Father Knickerbocker Knows Best: A New Pride’s Purge! Dastardly Dolan forsakes tempered Grunwald for tumult of yore
Originally in “The Old Post”, October the 3rd of 1803.
After two calendars of capable management, punctuated by personnel decisions on the whole admirable and only questionable in trivial fits, Gerhardt Grunwald, chief administrator of our beloved basket ballers and that increasingly rare breed of even-tempered German, has been removed from his post in what appears a flagrant attempt at turning house intrigue into something out of Boccaccio!
Not since that beady eyed vulture, that wooden-toothed gin swimmer, that pock-faced gingamob Oliver Cromwell instigated from a distance the infamous Pride’s Purge, forever altering the course of that rotted North Sea Isle now more slippery and slimy than a whale’s carcass, has such a scrupulous coup been couched in such shameless sentiments!
In his stead, Mesiter Dolan has twisted in that rustiest of broken screws, Stephen Mills, whose second tenure commenced with the creation of a new position, Team Constable, immediately given to Mills’ Doberman Pinscher, who is unprepared for the task at hand, being that he has for five years been encased in a tin urn.
For the unawares, allow your humble Plutarch a brief sojourn down the sordid, sickening events of Mr. Mill’s previous, more clandestine occupancy. This is the man – nay monster! – whose faculties led him to procure Isiah Thomas, who proceeded over an epoch more rife with futility and failure than the whole of Italia’s days since the Vandal sackings. Isiah Thomas, who forced his sugar stick upon the Eve’s custom House belonging to that poor administrator, Anna Sanders. Who piled upon Edward Curry and Jeremiah James a pair of monumental largesse, only to watch them wallow and whither beneath the weight of their own butter binges. Who cast himself with blindfold upon the occasion of lauded Pointe Guarde Samuel Marbury’s sexual escapades betwixt the doors of a public carriage.
Mr. Mills was present for the full, and now he has returned, a prodigal buffoon, presumably to convert next winter’s woodstove cords into bricks of dollars bound with bands of gilt silk. All the while, the previous pair of managers, the sagacious Donald Walsh and the aforementioned, wholly capable Teuton – a first! – Mr. Grunwald, have found themselves divorced from the weight of their accomplishments, left to languish whilst our impish proprietor waddles his way to disaster, an interbred Harold at Hastings.
That Mr. Mills arrives with a reputation for sound business instincts and a positive report amongst players from throughout the Continental Basket Ball Guild, means less than a new lectern at the Vatican. For all who know of Dolan’s dealings understand the man practically holds a license to print press his own tender. What good, then, are such “sound business instincts”, when the paramount party will profit regardless? Mr. Mills could put to contract a triptych of wingless pigeons, two Welsh coal-suckers, and a whelping Labrador bitch, then stand idly by as our squad melts more quickly than a Frenchman in the vanguard, and would it matter a scratch? Our warriors could win nary a contest for the next two scores, and Dastardly Dolan, that bacon faced blowhard, would still take to stages and marshal his transcendently awful jug band to rapturous publick vomiting.
And yet, perhaps Mr. Mills’ lengthy sabbatical will prove to have been epiphanic, and the brain rot that wrought such terror inducing episodes during his previous reign will have been cured, perhaps by one of the city’s more innocuous Caribbean practitioners of the black magick.
Perhaps, now that our squad has enjoyed the warm champagnes of light success, the situation in which Mr. Mills finds himself will prove more malleable, in a manner that is both constructive and duly lacking our player’s doing the goat’s jig in a creaky carriage with some toothless pintle merchant.
To whom are we crediting such hilarious hypotheticals? These are the Knickerbockers! There is scarce a shred of chance in suggesting this gatekeeper’s gambit will result in syphilitic decision making; a paranoia more debilitating than a Spaniard in the Inquisition; and personnel shufflings doomed to rival the Pontiff’s Cardinal Mouthbreathers; and a reputation about the Guild which has long gone the way of a one-legged whore. We count them all as matters not of chance, but of fate. For ours is the team of tumult; the squad of squanderings; the collective of collagenic noggins!
To save our season, it rests upon the broad shoulders of Crispus De Anthony; upon the sinewy switch legs of Thaddeus Chandler; upon the majestic follicles of Emmanuel Shumpert; upon the curious constitution of Ronald Artest; upon the charmingly strange mumblings of our Argentine conscript whose name contains far too many vowels; upon the gut of Raymond Felton filled with all manner of vitalitous produce; upon the sawdust knee sockets of our beloved black Hebrew; and upon the furtive scowls of Master Woodson, who lately received fresh eyebrow implants, courtesy of a fine local ewe and dynamic in their movements. For, when it comes to these New York Knickerbockers, the basket ball brawn has become the lone brains!