Fact-Check: How Chicago Bulls Have Fared During and After Jordan - For Bringing Back the Lost Glory

Important facts. The American Bison is the national mammal of America. The great Chicago Bulls are the NBA team of Chicago. I am living in America and in Chicago and you need to imagine what a bull one can become by the concergence of these two. If you are running and athletic 365 days a year, you can become a bull over time. I am living in the Bulls home city as a small bull at the pinnacle of my work years for nearly 4 years. For good or bad, I became a Chicago Bull. Again, I said it might be correct or wrong, moderate or extremist or by any means I had evolved into the person I am from the land of Chicago. The unbridled and uninterrupted run from any individual over a lengthy period of time will make him a bull to reckon with. I have been running non-stop for nearly 4 years or I had been made to run non-stop or I had been prodded to run without a break. Going by the bullishness of the land, I am going to take stock of what Jordan has achieved as part of Bulls team at the heights of his career and also look how Bulls have fared after him in this blog post. This is an ode to a Bull and what a true Bull can exemplify, much to the honor of the city and the world. 

Air Apparent: The Scintillating Bulls Years of Michael Jordan 

There are athletes who dominate their era, and then there are athletes who define it. Michael Jordan, clad in Chicago Bulls red and black, did more than win games—he bent time, suspended gravity, and rewrote the emotional vocabulary of sport. When Jordan stepped onto the hardwood at Chicago Stadium or the United Center, basketball became theatre, warfare, poetry, and spectacle all at once. His years with the Bulls were not merely a chapter in NBA history; they were the standard by which greatness would forever be measured. 

Jordan arrived in Chicago in 1984 like a lightning strike. The Bulls were irrelevant, drifting in mediocrity, their arena filled more with hope than expectation. From his very first season, Jordan changed that gravity. He didn’t just score—he attacked. He slashed through defenses with a ferocity unseen before, hanging in the air as if time itself had agreed to pause and watch. His rookie year ended with an average of 28.2 points per game and a clear message to the league: something elemental had arrived. 

Then came the moments that made jaws drop and legends form. There was the night in 1986, against the mighty Boston Celtics, when Jordan poured in 63 points in the playoffs—still a postseason record. Larry Bird, himself no stranger to greatness, called Jordan “God disguised as Michael Jordan.” That wasn’t hyperbole; it was acknowledgment. In the most hostile arena, against one of the greatest teams ever assembled, Jordan didn’t flinch. He soared. 

As the late 1980s rolled on, Jordan’s brilliance sharpened. He won scoring titles with mechanical regularity, often making the league’s best defenders look helpless. His dunks weren’t just athletic feats—they were declarations. The free-throw line dunk. The baseline reverse. The cradle layup that seemed to mock gravity itself. Every highlight felt like a personal signature, unmistakable and untouchable. 

But Jordan’s Bulls years were not only about individual brilliance; they were about evolution. Early playoff heartbreaks—being battered by the Detroit Pistons’ “Bad Boys”—could have broken him. Instead, they forged him. Jordan added strength, patience, and trust. When Phil Jackson introduced the triangle offense, Jordan learned the hardest lesson of all for a superstar: how to let the game come to him. That growth unlocked a dynasty. 

The breakthrough came in 1991, when the Bulls finally conquered Detroit and marched to the NBA Finals. Against Magic Johnson’s Lakers, Jordan delivered one of the most iconic moments in Finals history—the mid-air switch of hands on a layup, floating past defenders like a man who knew physics were optional. The Bulls won their first championship, and Jordan held the trophy not as a scorer, but as a champion. The smile said it all: the climb had been worth it. 

What followed was domination. From 1991 to 1993, the Bulls completed their first three-peat, with Jordan at the center of every storm. Finals MVP after Finals MVP. Game-winning shots. Defensive lockdowns. Relentless will. Jordan didn’t just want to win—he wanted to crush doubt. His competitive fire was legendary: trash talk backed by performance, grudges turned into scoring exhibitions, slights—real or imagined—transformed into fuel. 

Then came the shock. In 1993, at the height of his powers, Jordan walked away. When he returned in 1995, wearing the simple message “I’m back,” the league felt the tremor. He wasn’t quite finished tuning the machine, but the hunger was unmistakable. By 1996, Jordan was reborn—older, wiser, deadlier. 

That season was perfection. A 72–10 record, the best in NBA history at the time. Jordan won the MVP, the scoring title, and led the Bulls to another championship. His game had evolved—less reckless slashing, more surgical footwork, deadly fadeaways that defenders could only contest in theory. The fadeaway jumper, especially, became his final form: unstoppable, elegant, inevitable. 

The second three-peat from 1996 to 1998 felt like destiny fulfilled. Each Finals added to the mythology: the Flu Game in 1997, where Jordan, visibly ill, scored 38 points and sank the clinching three; the countless fourth-quarter takeovers where everyone in the building knew who was getting the ball—and still couldn’t stop him. 

And then came The Last Shot. 

