The Worm
Dennis Rodman is not your typical NBA star. He sloppily dyes his hair different colors every day, has piercings at every orifice and tattoos all over his body. He wears rhinestones and lace shirts, boas and cowboy hats (and that’s conservative)—unless, of course, he’s wearing a black lace camisole and heels. He dresses drag, has admitted bisexuality, he dated Madonna, tied the knot with Carmen Electra, and even tried to marry himself once, showing up on a horse-drawn carriage in a white wedding dress, veil, and flowers in hand. He’s acted in horrible movies, written outlandish tell-all tales, fought in the WWF, ended up in tabloids, jail, rehab, reality TV shows, reality rehab tv shows, and now… The Basketball Hall of Fame. Twist.
In a league and a culture where personal brands are meticulously crafted and anything inapplicable is carefully covered up, Dennis Rodman was truly the exception to the rule. He lived in stark contrast to a teammate that defined the perfect athlete brand, Michael Jordan. And yet, in terms of brand integrity, the two were almost identical—neither showed any chink in the armor, any deviation from the M.O.. I have loads to write about “Brand Jordan,” but today—in the wake of Dennis’ Hall of Fame enshrinement this past weekend—Rodman is the topic at hand.
I think Rodman’s infallible image is what made his HOF induction speech so surprising. Sure, he was still gaudily dressed, but none of the flamboyance or the stagemanship was present. In fact, he admitted that his whole image is “just an illusion.” Without the pretense, Rodman wept. He humbly thanked those who believed in him and he apologized to those he mistreated. He confessed in sincere and honest detail his personal shortcomings. On this day of basketball celebration, basketball didn’t seem to matter. In response to the question of what regrets he had throughout his career, he responded: “I wish I was a better father.”
In typical Dennis Rodman fashion, in the closing act of his career, he ignored standard procedure and destroyed the brand he’s built throughout the past thirty years. He called it out as an act and showed us that the individual is infinitely more complex than the public-facing image. He challenged us again to accept who is or who he may be—only this way in a strangely reversed manner.
And last, in his closing remarks, he tied no loose ends; there was no happy ending of a Bad Boy turned good. There was a feeble plea, almost a prayer of hope because the power seems to be out of his control, to change:
“Maybe hope for that in the future I can actually try to be somewhat of a good individual and a good father to my kids. And (speaking to his mother) I hope for that I can love you like I did when I was born.” (sic)
No promises—nothing clean cut like that. Nothing easy to digest; nothing concrete to feel good about. Nothing so easy would be appropriate for Dennis Rodman. Nothing easy because through these past 30 years that challenging complexity seems to be the one constant thread of his brand.
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