Sometimes, games are just meaningless – less for the math than the sheer human context.
Tonight was one of those games.
The Knicks suited eight, started five, and got smoked by a Bobcats squad hungry for a feeding ahead of hibernation.
Predictably, Gerald Henderson went bonkers.
Unpredictably, Rasheed Wallace lasted all of four minutes – this after being deemed “far ahead of schedule” in recovering from a fractured foot – before calling it quits. Possibly for good.
Jason Kidd almost batted in a shot with 0.1 on the shot clock.
Iman Shumpert was a mixed basketball bag.
Chris Copeland had 32, a season high.
Steve Novak hit some jumpers.
Kemba Walker hit more jumpers.
So did Jeffrey Taylor, I guess?
The Bobcats looked happy to be winning, and I found myself – at times, anyway – feeling happy for them.
Mike Woodson tried to look angry, called timeout, and cracked a smile instead.
That was it, really.
On Saturday, the Knicks will commence a much-anticipated series of playoff basketball games with their rivals, the Boston Celtics. The Celtics will be playing for much more than a series, or even a city. They will – in a strange way – be playing for all of us.
By then, the weight of today, with any luck – which feels so long deferred for this strange species of ours – will have given way to hope.
Hope that all the victims, lost or not, needn’t want for love or justice.
Hope that we might one day mine from these horrors some binding human tie.
Hope that the hell always before us helps us finally find the cure within us.
Hope that, some day, nothing will have to seem meaningless.