Game 6 of the 1998 NBA Finals. Seconds ticking away. Jordan steals the ball from Karl Malone, dribbles upcourt, isolates Bryon Russell, and with a subtle push, creates space. The jumper is pure. The ball hangs. It drops. Bulls win. Dynasty complete. Jordan walks off the floor not in celebration, but in quiet certainty. It was the perfect ending—controlled, cold, immortal. 

In a Bulls uniform, Michael Jordan didn’t just win six championships; he created moments that live forever. He made fans believe in impossible comebacks, in singular greatness, in the idea that one person—armed with obsession, talent, and will—could bend the world to his design. 

Decades later, the highlights still feel unreal. The numbers still astonish. And the standard still stands. When people ask what greatness looks like, the answer wears number 23, rises above the rim, and fades away into legend—forever a Bull, forever Michael Jordan. 

Life After Jordan: Bulls Without Championships 

Life after Michael Jordan has been one of the most challenging and defining periods in Chicago Bulls history. When Jordan retired for the final time in 1998, he didn’t just leave behind a roster spot—he left a vacuum of identity. The Bulls had been the gold standard of professional sports, winning six championships in eight years and embodying excellence, swagger, and inevitability. In the seasons that followed, the franchise entered a long and often painful search for relevance, stability, and a new sense of self. 

The immediate post-Jordan years were marked by collapse. The dynasty was dismantled almost overnight, with Scottie Pippen traded, Phil Jackson gone, and veterans replaced by draft picks and short-term fixes. The Bulls sank to the bottom of the league, enduring some of the worst seasons in franchise history. While the rebuilding strategy yielded high draft selections, it did not produce a transformational star capable of carrying the team back to prominence. For fans accustomed to banners and parades, the contrast was stark and sobering. 

There were moments of hope in the 2000s, but they were fleeting. The Derrick Rose era briefly reignited Chicago’s belief. Rose’s rise to MVP in 2011 symbolized a possible rebirth—a homegrown star, explosive, fearless, and deeply connected to the city. Under coach Tom Thibodeau, the Bulls reclaimed their defensive toughness and topped the Eastern Conference. Yet injuries cruelly cut that era short. Rose’s physical setbacks, combined with roster limitations, prevented the team from translating promise into championships, and once again the Bulls found themselves restarting. 

In the years that followed, Chicago hovered in the middle ground—never truly bad enough to reset cleanly, never good enough to contend. Teams built around capable scorers and solid defenders lacked cohesion and a defining superstar. Recent seasons have seen competitiveness return in spurts, including playoff appearances and late-game heroics, but consistency has remained elusive. The Bulls have become a team that can threaten on any given night, yet one that struggles to sustain momentum across an entire season. 

Reclaiming the Bulls’ lost glory begins with clarity of vision. The Jordan era was not just about talent; it was about alignment—front office, coaching, and players operating under a unified philosophy. For Chicago to rise again, leadership must commit to a long-term plan that prioritizes sustainable growth over short-term fixes. That means identifying whether the team is building around youth, chasing a star, or patiently developing a core that can grow together. 

Star power, however, remains essential. Championships in the modern NBA are almost always driven by elite players who can dominate both ends of the floor and elevate teammates in high-pressure moments. The Bulls must either develop such a player internally or create the conditions—through cap flexibility, culture, and credibility—to attract one. Chicago remains a major market with a storied brand; when paired with smart roster construction, it can once again become a destination. 

Equally important is identity. The most successful Bulls teams, from Jordan’s era to the Rose-led squads, had a clear personality: toughness, defense, and relentless competitiveness. Re-establishing that identity—where effort is non-negotiable and defense sets the tone—can help bridge the gap between talent and results. Fans don’t just want wins; they want a team that reflects the city’s grit and pride. 

Finally, patience will be key. The shadow of Michael Jordan is long, and no franchise can replicate a once-in-a-generation player. The path forward is not about chasing the past but building something authentic and modern, rooted in smart decision-making and player development. If the Bulls commit to vision, cultivate leadership, and align talent with culture, the lost glory of Chicago basketball doesn’t have to remain a memory—it can become a future chapter waiting to be written. 

To truly become bullish again, the Chicago Bulls must confront the reality of the past four years—a stretch defined by mediocrity rather than menace. Hovering around .500, cycling through play-in hopes and early exits, the Bulls have too often been a team that competes without commanding fear, survives without soaring. This sorry state is not failure, but it is stagnation—and stagnation is the enemy of greatness. To reclaim lost glory, the Bulls must rediscover their old ferocity with a modern edge: commit to a clear identity, empower rising talent, and pursue a genuine cornerstone who can dominate moments that matter. Being bullish means playing with purpose, imposing will on both ends of the floor, and building a culture where excellence is expected, not hoped for. Chicago’s history proves that when vision, leadership, and hunger align, this franchise doesn’t just win—it stamps its authority on the league. The time has come to stop circling the pack and charge forward, horns down, eyes locked on the summit. A great bull does not wait for opportunity—it creates it.