corwin
11-09-2003, 09:52 PM
I was really anxious last night. So anxious I could barely sleep. Not even Timmy could provide the relief I needed. Was it the blast in Riyadh? Nope. It’s just the Knicks.
sigh
Since it was autumn’s first cold blustery evening, and well, I had nothing better to do, I reluctantly tuned into the Knicks vs. Bucks on MSG. Even though I knew exactly how the game would end, I decided to temporarily suspend my growing cynicism and check shit out. Just one minute after the opening tip, the new acquisition Keith Van Horn, our Re-animated Gumby, launched a brilliantly executed air ball that set a perfect mood for the evening. After 4 blocked shots, 2 turnovers, and A Dominican, I began to lose focus. I became introspective and philosophical amidst the blizzard of missed 7-foot jumpers.
As my mind wandered, I became obsessed with the mysterious tenure of Don Chaney. First off, I must say that Coach Chaney seems like a very, very, very, very, very, very, very, nice man—Dr. Huxtable with agility and extended limbs. But how a black man could hold on to such a high profile job he is clearly not cut out for, in the world’s largest market, is totally beyond my naïve comprehension. Maybe beneath that calm veneer lies a man more diabolical than Biz Markie, more sinister than Peter Lorie…and Vanessa Williams. Maybe Knick management has discovered he’s really a conservatively attired Santero and is afraid to let him go. Maybe he’s got compromising photos of James Dolan and that dominatrix chick that ****ed Marv Albert. I’m hoping that Chaney soon writes a book titled “A Black Man’s Guide to Underachievement and Prosperity”. I know I’d be at Barnes and Noble for the reading in the front row, ears wide, mouth shut. I suggest y’all come with me. We’d rule New York.
Then I became preoccupied with conspiracy theories. Was the creation of the Newly Neutered Knicks part of a Evil Grand Scheme conceived in secret Town Hall meetings between Scott Layden, Der Giuliani, and Kelly Ripa long ago in an attempt to evoke a pasteurized grit-free wonderland with no cornrows?
Will Norm McDonald soon replace Spike’s hot seat? Woody and Soon Yi by Nick and Jessica?
Even the Knick City Dancers have me perplexed. I’m wondering if the KCD tryouts are some great urban myth. Do ya think that maybe Knick execs crashed a Rockettes audition and corralled the girls deemed “too slutty” for Radio City (but not slutty enough for music videos)? And how “City” can a dancer from Rutgers be anyway? Sumptins up, fo sho.
Let’s face it. The Knicks suck. Alot. But not in a fun way, like the Cincinnati Bengals whose legendary pre-Marvin suck factor was so alarmingly high, it became an endearing quality. If you enjoy messy narcotics, the Bengals were the your drug of choice. I couldn’t wait to see how Kitna would **** shit up from week to week. The Bengals were lovable losers. But there is something liberating about hitting rock bottom: no matter how bad things got, there was always a glimmer of hope that things would get better. The ex-Bungles are now 4-5. The Knicks, on the other hand, are the functional alcoholics of the NBA. Deluded, self-medicated, they pop Clorets during timeouts when no one is watching and complete just enough spreadsheets to keep The Suits from givin’ em the pinkslip.
Feeling way too paranoid, I switched away from MSG---caught Clemson/FSU, a Six Feet Under rerun, and danced to Oji’s mix. I needed a trip from Tepidville
Then I felt nostalgic. The Knickerbockers of yore served up attitude, heat, desire, angst, sweat, dysfunction, self-destruction, drama, bitterness, fire, determination, zeal…… I could go on. They were everything but boring. Every season was an Athletic Telenovela. The world recognized. There was no room for neutrality.
I miss Spree. I miss the Beautiful Recklessness of John Starks, blistering up and down the court like it was his last pick-up game before passing through the gates of b-ball heaven, while proving that sports and ADD can be a good mix. I miss the delicious bitchiness of Sir Patrick, the world’s largest cuntiest prima donna not wearing stilettos. I miss when EVERYBODY knew Oak and Mason were NOT TO BE ****ED WITH. I miss Michael Ray’s passion (for things that made NYC tempting, decadent, and illicit), redemption, and display of human frailty.
Come back, Knicks, come back.
In an act of sheer masochism, I returned to MSG just in time for the thrilling conclusion. The Knicks were only down by three points, which suggests that it actually was a competitive game. The Knicks probably had a 72-point lead going into the 4th quarter. But with Witherspoon, Harrington, and Doleac (WHO?), maybe they can pull this off!!!
To reinforce the notion that mediocrity ensures job security, it seemed only fitting that Super Christian Superstar Charlie Ward, serve up the predictably limp game-ending air ball. But for Scott Layden, I’m sure it was a moral victory. After all, it wasn’t THAT bad. Coming full circle in 48 minutes, the game ended exactly the same way it began, so obviously things aren’t getting worse. Right?
It was a neat, tidy loss. A bit like cleaning up one’s own vomit after a hard night out in the privacy of their home bathroom. Nobody has to know. And nobody will care.
