Father Knickerbocker Knows Best: SCHOENE merely sorcery masked as science!
Originally in “The Old Post”, October the 16th of 1803.
Festooned as we are upon an age wherein matters of basketball opinion have been made readily available by dint of a free and noble public press, that spittle rag New York Post notwithstanding, it is nigh impossible to divorce oneself from the cacophony of opinion that is its wont. And basket ball, that equally democratic sport which has brought under awning all manner of man, save for certain breeds of Mongols, is no exception in this regard.
As such, the painter’s easel of prospects levied upon our scarlet horses have run a predictable gamut, from a steadfast success to one more tempered, either by time’s corporal curses or the hiring of improved stock by our competitors. Chief among them that malicious jack-of-legs Moscovite, now charged with taming the feral elements of wild and mountainous Brooklyn, rendered tender rich thanks to a lucrative native mining practice involving the extraction of tiny pups and comely kittens theretofore fed into incinerators to unfreeze a frozen people’s frozen souls.
But even that aforementioned Post, in vein love with its clever titles and ignorant of the rusty-gutted attendant prose, would not stoop so low as one Kenneth Pelton, lately of Everett’s Sporting Post Nightly, heretofore termed E.S.P.N. for sake of brevity. Owing to a strangely named brand of sorcery called SCHOENE, Mr. Pelton has come to predict our squad, one calendar round removed from a decade’s pinnacle performance, to tally a mere 37 fellings of foes.
I shall now afford you, dear reader, enough time as is necessary to consume a soldier’s bottle of strip-me-naked, to drive this absurdist drivel the way of an almshouse chamber pot.
Sufficient? Be sure to sweep away the vomit, lest a pack of Irish catch the scent! For I now wish to delve deeper into the so-called “analysis” of this Mr. Pelton, Protestant in name and pocket square sensibilities, a cavalier Catholic in hanktelo opinion and a flagrant Josephus Rex besides. As the base of this gooseberry’s brew, the rancid carrots and onions, is the suggestion that our team’s unrivaled prowess in converting From Downtowns would necessarily suffer a regression. I know not from which Gypsy staging ground Mr. Pelton commandeered such a colloquial crystal ball, but it seems to me it has taken to deceiving, as if the stage of its contents were some Florentine bank! For it stands to reason that the elements of spacing and horsebladder movement which marked the campaign previous should remain intact, the familiarity betwixt man and fellow only sharpened by a summer of frequenting punch houses hand in hand!
The next bone of contention of Dr. Pelton, PhD E.S.P.N., is with our charges’ rotations, specifically how General Woodson would deign to allow Antonio Bargnani, failed capital conscript, more time about the parquet pitch than the Portuguese family of twenty and seven hitherto tasked with cleaning said floor. To be sure, Bargnani’s weaknesses, beyond an Italian heraldry pocked with boulder-movers, are well documented. While stationed amongst the ferals and fur trappers that make up England’s arctic consolation, Bargnani displayed a shooter’s judgment worse than a Turk about a cannonade; seized re-bounds with all the tenacity and enthusiasm of a legless Quaker; and exhibited a Trojan’s defensive instincts.
However, as was so aptly pointed out by our dear friend Mr. Joseph Flynn, a rare breed of tempered Pogue now writing for Toast’s Post, what Mr. Pelton fails to take into account, hewn as he is to an academician’s marble tower, are the rotational luxuries which our squad’s unmatched depth affords General Woodson. For if Bargnani does indeed prove more a nitsqueeger than a basket-baller, we are hardly bereft of alternatives. Ditto the prospects of our resident Black Jew, now forced to fulfill career’s end by way of wooden legs, which while sturdy by virtue of their Franklin patent, risk splintering still. From deities to dustmen, ours is a roster replete with resources, bolstered anew by the acquisitions of vagabond mystic Metta World Peace, seasoned Slav Bennedictus Udrih, and the various amateur draftings.
But lest you, dear reader, believe this correspondent’s fair discourse enough to uncloud the peepers of Mr. Pelton and E.S.P.N., a dose of caution. For this outlet, now delivered to every stoop and silver dinner plate the young nation over, has long committed itself to brandishing vindictive venom at the expense of our ‘Bocker brethren! Indeed Mr. Pelton, with his strange Maimonidenian mathematics, which puts to pedestal efficiency above prowess – as if this were business of fabric looms! – has long made his disdain clear as crystal! As such, is it better to engorge ourselves with rage, thereby granting credence to this wanton wizardry? Or shrug it off a feeble fly’s brandy-faced buzzing?
I say the latter, and with a laugh! For if Mr. Pelton’s can attribute his cherished SCHOENE acronym to a favorite former basket baller, as he has stated, then surely we, free citizens that we are, might offer up our own!
Servile Charlatans Hailing Only Esoteric Numbers?