So it happened. The talk — with all of the shattered dreams and broken promises attached to it — of getting someone who could be that someone finally introduced itself to silence. “And with the fourth pick . . .’’
We’d heard those words before. Six years ago. The name and year that followed both acted as the genesis of this current depression the franchise has found itself in. Looking for saving grace and a savior in a single pick. Someone whose name (literally) and pedigree (by happenstance) will be the answer. As the one now whom all belief will be directed.
Make zero mistakes, the hopes and dreams of new Bull Caleb Wilson, as the fourth pick in the first round of the draft, are not what drives the cause for euphoria that seemed to be directly linked to the words of inclusion of his name once they left Adam Silver’s mouth. It’s the hopes and dreams of us, of this city, of this place, for this team that are driving this newfound feeling of optimism.
There are three connective issues that act as Wilson’s three degrees of separation between he and we: Caleb Williams, Michael Jordan and Patrick Williams.
Caleb Williams, to keep it fair game, has spoiled us. And now Caleb Wilson has to pay for it. I mean, the same name game between them doesn’t help, but with Wilson being the next-great-expected-future-generational-franchise-changing-face-of-the-rebuild talent to fall into a Chicago team’s orbit after seeing what Williams has not just become but what he has done as the best player the Bears have had in a generation, the expectations will hit Wilson immediately.
Chicago: If the first Caleb W. in the Chi’s history can do it, why can’t the second?
Being drafted or signed to save one of Chicago’s franchises (think Connor Bedard, Angel Reese, Munetaka Murakami, C. Williams) with the immediate pressure of resurrecting the organization’s past culture of relevance is one thing. A recent thing. But being that player for the Bulls and coming straight outta UNC instantly forces us to put a different level of Jordan-associated burden on Wilson that is and will continue to be unfair to him in ways we can’t even imagine even as we’ll be the ones enforcing the burden.
Chicago: If the first player from UNC selected by the Bulls in 1984 turned out to be the greatest Bull ever (let alone NBA player or overall athlete), why can’t the second one picked 42 years later be the second coming?
More iniquitous than the other two appendages that will be attached to Wilson is how because of him, the Patrick Williams era in Chicago can finally come to an end. P. Williams, once the season opener tips off and Wilson is officially in the starting lineup of Game 1 for the new Tiago Splitter/Bryson Graham Bulls, will officially become meaningless and harmless and forgotten. It will be as if the last six years were just a figment of a nightmare.
Chicago: If the 2020 No. 4 pick goes down as one of the greatest misdirections in the franchise’s history, why can’t the second No. 4 pick be the best?
He wore a diamond-encrusted rose pin on the right lapel of his jacket on draft night as an homage to Derrick Rose. In the spirit of the new concrete he will be expected to rise from. The only things missing: Carolina blue shorts under his suit as a nod to MJ, painted fingernails as a nod to his namesake playing for the Bears and a tattoo of a King chess piece on his left hand between his thumb and index finger as a personal reminder of the other Williams as what not to become. At least for as long as he’s in this city with our hopes and dreams for the future of this organization all on him.
The whole situation: nuanced. The weight the city is about to place on him: unjust. But the thirst that has been built up over recent years by Bulls fans because of all of the ineptness and inaptitude coming from the former front office justifies every expectancy we are about to affix to young Mr. Wilson. This is the territory that comes with it; this is hopefully what God gives him the strength to handle.
On the night of the draft, someone handed Wilson an old picture of himself as a toddler hooping on his little rec-league team in East Point, Atlanta.
“I always wanted to make the NBA, but now it’s time to make a legendary career out of it.” His words. What Wilson didn’t hear when he arrived in Chicago on Thursday was our city’s collective response: “Bro, you have no choice.”
