Keidel: Knicks Will Ruin Christmas, But Only If You're Foolish Enough To Watch
By Jason Keidel
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Imagine having to pick a Knick to kiss under the mistletoe.
Putting the Knicks on national television on Christmas is equal parts sadism and masochism. Word is they're off to the worst start in team history, which is saying a lot when you consider how bad they've been and how long they've been bad.
You'd be better served watching the Yule Log. Or the Christmas Story marathon. Or wait for next week's Twilight Zone marathon. Actually, could you tell the difference between the Knicks and six hours of Rod Serling musing over our warped world?
Where do we begin with the surreal science fiction? Perhaps making it rain on Melo. When they sprinkled over $120 million on Carmelo Anthony - a me-first player who never sniffed an NBA Finals in Denver, then doubled down on his playoff futility in New York - they made a mission statement that style still trumped substance.
Then we have Phil Jackson - the conquering king with the bejeweled fingers, swapping his 1973 short-shorts for a suit, synthetic hips, and $12 million per season.
Jackson has come a long way since he barely scraped six-figures while sweating for Red Holzman. Had you told Jackson when he left MSG and NYC in the '70s that his beloved Knickerbockers would not win another ring in 40 years he probably would have demanded a drug test.
Amazing how the triangle offense falters when you don't have Micheal and Scottie, Kobe and Shaq, to implement it. Not to mention the fine job his fledgling coach is doing.
Not that this mess is Jackson's fault. It merely shows that not even the Zen Master, with more rings than Liberace, can flip the script on the MSG mausoleum.
But this is what the Knicks do. After wearing out a player, coach, or executive they jam the eject button and welcome some new messiah to change the solemn song you've been hearing for years.
Just usher in the conga line of luminaries, each of whom would supposedly change the rancid karma and coda inside the World's Most Wretched Arena.
Lenny Wilkens. Larry Brown. And, of course, Isiah Thomas, who allegedly turned his executive suite into the Champagne Room, leaving behind a trail of fire, ire, and $11 million in sexual harassment quid. His other legacy was Starbury, the Vaseline-gulping guard who wound up playing in China.
Yet the Fan Guy Knicks devotee, who still drops four-figures on courtside seats, can't get enough. The appalling play, lack of hardwood hardware, has him so jaded he thinks the Knicks, much like the Jets, are just a play or two, or a player or two, from a championship parade.
At some point this isn't just on the Knicks. It's on those who fund and fuel this garbage, who tool around Twitter with their "NYK" handles and drop endless F-bombs on those of us who have the smarts and stones to call the Knicks what they are - the worst team in the known world.
No matter how often they pull the "Rebuild" switch, regurgitate their corporate coda of patience, and assure you that some vague help is on the way, they can only stay above water for as long as you throw them your floating wallet.
We have such curious gaps in our fandom, such a selective sense of justice and patience. New Yorkers have no problem trashing the Yanks, killing the Mets, or calling for Tom Coughlin's head. Yet let the Knicks tank for a decade and we bristle at any criticism hurled anywhere near Herald Square.
The Knicks are like that wildly neurotic person you've been dating on and off for a year. You know they're wrong for you yet you make up with them every week because you have no immediate options. But rather than step back, you go back, wincing while you spend yet another Christmas with them, knowing what's about to happen on New Year's Day.
Yup, your beloved Knicks always get a pass when all they do, every year, is pass basketball gas. And leave another loss under your Christmas tree.
Follow Jason on Twitter @JasonKeidel.
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