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Keidel: What Do You Know? Knicks Are Still A Walking, Talking Joke

By Jason Keidel
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My Facebook page bubbled with jokes from jocular fans who were high on the faerie dust of defeating the Cavaliers.

Just one game out of 82. But to hear Fan Guy 2 -- just a notch below Jets Fan Guy -- the Knicks had just channeled the spirit and summer of '69, the year I was born and the last time the Knicks were relevant. (Yes, I know they won in '73. But both titles are equally ancient and forgotten.)

They beat LeBron James, who's in the embryonic stage of a new Big Three -- Ohio style -- trying to bring social and monetary lubricant to the Rust Belt, a beaten, frostbitten heap of metal and abandoned factories where the smoke of industry no longer tickles the hard blue sky of the heartland.

You may recall that LeBron had the same obstacles in Miami. Before they became the Heatles, there were swirling concerns about compatibility. It's one thing to hold a preseason presser or parade, a confetti-soaked pep rally where LeBron belches his "Not one, not two, not three" bromides. Yet even with the stratospheric expectations, King James added a few jewels to his crown. Four Finals appearances and two rings later, it's hard to say the mission was not accomplished.

But it took time to coalesce. The Heat started 9-8 and then soared. Likewise, two-thirds of the new, holy trinity in Cleveland -- Kyrie Irving and Kevin Love -- have migrated from big fish in small ponds to sharing Lake Erie with LeBron James. It will take a few months for them to synchronize their exceptional hardwood wares.

Don't tell Knicks fans that. With one stroke they unveiled the LeBron Mythology, exposed him as a one-hit wonder. LeBron is little more than a Pat Riley Production. It was Dwyane Wade's team, after all.

Right.

Since then the Cavaliers have found some balance -- going 5-3 -- and the Knicks promptly (and predictably) have lost seven of nine since that night in Cleveland, which was just a pebble in the pond that Fan Guy 2 tried to turn into a boulder.

And we keep hearing these Phil Jackson chants, as though he has some secret enclave behind his closet like Batman, where he pulls a book from the shelf and uncovers a cave where all the answers reside. He is the Zen Master, you see, who has the hidden tome of hardwood prosperity.

The last time an NBA legend lorded over the Good Ship Knickerbocker, we had sexual harassment lawsuits, losing records and Starbury gulping Vaseline on YouTube. Few doubt that Jackson is more competent than Isiah Thomas, but Madison Square Garden has a way of humbling its heroes.

No doubt Jackson needs a few years to put his stamp on the club. But keep in mind the next champion he builds will be his first. He's not inheriting Michael and Scottie, or Shaq and Kobe, at their respective peaks. The Knicks are a construction job that would make Donald Trump blush.

The Knicks haven't won in 40 years for a reason. They are incompetent. We can get into a tangential, esoteric debate about the physical vs metaphysical, whether you believe in curses and karma or if you think hexes are hoaxes.

But some things can't be explained by purely linear logic. The Chicago Cubs. The Jets. And the Knicks, who have all the advantages attainable or imaginable. They play in the womb of basketball, New York City, in the media, advertising, financial and spiritual aorta of the sport.

This is the city of Lew Alcindor, Earl Manigault, Chris Mullin and Mark Jackson. Larry Brown and Billy Cunningham. Hell, even the hated Red Auerbach, the godfather of the NBA, is from Brooklyn. We're the home of Rucker Park, where Julius Erving perfected his craft. Even Michael Jordan was born in the five boroughs.

Ours is the most fertile basketball soil in the solar system, yet we keep producing putrid seasons. The only reason the Knicks aren't toiling at the bottom of the division is because the 76ers are historically wretched and refuse to win a single game.

If you've ever cared about the Knicks, you remember a time when the one blessing of a barbaric winter was the warm nights of gripping basketball. During my high-school years we cherished the Bernard King, Hubie Brown iteration, the Knicks of Rory Sparrow, Trent Tucker, Bill Cartwright and "The Human Eraser," Marvin Webster. Then they found a kid named Patrick Ewing. Surely, that would bring our beloved Knickerbockers over the hump.

You know the rest. Now Ewing is in the pantheon of greatest player sans a single ring, a mountain shared with Charles Barkley and Karl Malone and John Stockton.

Jim Dolan doesn't help. It's almost always the born, bored billionaire who can't help but harm the team. Woody Johnson isn't as mean or meddlesome, but there's a type of self-righteous guy, a world-beater in business, who buys a team and suddenly thinks of himself as a the sport's resident savant. Dan Snyder is the NFL avatar. So is Jerry Jones, who swore he built the Dallas dynasty that crumbled shortly after Jimmy Johnson skipped town. Jones has won one playoff game since Troy Aikman retired in the '90s.

Dolan made Carmelo Anthony his trophy, the beacon for his blind franchise. In truth, Melo is the consolation prize for whiffing on LeBron. So despite the same, incessant losing with Anthony, Dolan doubled-down on the failure. You wonder how Jackson feels about Melo. No doubt Dolan pulled rank when he dropped over $120 million on a guy who hasn't won anything in 11 years. Does Jackson see Melo as the hypotenuse of his beloved triangle offense? Hard to imagine.

Even if you buy the Batman/Robin model and think Melo just needs a sidekick, the truth is that Melo would be the understudy. Nothing in his NBA history suggests he can lead a team to a title. Not that facts bother Fan Guy 2, who still clings to the notion that Melo is just a play or two, or player or two, from asserting his place among the immortals. He's simply a misunderstood champion. I mean, look what he did for Syracuse!

Logic has never been part of the basketball algorithm in NYC or MSG. Not since Jackson was here. And the fact that he's back doesn't mean as much as you think -- unless he can revisit the '60s and bring Clyde, Pearl, Bill Bradley and Dave DeBusschere back with him.

The Summer of Love is now named Kevin, and he's in Cleveland playing with real NBA royalty.

Follow Jason on Twitter @JasonKeidel.

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