What the ’90s-Era Chicago Bulls Dynasty Taught Me About Style

Some of the most vivid memories I have from my childhood were soundtracked by a song called “Sirius” by the Alan Parsons Project rock band. The synthesized melody has an almost psychedelic, jolting beat. When I hear it today, even the first note, my heart starts to pound and I completely light up inside like a kid again; I'm back at the edge of my seat inside the Chicago Stadium watching the Bulls storm out onto the basketball court.

“Sirius” was, and still is, the intro tune for the Chicago Bulls basketball team. If you are a Chicagoan born and raised like me, it’s something of a hometown anthem. For those of us who were lucky enough to be of an age where you witnessed the Bulls play from 1990 - 1998, it’s more than a theme song: it’s a canticle for one of the most almighty teams of all time. Led by Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen, and in the last years Dennis Rodman, the Bulls dynasty, as they were known, won three national championships in a row not once, but twice—the first three occurring between ’91 and ’93 and the final three between ’96 and ’98.

I’ve been thinking about the ’90s-era team a lot lately in light of the highly-anticipated ten-part docu-series, “The Last Dance,” that's premiering this Sunday on ESPN. The series focuses on Michael Jordan’s career with the Bulls, but also chronicles the team’s three-peat, record-breaking wins, along with the drama they faced both on and off the court. There are interviews with former teammates and the then-head coach Phil Jackson, along with basketball legends such as Charles Barkley and Magic Johnson, among many more. Former President Barack Obama makes an appearance, too, as does Carmen Electra, Rodman's former wife. Thanks in no small part to Rodman, the series has its fair share of major ’90s style moments. His kaleidoscopic hair and OTT, gender-bending ensembles are the counterpoint to the cool, baggy jeans, overalls, neon tracksuits, and tiny hoop earrings worn by Jordan and Pippen.

I was around 7-years-old when I went to my first Bulls game. A total tomboy complete with a bob haircut, I was obsessed with playing basketball but not yet truly captivated by the magic of the players on my hometown team. I remember walking into the stadium with my Dad, not really knowing what to expect. We had just taken our seats when the lights shut off unexpectedly. Admittedly, I was a bit scared at first as the arena went pitch black and that synthesizer sound came booming through the mega-speakers. The up and down and back and forth of the beat led way to announcer and local legend Ray Clay. “Annnnddd nowww the starting lineup for your Chicago Bulls!!!” His gravelly voice rumbled around the stadium as a lo-fi animation played on the scoreboard above the court of a giant bull running through the streets of the city. Spotlights crossed the hardwood floor at the center of the arena and then, Jordan, Pippen, and the team appeared in their red and white warmup tracksuits. It was, in a word, thrilling.

During that decade, you’d occasionally see the team out at a restaurant downtown, or they’d be on the news heading in and out of the locker room wearing oversized suits, jeans with western-style belts, multicolored sweaters, and bright tracksuits. I wanted to play like them, live like them, and yes, dress like them too. I remember seeing Jordan in his crisp blue suit, printed tie, and single hoop earring on Oprah. I coveted all the gear: the Air Jordan 9s, Rodman’s Nike Air Shake Ndestrukts that came with a-symmetric laces, the Bulls championship hats, jerseys, and jackets. Sports Authority was my idea of Barneys back in the day. I even begged my parents for the Dennis Rodman doll, the one that came with a complete wardrobe, so you could swap his jersey for a more off-duty appropriate metallic tank top and cutoff jean shorts on a dime. The doll's head was interchangeable—the tie-dye hair colors and carousel of crazy cool hats and sunglasses all fascinated me.

Save for Rodman, few of the players dabbled in high fashion. Even still, the Bulls dynasty team had a swagger that opened my eyes to a broader notion of personal style. These were the years just before I discovered the Spice Girls and Britney Spears, before all I wanted was butterfly hair clips and platform sneakers and long before Manolo’s and Marc Jacobs had entered my vernacular. I’d never cherished any clothes the way that I cherished my baby blue Jordan basketball shorts or my Rodman sneakers and Bulls Starter jacket. I remember watching T.V. with my mom when Rodman walked into his book signing wearing the infamous wig and wedding dress. She laughed and called him a wild man while I stared at the screen, enrapt by his fabulousness.

Sadly, I never witnessed any of the actual championship games during those years from inside the Chicago Stadium. Tickets for the championship games at home were, as you can imagine, expensive and hard to come by. I watched them from my living room though, chased the celebration parades through Chicago, and screened Space Jam no less than 200 times. Inspired by the team, I played point guard on my middle school team, too, and gave it my all. As I approached adolescence, my obsession with basketball began to wane however, though there was one last hurrah. The summer just after my freshman year of high school, I was lucky enough to attend the Air Jordan Flight School in California, a basketball summer camp hosted by Michael Jordan and a crew of NBA-hopefuls. (Fun fact: Lebron James, the GOAT of a much younger generation, was a counselor the summer I was there.) It was an incredible experience, one that culminated with me meeting Jordan, my idol of so many years. On the last day of camp, he signed my Air Jordan sneakers. I remember looking up—way, way up!—at him, frozen with disbelief that he was there in front of me and not running out onto the court to the sound of “Sirius.” He handed me the shoes, smiling sweetly as I whispered nervously, “thank you for everything.”

I was reminded of that moment on a recent work trip to Tokyo. Wandering the streets of Harajuku, I stumbled upon a fantastic vintage shop and a huge wall stacked with old sports and concert t-shirts. Through one of the piles of folded memorabilia, I saw a familiar pair of eyes staring at me. I pulled out the shirt and to my delight, it was a ’90s-era Bulls tee with a huge portrait of MJ plastered across the front. I thought about all the ways to wear it: with my vintage Levi's and Dries Van Noten Boots, tied to the side and paired with my Marine Serre slip skirt. And then it hit me again like a lightning bolt, that surge of childlike excitement. There he was again, the Mike I wanted to be like, on the other side of the world.

Originally Appeared on Vogue