Maybe I’ve been in New York too long. Maybe I just need some sleep.
sigh
Since it was autumn’s first cold blustery evening, and well, I had nothing better to do, I reluctantly tuned into the Knicks vs. Bucks on MSG. Even though I knew exactly how the game would end, I decided to temporarily suspend my growing cynicism and check shit out. Just one minute after the opening tip, the new acquisition Keith Van Horn, our Re-animated Gumby, launched a brilliantly executed air ball that set a perfect mood for the evening. After 4 blocked shots, 2 turnovers, and A Dominican, I began to lose focus. I became introspective and philosophical amidst the blizzard of missed 7-foot jumpers.
As my mind wandered, I became obsessed with the mysterious tenure of Don Chaney. First off, I must say that Coach Chaney seems like a very, very, very, very, very, very, very, nice man—Dr. Huxtable with agility and extended limbs. But how a black man could hold on to such a high profile job he is clearly not cut out for, in the world’s largest market, is totally beyond my naïve comprehension. Maybe beneath that calm veneer lies a man more diabolical than Biz Markie, more sinister than Peter Lorie…and Vanessa Williams. Maybe Knick management has discovered he’s really a conservatively attired Santero and is afraid to let him go. Maybe he’s got compromising photos of James Dolan and that dominatrix chick that ****ed Marv Albert. I’m hoping that Chaney soon writes a book titled “A Black Man’s Guide to Underachievement and Prosperity”. I know I’d be at Barnes and Noble for the reading in the front row, ears wide, mouth shut. I suggest y’all come with me. We’d rule New York.
Then I became preoccupied with conspiracy theories. Was the creation of the Newly Neutered Knicks part of a Evil Grand Scheme conceived in secret Town Hall meetings between Scott Layden, Der Giuliani, and Kelly Ripa long ago in an attempt to evoke a pasteurized grit-free wonderland with no cornrows?
Will Norm McDonald soon replace Spike’s hot seat? Woody and Soon Yi by Nick and Jessica?
Even the Knick City Dancers have me perplexed. I’m wondering if the KCD tryouts are some great urban myth. Do ya think that maybe Knick execs crashed a Rockettes audition and corralled the girls deemed “too slutty” for Radio City (but not slutty enough for music videos)? And how “City” can a dancer from Rutgers be anyway? Sumptins up, fo sho.
Let’s face it. The Knicks suck. Alot. But not in a fun way, like the Cincinnati Bengals whose legendary pre-Marvin suck factor was so alarmingly high, it became an endearing quality. If you enjoy messy narcotics, the Bengals were the your drug of choice. I couldn’t wait to see how Kitna would **** shit up from week to week. The Bengals were lovable losers. But there is something liberating about hitting rock bottom: no matter how bad things got, there was always a glimmer of hope that things would get better. The ex-Bungles are now 4-5. The Knicks, on the other hand, are the functional alcoholics of the NBA. Deluded, self-medicated, they pop Clorets during timeouts when no one is watching and complete just enough spreadsheets to keep The Suits from givin’ em the pinkslip.
Feeling way too paranoid, I switched away from MSG---caught Clemson/FSU, a Six Feet Under rerun, and danced to Oji’s mix. I needed a trip from Tepidville
Then I felt nostalgic. The Knickerbockers of yore served up attitude, heat, desire, angst, sweat, dysfunction, self-destruction, drama, bitterness, fire, determination, zeal…… I could go on. They were everything but boring. Every season was an Athletic Telenovela. The world recognized. There was no room for neutrality.
I miss Spree. I miss the Beautiful Recklessness of John Starks, blistering up and down the court like it was his last pick-up game before passing through the gates of b-ball heaven, while proving that sports and ADD can be a good mix. I miss the delicious bitchiness of Sir Patrick, the world’s largest cuntiest prima donna not wearing stilettos. I miss when EVERYBODY knew Oak and Mason were NOT TO BE ****ED WITH. I miss Michael Ray’s passion (for things that made NYC tempting, decadent, and illicit), redemption, and display of human frailty.
Come back, Knicks, come back.
In an act of sheer masochism, I returned to MSG just in time for the thrilling conclusion. The Knicks were only down by three points, which suggests that it actually was a competitive game. The Knicks probably had a 72-point lead going into the 4th quarter. But with Witherspoon, Harrington, and Doleac (WHO?), maybe they can pull this off!!!
To reinforce the notion that mediocrity ensures job security, it seemed only fitting that Super Christian Superstar Charlie Ward, serve up the predictably limp game-ending air ball. But for Scott Layden, I’m sure it was a moral victory. After all, it wasn’t THAT bad. Coming full circle in 48 minutes, the game ended exactly the same way it began, so obviously things aren’t getting worse. Right?
It was a neat, tidy loss. A bit like cleaning up one’s own vomit after a hard night out in the privacy of their home bathroom. Nobody has to know. And nobody will care.
Maybe I’ve been in New York too long. Maybe I just need some sleep.