Listen closely and you can hear the crackled lilt of Sonny and Cher drifting through Chicago.
Don’t hear it? Just wait.
Then put your little hand in mine….
There ain’t no hill or mountain we can’t climb….
This is the third time in a row we’ve woken up as a city to this song on the radio alarm — or wait, is it the fourth? It’s hard to keep track when every day is the same. At first, the repetition was almost funny in its own bleak way. But the “Groundhog Day” phenomenon with the Chicago Bulls grew stale long ago.
At the midway point of the NBA season, the Bulls are 19-22.
Last year, their record at the same point in the season was 18-23.
The year before that, it was 19-22.
The year before that? 19-22.
This is more than stagnation. The Bulls are stuck. Nothing is changing. The team isn’t getting better or worse. This is the type of consistency that numbs fans away from their love of the game. And getting out of this cycle will take a little bit more than carving an ice sculpture of Andie MacDowell (as fun as that would be).
But it’s not all the same. The Bulls are no longer a methodical midrange machine. They play at a frantic pace and actually take 3-pointers. Zach LaVine is out, Josh Giddey is in. But these tweaks have done nothing to adjust the overall status quo, which remains unchanged under executive vice president of basketball operations Artūras Karnišovas.
The concept of a time loop has commanded the imagination of film, movies and books for decades. “Edge of Tomorrow.” “Palm Springs.” “Outer Wilds.” “Russian Doll.” That one episode of “Stargate: SG1” in which Colonel O’Neill eats a million bowls of Froot Loops.
There’s a reason for this fixation. It’s a nightmare far more tangible than most other fantasies. There’s something terrifying about the concept of being stuck. Life easily can become claustrophobic. It’s often hard for a person to explain their yearslong relationship to a loveless relationship or soul-sucking job — or a sports team that won’t ever give them a shot at victory.
The problem with sustained mediocrity is the way it warps time. Blink and five years have slipped away. Blink again and it’s a decade. Twenty-seven years have passed since Michael Jordan played for the Bulls. Ten since Derrick Rose left the team. Four since they won a playoff game. How long are the Bulls willing to wait for change? How many years will this simply be enough?
In the untouchable 1989 romantic comedy “When Harry Met Sally,” Carrie Fisher plays the best friend Marie, a woman who can’t pry herself out of a relationship with a man who is married to another woman. For the first half of the film, her character is mostly defined by a repeated exchange of dialogue.
Sally: “He’s never going to leave her.”
Marie: “You’re right. You’re right. I know you’re right.”
This is a different type of time loop. The real one. Most people have been trapped in this same cycle at some point in their life. There’s nothing much a friend can do from the outside. Encourage them when they make their grand declarations: I’m going to leave him. I’m going to quit. I can do it this time. Love them just the same when they end up crying over the same old heartbreak.
The final scene where Harry declares his love to Sally at the New Year’s party is considered to be the emotional apex of the film. But for my money, a close secondary source of catharsis is the midway point, when Marie and Harry’s best friend, Jess, surprisingly hit it off on a double date. Finding themselves suddenly freed (in each other) from the morasses of bad relationships, they practically dive into a cab together after dinner, leaving Harry and Sally on the sidewalk in stunned disbelief.
I’m getting to my point, I swear.
For the last four years, trying to talk about the Bulls inevitably echoed that bitter conversation between Sally and Marie. Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t bother believing. The Bulls are never going to leave her — the play-in tournament, the specter of “competitiveness,” the stubborn belief that superstar players aren’t necessary to compete at a high level in the modern NBA. Defend it and rationalize it and cajole it all you want. It’s not the nice thing to say, but it’s right. I’m right. You know I’m right.
Acceptance is a crucial step of understanding the current state of the Bulls. But by the nature of rom-com law, this should mean that at some point the franchise has to reach the latter half of the movie. But when — and how — are they going to end up in the back of the taxi cab with the right guy?
Bulls coach Billy Donovan looks down at the court as workers mop the playing surface during a game delay because of condensation issues on Jan. 8, 2026, at the United Center. (Chris Sweda/Chicago Tribune)
It’s hard for people to change for the better. It’s even harder to do so while remaining loyal to the relationships that landed them in the situation they are attempting to escape. That’s clear enough this season. The Bulls, allegedly, are trying. The front office started the season by announcing a willingness to miss the playoffs (and play-in tournament) entirely to prioritize youth development in a rebuilding year. This is the exact course that many fans had been begging the Bulls to take for years — tank a little, focus on the young guys, build from the bottom up.
But halfway through the season, the Bulls can’t kick their old habits. Coach Billy Donovan is still trying to win games no matter what, development be damned. The Bulls are still clawing for the 10th seed in the Eastern Conference. The wheel turns and turns.
Change is hard. That doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Flexibility and adaptability are the two defining characteristics of many successful sports franchises. But if the Bulls can’t change under Karnišovas? Get in that cab with a new guy. See where it takes you.
Until then, Bulls fans will have to get comfortable with more of the same. Again. And again. And again. And again.
I got you babe …
I got you babe …
