A few days ago I was telling a friend that I was on the verge of writing a scathing, nasty e-mail to my colleagues and other friends about their lack of participation on this site. I was prepared to question the level of commitment to my own professional success my friends have in me. I was going to actually waste more quality-time on the Knicks. And - gasp - I was going to call out peers along the way.
The friend with whom I was consulting made the point that these days, few people even think “Knicks,” let alone watch the team, let alone read about the team and certainly NO ONE is wasting time writing about them. Fair. True. Valid.
However, in holding up my end of the bargain to Knicks Alley, I continue to write. As each post becomes less and less positive and more and more painful to be a part of, I realize that the humor is gone, the irony forgotten and the true embarrassment that is this franchise stands glaring.
The New York Knicks may be just a basketball team. But for many, particularly in this city, basketball, sport, is a means by which to find solace amidst 4:45 sunset’s and 22 degree days. As the winter chill embraces this city, many of us turn our attention, undivided at that, to the “World’s Most Famous Arena.” And as the unofficial-official basketball capital of the world, we simply deserve better.
Coming off a summer in which the belly of the franchise was revealed to be saturated with sexism, racism and an overall err of arrogance and bigotry, what the city deserved, what the fans, both loyal and stubborn SHOULD be seeing is a gritty, never-give-up type-effort every single night the New York Knickerbockers public representatives take the court.
On the other hand, perhaps this implosion is exactly what the franchise needs. Perhaps the reported threat Steph has made about “exposing” Isiah should come out so we can all see, first-hand, what we clearly assume to be true: that he is an ego-maniacal, arrogant, stubborn man, not worthy of any title that involves “New York.”
Think about it: if you believe in karma, and I mean if you even think that there is the slightest bit of truth to the belief that we all ultimately get what we deserve, “what goes around comes around” and things of this ilk, how could you possibly imagine the 2007-2008 New York Knickerbockers having even the slightest bit of success?
This is no longer about basketball. Sure, to those non-fans, a game is just a game. To those of us who understand the social implications of sport on any level, we realize that there is more at stake. Right now your kids are reading about how it’s OK to quit if your boss says that since you’re not performing, he’s not going to reward you. Right now your kids are seeing that when you tell them something they don’t like, it’s OK to just run away and threaten them. People saw all summer-long how even if you call a woman a “bitch” or a “ho,” you don’t really suffer anything. Maybe someone else who’s “responsible” for you does, but you yourself lose nothing.
I really don’t care how difficult the spotlight can be anymore. And no, I’m not living with the pressure of doing my job publicly every day with a hefty paycheck to boot. But it’s time for the excuses to stop and for someone, one decent soul to come out and say, “enough. We’re sorry. We ARE going to change.” Whether that’s James Dolan resigning, Isiah Thomas resigning or Stephon Marbury issuing a sincere public apology, something must be done. If not, why are we going to these games? Why are we cheering? Well, for my part, it’s because I have resigned myself to the fact that I am a New York Knicks fan. I cannot change that even if I wanted to. Not until the organization comes out in favor of anti-semitism and the death penalty can I trade in my uniform.
We’ve all gone through tough times. How many times have you sought solace in the form of cheering on your favorite team for 3 hours regardless of the outcome? Now I ask you, do you actually think you might take a break from every day stress by routing for THIS Knicks team?
It’s time for someone, something to step-up.