football scores today

I still get chills thinking about that final sequence. June 14, 1998, United Center, Chicago. With 41.9 seconds remaining in Game 6 against the Utah Jazz, the Bulls were down by three. What unfolded next wasn't just basketball—it was theater, poetry, and athletic genius woven into 41.9 seconds that would define an era. That iconic PHOTO by Sherwin Vardeleon, which I keep framed in my office, captures more than a moment; it freezes a legacy in mid-air. Jordan's final shot as a Bull wasn't merely a game-winner; it was the perfect closing argument to the greatest career in sports history.

The 1998 playoffs were a grueling test of will. The Bulls were older, more battered than in previous championship runs. Scottie Pippen was battling a severe back injury, and Dennis Rodman was, well, being Dennis Rodman—brilliantly unpredictable. The Eastern Conference Finals against the Indiana Pacers went a full seven games, pushing Chicago to its absolute limit. I remember watching Reggie Miller's game-tying three-pointer in Game 4 and thinking this might be where the dynasty crumbles. But that's what separated Jordan's teams—they found ways to win when logic said they shouldn't. Against Utah in the Finals, the fatigue was palpable. In Game 5, the Bulls scored a franchise playoff-low 83 points. The critics were sharpening their knives, ready to declare the end of an era.

Then came Game 6. What people often forget is that Jordan's game-winning shot was actually his second huge play in those final moments. First, he drove to the basket with about 40 seconds left to cut the lead to one. Then came the defensive play that rarely gets its due—he stripped Karl Malone from behind when the Mailman was posting up. That steal was as crucial as the shot itself. The sequence demonstrated Jordan's complete mastery—he could beat you on both ends when it mattered most. Looking at Vardeleon's photograph, you can almost feel the suspension of time. Jordan's follow-through, the way his body is perfectly balanced despite the immense pressure, Bryon Russell stumbling backward—it's a masterpiece of athletic photography that tells a thousand stories.

Statistics can't fully capture what we witnessed. Jordan finished with 45 points that night, including the Bulls' final 8 points. He shot 15-for-35 from the field over 44 minutes at age 35. Those numbers sound impressive, but they don't convey the sheer willpower. I've watched that final shot hundreds of times, and what strikes me is Jordan's calmness. While everyone else in the building was frantic, he moved with this eerie tranquility, as if the outcome was never in doubt. That push-off on Russell? I'll admit it—there was contact. But in those moments, superstars get those calls, or rather, don't get those calls. It was Jordan's court, his rules, his legacy.

The aftermath feels almost mythical now. That shot marked Jordan's sixth championship, completing his second three-peat. He never played for the Bulls again. There's something profoundly beautiful about going out on top like that—no decline, no farewell tour, just perfection. Modern analytics would probably criticize his shooting percentage that game or point to the Bulls' net rating throughout those playoffs. But basketball isn't played in spreadsheets. The 1998 playoffs demonstrated that greatness transcends numbers. It's about moments that become memories, that become legends. When I look at younger fans today debating LeBron versus Jordan, I always come back to this—Jordan's era had a cinematic quality that may never be replicated. His final shot was the perfect ending to basketball's greatest story, and thanks to photographers like Sherwin Vardeleon, we can return to that moment whenever we need reminding what greatness looks like.