Come on, Scottie

Dear Scottie Pippen,

As a teenager and young adult in Chicago during the 1990s, I was a devoted Bulls fan.

I remember watching every single championship game. The first came when I was in 8th grade. At game's conclusion, the entire city erupted into an enormous celebration. My older brother and sister and I got in the car and drove all around the north side, slapping five with strangers and literally dancing in the streets. It's one of the finest memories of my childhood, nearly matched by the five subsequent titles which were accompanied by similar celebrations.

As a young fan, I particularly held you in high esteem. As one with a diminutive stature, I admired your long limbs, which helped you be the NBA's best defender of that decade (yes, better than Mike, I believe).

I remember when Mike retired, and you took over as team leader, performing admirably. I remember the All-Star game that year, when you - sporting corn rows and bright red sneakers - caught fire and won the game's Most Valuable Player award.

I always felt that you were the smoothest dresser on the Bulls, and knew that if you were injured for a game I could count on you to be sporting a sleek suit while you cheered your teammates on from the bench. It sounds silly, but I almost looked forward to it.

You were a hero of mine, Scottie. I wished I too could own my own Dodge dealership, and resolved then when I got older and bought my first car, I would patronize your establishment. I defended the size of your nose against mean-spirited friends and family, and I knew that on any other team you would be the best player, as you were for the Bulls when Mike was gone.

Every time I played NBA Jam I chose you. Every time I ate at Carson's, I stopped to admire your autographed picture and many times seriously entertained the idea of lifting it (alas, my fear of getting caught and being banished from the home of my favorite porkchops slightly outweighed my desire to possess your signed likeness).

My heart broke when you went to Portland, and it was sad to watch the rest of your career, as injuries and age slowed you down and diminished your skills.

It felt a nice, warm breeze of nostalgia when you returned to the Bulls last year. Although I've lost most of my interest in the NBA, it seemes so right that you were coming home to the city that loved you so much. I felt a tinge of sadness when you got injured and it shook my head in sorrow when you retired.

I say all this to let you know that this comes from a true fan. Mike was the man, but the Bulls couldn't have done it without you. I still remember you fondly, and I wish you the best in all your endeavors.

And yet, despite all of the memories and all of the gratitude I feel for your service to the Windy City, there's no way in h*** that you deserve $200,000 worth of farm subsidies paid with tax dollars taken from my fellow citizens and me. Surely your tens of millions of salary and endorsements are not yet run out, and surely you are not struggling to maintain the family farm. Please be the gentleman I knew you for and remove yourself from the agricultural gravy train.

Your Very Truly,

Papa-Lu