was a long shot. But I gave it a try.
I sent a letter or two, made a couple of phone calls, but never heard back.
I suspected at the time that he might never have even seen the letters or heard about my calls. I could only imagine how many flunkies he had screening everything, including such requests, which must have been endless. He was in the middle of a maelstrom. I’m guessing if he had, he would’ve at least have had one of those flunkies jot a “sorry no can do but I loved your dad” note.
And heck, a Bulls player or two did show up and tee off, anyway — we couldn’t complain.
So we never got that basketball. I didn’t hold it against him then.
And watching the documentary unfold, I really, really don’t hold it against him now.
And I’ll always be grateful for that “Jordan Returns” ticket.
I wouldn’t trade that memory for a dozen signed balls.
