A Gift From the Basketball Gods
There is, for me, an out-of-time quality to the recent string of crazy, wonderful Knicks playoff games. I find myself lying awake night after night reviewing jump shots made, fouls committed, and shots blocked, always anxious for what lies ahead. Half a century ago, this routine had a certain age-appropriate insanity to it. Now, though, I’m on the distinctly long side of middle age, yet here I am, fitfully trying to sleep and clearing my calendar for each game night as if for a devotional event. I’m aware that New York City has fine baseball—I am on a Mets sabbatical until the Knicks run is complete—as well as hockey and soccer. No doubt there are badminton teams of note. But sorry (except not really): Our city game is hoops, and after their prolonged stay in purgatory, the Knicks are back, and playing a beautiful style that long ago seemed our birthright. As the championship series between my Knicks and the San Antonio Spurs commences tonight, I find myself wondering if, maybe, just perhaps, we’ll finally …
