The word that comes to mind, or rather to the heart of everything Derrick Rose says, is concentration.
It takes an inordinate amount of concentration to traverse a treacherous path and even reach a professional level and even more steel to rise.
For Rose, the Chicago-born-and-raised kid who quietly announced his retirement Thursday morning (while taking out newspaper ads in the cities where he played) it’s more than just a focus, because his career was so winding, so fascinating and , sometimes, so damn confusing.
He will likely be the only MVP in NBA history not to make the Naismith Hall of Fame, even if he has a case for mere footprint in the game. Hopefully, the Bulls will retire his jersey even though they inexplicably gave away the No. 1 a couple of times since his 2016 trade to the New York Knicks.
That matters, but only to a point, for Chicago, a city that is as tough on itself as it is warm to the same numbers about which it has impossible expectations. You’d be hard-pressed to find a player-city relationship as complicated, as layered, and yet as valuable to the overall culture and sentiment of the way Rose married Chicago.
Not even LeBron James, who grew up not in Cleveland but in Akron, about 35 minutes from downtown, hits the same way Rose does for Chicago.
When he “made it,” and not by being named MVP in 2011 or any other accolade he earned during his brief prime, but by simply existing, Chicago rejoiced. Everything else was the icing on the cake.
For the majority.
There have been a lot of things to celebrate with the Bulls since Michael Jordan left the building in June 1998, and Rose seemed to author or co-write 80 percent of them. There was a time when one could question Rose’s MVP in 2011, but any litigation seems crazy in retrospect, and there have since been others that deserve further scrutiny.
Just like before he was introduced to the world basketball stage as a teenager, the narrative back then, and in 2011, was the same: you had to be there.
Not as manic as Russell Westbrook, and perhaps not built to take punishment better than his basketball son, Ja Morant, Rose wasn’t the first of his kind, but he was singularly one of them when he was in full bloom.
Belief in Chicago’s son was so strong that it would be difficult to convince many that he alone couldn’t defeat Miami’s holy trinity of James, Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh, at the peak of their powers.
And when, as expected, he couldn’t, the slings and arrows began to form a line. And then, when his body failed him, as it did for bigger, stronger men, more criticism came.
But it seems like a long time ago, those years Rose missed after that ACL injury on a Saturday afternoon in 2012 as the Bulls began their playoff march toward another matchup with the hated Heat, in Game 1 of their first round matchup against the Philadelphia 76ers. .
It’s a testament to Rose’s perseverance and, yes, his focus, that those memories seem to belong to some other shadowy figure, not the elder statesman who traveled to other franchises and occasionally worked magic with different jerseys. It didn’t feel right that the MVP was relegated to a supporting player or the guy Knicks fans were clamoring for at the end of his second stint with the Knicks.
That stubborn nature, that quiet determination allowed him to overcome his body’s failings and, of course, his own indiscretions that put him in the crosshairs of an ugly civil lawsuit in 2016 when he and his friends were sued for an alleged sexual assault.
He was not found responsible, but the details changed his image in the minds of some forever, if not more so. Believing in him became an increasingly difficult task, although not impossible.
A man of few but generally clear words, he did not always get his message across as many felt he should have. In a way, it was a mirror of Chicago, showing all the ugliness and yet all the promise that many refused to abandon. It all stuck to him because not only was he fighting a losing battle against a relentless machine, but he didn’t seem to care that the machine always won.
Rose would move on, as the NBA went from a league that seemed to adapt to its style to one that adopted a new way of playing. Considering the atrophy of his body, both from the strong torque when he contorted it to traverse small spaces on NBA courts and the pre-existing damage with which he likely entered the league, having navigated the competitive terrain of Chicago and AAU courts, It would seem unlikely to expect Rose’s approach to last long enough to endure.
The difference between great players staying great and experiencing the slightest slump feels like a matter of concentration. It is certainly the case with championship teams that they can no longer muster the ability to stay put for long periods of time, but from time to time they can produce a night or two that seem like old glories.
He seemed to achieve it in 2015, when he and the Bulls had James’ Cavaliers on the ropes, a Friday night in the East semifinals that made many believe, once again, that Rose would rise again.
The pressure of winning the game felt like nothing compared to shooting with frozen fingertips for money in his old Englewood neighborhood, so he could invoke greatness when it demanded it and capture the imagination once again.
But the old glory could not be sustained, and it seemed that his career would peter out like that of many whose only sin in basketball was having a body that could not accommodate the engine of a Ferrari, such as Grant Hill and Penny Hardaway.
Rose navigated that for years, somehow snatching that glory from time to time, occasionally breaking from his stoic nature to unleash unexpected tears after nights of triumph, like his 50-point game as a Minnesota Timberwolf in the 2018-19 season. .
That was a year after Rose temporarily stepped away from the game following a brief stint with James’ Cavaliers, contemplating retirement following an ankle injury that was too reminiscent of past ailments.
When Rose was a Knick, he disappeared from the franchise without explanation, missing one game and apologizing to the team when he returned.
He walked to the limit, but somehow managed to get up, reinvent himself and create a new life in basketball, far from the expectations that traditionally haunt stars. A sixth man was the suit he wore in his early 30s when he played in Minnesota, Detroit and New York (for the second time).
The promise and what-ifs were replaced by mental resistance and a refusal to accept that his body could no longer function and that the NBA was no longer a place for him.
Those moments seem so far away, almost as if he played three different careers before finally calling it a day, less than a week before his 36th birthday.
He steps away to focus more on being a husband and father, getting more out of his basketball body than many of us would have predicted a decade ago.
Promise that turns into perseverance through unwavering focus.
