I’ve been watching the Bulls for longer than some of these players have been alive, and I’ve seen a lot of things at the United Center that would make a grown man weep. Bad trades. Worse trades. A mascot that does backflips off a trampoline while the actual team can barely execute a layup. But I have never — not once in thirty years of sitting in Section 332 and yelling at men who cannot hear me — seen a front office more visibly distressed by winning.

And yet here we are. The Bulls went 4-5 in March after a pristine 0-11 February, a month so beautifully, comprehensively terrible that it should have been framed and hung in the lobby next to the Jordan statue. February was the plan working. February was the tank operating at peak efficiency, a finely tuned engine of competitive irrelevance hurtling toward a top-three draft pick. And then March happened.

The first win, against Charlotte on March 3, could be written off. The Hornets are also tanking, and when two teams that don’t want to win play each other, someone has to lose. It’s like a politeness standoff at a four-way stop, except everyone’s getting paid millions. Fine. Acceptable casualty.

But then they beat Detroit. And then Atlanta. And then — bafflingly, inexplicably, in a result that I’m told prompted an emergency call between the front office and ownership — they beat the Pacers by 14. Fourteen! You don’t beat a team by 14 when you’re trying to lose. You beat a team by 14 when someone on your roster has apparently not received the memo, or has received it and decided that professional pride is more important than organizational strategy, which, while admirable, is extremely inconvenient.

The problem, as I understand it from people who understand these things, is that the young guys are getting better. This is supposed to be the point of a rebuild — you acquire young talent, develop them, and eventually they start winning. But they’re not supposed to start winning now. They’re supposed to start winning in 2028, after you’ve accumulated three lottery picks and signed a marquee free agent who wants to be “the guy” in a major market. Winning now is like your soufflé rising during the preheat. The timing is all wrong.

I talked to my nephew about this, because he’s 28 and went to business school and speaks fluent “asset optimization.” He said, “Uncle Tom, the Bulls’ win probability model assumed a consistent effort deficit through the end of Q4, and these results suggest an unplanned competence surplus.” I told him to say that again in English, and he said, “They’re too good at being bad at being good.” I told him that was worse.

Meanwhile, the fans — God bless them — don’t know how to feel. I sat next to a kid at the Pacers game who cheered every basket with genuine joy and then, during a timeout, turned to his father and said, “But Dad, this is bad for the pick, right?” He was maybe ten years old. That’s what we’ve done to the children of Chicago. We’ve taught them to root against their own team while watching their own team, a psychological condition that I believe should be covered by insurance.

The Bulls play Houston on Sunday, and if there is any justice in this world, they will lose by 30. Not because I want them to suffer, but because I want the suffering to mean something. You don’t go 0-11 in February just to throw it all away with a .444 March. That’s not a rebuild. That’s a renovation where you tear out all the drywall and then, for no reason, install a hot tub.

I’ll be in my booth at Schaller’s if anyone needs me. I’ll be the one staring at the standings and muttering.