The Chicago Bulls Are Going Down With a Fight

Nothing says total victory quite like bludgeoning another team to death with Mike Dunleavy. The Bulls remembered to blow out the Milwaukee Bucks on Thursday night, which they had neglected to do for the majority of a series that played out much more closely than it appeared it was going to at first glance, considering the Bulls have built their past half-decade of success on smothering defense, and the Bucks are composed entirely of 6-foot-8 dudes who can't shoot.

In an opening round that has largely lacked intrigue and great basketball, Chicago at least provided the former. Ol' linguine-legged Derrick Rose was downright spry in game one, then proceeded to vacillate between violently fluid performances and creaky, turnover-heavy ones. The only consistent aspect of his game was snail-like lateral movement that made Michael Carter-Williams appear as though he'd absconded from Philadelphia with Allen Iverson's first step in his suitcase. After each successive injury setback, we wonder what iteration of Rose will materialize upon his return—what percentage of his former self he's retained—but the answer is more complicated than the question: on some nights, he's almost completely there; on others, he's more broken than whole. He's a meteorite that changes its mind just as it begins to burn up in the atmosphere.

The Bulls don't always go as Rose goes, but they fluctuate in the same manner their superstar emeritus does. Perhaps it's the image of Regional Manager Tom Thibodeau dripping sweat on the sidelines, with a near crotch-length tie swinging across his rotund stomach like an elephant's trunk as he barks out defensive assignments with such desperate urgency that it suggests a bomb might go off should Joakim Noah rotate a half-second late, or perhaps it's the fact that Jimmy Butler hasn't gotten a breather at any point during Obama's second term, but Chicago's inconsistency seems to stem from how effortfully they play. Each win is construction-job-on-a-90-degree-day work, to the point that it feels about right that on some nights, they just can't summon the strength to not play poorly.

Of course, this is going to bite them eventually. The juncture at which this gas-leaking vehicle will come to a full stop is up for interpretation, but it'll putter out somewhere. The simplest prediction to make is that even without Kevin Love, the Cavs can probably handle Chicago if they're not at their Bulls-y best, but this is the Eastern Conference: it wouldn't shock anyone if Rose and company shambolically speeded into the NBA Finals before getting slaughtered by the Warriors or Spurs. The only thing certain about the Bulls' postseason run is that it will end short of absolute triumph.

Which is a shame. This team is encased in a nostalgic glow despite not even being dead yet. Front office murmurings are often nothing more than dubiously educative pap national reporters use to fill out their columns on slow news days, but the buzz that Thibodeau's relationship with general manager Gar Forman and the rest of Chicago's management is frayed beyond repair and that Thibs will almost certainly move on this upcoming summer has gotten so deafeningly loud that it's hard to believe it isn't true. (Jerry Reinsdorf's predilection for keeping his competent GM rather than his excellent head coach is beyond sense, but then so is Reinsdorf.) Joakim Noah, after years of doing an electron impression on a busted foot, is finally falling off physically. Taj Gibson has been looking burned out this season, perhaps because he's still waiting for the starter's job he has earned. Rose is Rose, whatever that means on a night-to-night basis. What was once new and promising has grown dilapidated.

There's a decent chance the Bulls are at the beginning of something—a fun month of May only the most committed optimists expected—but they're also nearing the end of a broader project. What started with Thibodeau's hiring in 2010 and took off when Rose set the league ablaze in 2011, then merely simmered for a time as Rose's legs snapped and healed and macerated, is likely reaching its conclusion.

What's happening now is the beautiful, desperate sex a married couple have a few weeks before someone moves out. It's an experience to revel in, especially since not engaging in the immediate pleasure it provides can cause you to focus on what's coming, and that will make you feel sad. There's no reason to weep for this particular incarnation of the Chicago Bulls. Not as long as they've still got rich, joy-bringing possibility in front of them.