New York City is what it is – imperious, intimidating, self-important. It is a place that is big and brash, loud and (way, way too) proud. Please, New Yorkers, tell us again why Derek Jeter should have gone not just to Cooperstown, but straight into heaven, to sitteth at the right hand of … I dunno, Casey Stengel? Joe DiMaggio? Gene Michael? And please, remind us again how Eli Manning took down Tom Brady, twice. (Not the worst thing, actually.) Or how Don Mattingly and Thurman Munson (RIP) and everybody short of Joe Pepitone should be enshrined with St. Jeter.
So yeah, there has long been envy and loathing out here in the hinterlands. But now we have these New York Knicks, the newly minted NBA champions, and it’s really hard to summon any degree of animus. How can anyone dislike a team fronted by Jalen Brunson, a Little-Engine-That-Could-kinda player? Or one that includes Brunson’s fellow Villanovans, Josh Hart and Mikal Bridges (the latter, lest we forget, a Sixer for a nanosecond)? And how can anyone dislike OG Anunoby, who guards all five positions and seemingly makes every big shot, none bigger than his tip-in to beat San Antonio in Game 4 of the Finals?
OK, maybe Karl-Anthony Towns comes off as a little pouty, but he played his best ball this postseason. And maybe you’ve tired of all the celebrities at courtside. But give them some grace. This title was 53 years in the making, and it was achieved by a team that was tough and together – one that rallied from a 2-1 deficit to oust Atlanta in the first round of the playoffs and then went fo’, fo’, fi’ over its last three series, to paraphrase the stylings of that late, great wordsmith, Moses Eugene Malone.
This was a run for the ages, a romp beyond reproach. The only objectionable thing about it is that the Knicks are owned by James Dolan, a creep who has reportedly set up his own surveillance state. Beyond that, it’s hard to quibble.
Such was the Knicks’ play that David Remnick, editor of the staid old New Yorker, was reduced to giddy fanboy. After the Knicks finished off the Spurs in Game 5 Saturday night – a game in which Brunson generated 45 points, 29 in the second half – Remnick quoted a piece written by the late Roger Angell, the New Yorker’s esteemed baseball writer, after the Reds took down the Red Sox in the 1975 World Series: “Tarry, delight, so seldom met.” And Remnick further noted that Angell was himself cribbing from an A.E. Housman poem. (As one will.)
Remnick, always a delightful read, was off and running from there, referencing Spike Lee, Nicki Minaj, DJ Khaled, Curtis Mayfield and others before wrapping up by mentioning the Knicks’ last title before this one, in 1973. Like the current team (not to mention the one that took home the hardware in 1970), that club operated as one; Remnick wrote that “the ethos of then carried over to the ethos of now.” And finally he echoed Angell (and Housman) once more: “Savor the joy, so sure to perish, tarry still.”
(This came on the heels of a Remnick column chronicling the Knicks’ Game 4 rally from 29 down, which left him not only disbelieving and sleepless, but inclined to use the word “apercu” – “a brief survey or sketch,” according to Merriam-Webster – while reviewing the best social media posts to emerge in the aftermath.)
Remnick’s euphoria can be excused, given the Knicks’ extended fallow period. Fifty-three years is a long, long time, and puts the Sixers’ own title drought, now at 43 years, in perspective. Over at Defector.com, which bills itself as “the last great website,” Barry Petchesky amusingly summarized the impact the dry spell has had on the paying customers:
Knicks fandom has, historically, been about feeling bad. But feeling bad together is still a communal experience. Much of the conversation in New York these past two months has involved proving and sharing fan bona fides, and given their track record, that takes the form of bragging about all the ways the Knicks have made us feel bad. It was a game of one-upmanship that everybody lost. The Charles Smith game. Oh yeah? How about the Reggie Miller game? Oh yeah? I lived through Eddy Curry. Oh yeah? Well, I believed in Frank Ntilikina. Oh yeah? I thought Kevin Knox was going to be a superstar. That sort of thing.
But eventually even Dolan got a clue, hiring player-agent Leon Rose to run the front office in 2020. Two years later, Rose signed Brunson, originally a second-round draft pick of the Mavericks. And in the two years that followed, the Knicks traded for Hart, Anunoby, Bridges and Towns. (Some of the teams’ moves on the margins, like the acquisitions of valued subs Landry Shamet and Jose Alvarado, are also worthy of praise. So too was the decision to fire coach Tom Thibodeau and replace him with NBA lifer Mike Brown.)
The climb to the mountaintop ended predictably, with the Knicks in Game 5 spotting the Spurs a lead, as they had throughout the Finals. This time it was 16 points, but no matter; they again reeled them in. Brunson, also predictably, provided the final push, outscoring the Spurs 13-2 by himself to erase the last 10 points of that difference.
Since then, there have been the predictable stories. There was one asserting that this was not only the best Knicks team ever, but the greatest New York team ever. There were others arguing that Brunson is the best Knick ever. (Even his assistant-coach dad, Rick, balked at that one; he leans toward Patrick Ewing. And FWIW, I’d go with Walt “Clyde” Frazier until Brunson matches his two titles, not to mention his wardrobe.)
But overstatement is part of the whole New York package. Everything is bigger and better there, as you might have heard, over and over and over again. While that is certainly tiresome, these Knicks deserve to be celebrated. I mean, granted, they would be better if Jeter played for them, but other than that, it’s really difficult to find fault.