|Andrea Bargnani, PF 28 MIN | 5-11 FG | 5-6 FT | 9 REB | 2 AST | 0 STL | 2 BLK | 2 TO | 16 PTS | -15
I don’t know about y’all, but if I botched a defensive sequence and Pablo Prigioni, who seems to be so eternally positive, so basically good-natured and filled with joy just at the thought that he might get to spend the next second on planet earth, with other humans, the kind of guy who thought the plastic-bag-blowing-in-the-wind scene from American Beauty was profoundly, deeply true instead of treacly and ham-fisted, turned to rip me a brand-new orifice in front of 19,000 strangers (as was the case for fair Andrea in the 2nd quarter), I’d start hunting around for a pickaxe and try to dig as deep a hole as possible right there and climb inside, hardwood floor/the fact that there was still about 30 minutes of basketball to go be damned.
That said, he was once again an effective on-the-ball defender, hit shots when the ‘Bockers deigned to run a play for him and was aggressive on the glass. Not the least bit his fault, this latest L, either. TEAM BARGS!
Honey, did you smell the chicken before we cooked it?
|Carmelo Anthony, SF 34 MIN | 8-21 FG | 6-7 FT | 12 REB | 2 AST | 1 STL | 0 BLK | 1 TO | 23 PTS | -2
I think we need to rescue Robin Williams from whatever non-descript CBS sitcom he’s toiling away at, cram him into a bulky sweater and a pair of high-waisted khakis and have him drape his hirsute arms around Melo, Good Will Hunting style while re-enacting the “It’s not your fault” scene until Anthony breaks down in tears. See?
Tonight, the vast majority of his heaves from outside the painted area were sending chips of paint from the rim spraying all over the photographers and/or dumbly grinning hedge fund bros in the pricey seats, but he absolutely was an uncontainable man-bull-bear-pig down low and on the boards.
And perhaps his kvetching about needing to stage a Grand Guignol spectacle in order to merit a whistle helped. I mean, he did garner one or two more whistles tonight, but you know they still lost, and okay. I’ll just stop. This recap is going to be all kinds of bleak. So just get your loins thoroughly girded, people.
It was good. I said I liked the chicken like three times already. Paprika, right?
|Raymond Felton, PG 33 MIN | 3-8 FG | 0-0 FT | 4 REB | 5 AST | 1 STL | 1 BLK | 4 TO | 7 PTS | -15
Without a big that excels rolling to the rim, Felton’s offensive value is reduced to one of those imaginary numbers like i. For example, if Felton turns the ball over i times and is currently 6-28 from downtown while allowing i point guards to reduce him to his component atoms (which are probably 84% naturally occurring fatty acids. YEAH I KNOW HE’S LOST WEIGHT AND HE’S HURT BUT BOB ANGRY. FELT GET HIT BY BLOWBACK. CRY ME A RIVER, TUBBY.) then you get the equation:
As in, the Knickerbockers are in desperate need of a “One” or “Point guard” if this season’s going to be anything more than the equivalent of one of those blood-soaked, unfathomably cruel videos you see leaked of factory farms where legless, chickens are crammed into pens about an inch larger than the total area of their bodies, with their beaks forcibly removed so they don’t peck their miserable, doomed neighbor to death. That could be a healthy Felt or it could be, I dunno, possibly, maybe, kinda, sorta, returning to the two-PG sets that even in this “Rancid bivalves that you left in the fridge coming home from the Oyster Bar like three months ago wrapped in foil but totally forgot about because it was crammed in the back of the fridge behind the Arm & Hammer such that when you opened it up, the smell was so noxious it literally made you dizzy” of a season have proven to work. Just a thought.
I just… No, I said I’m fine. I was just curious because we bought the chicken like ten days ago or something.
|J.R. Smith, SG 36 MIN | 3-18 FG | 0-0 FT | 5 REB | 1 AST | 0 STL | 0 BLK | 1 TO | 7 PTS | -13
6-34. Here’s Earl’s shot chart from the past two games:
Is it getting warm in here?
|Iman Shumpert, SG 34 MIN | 4-8 FG | 0-0 FT | 7 REB | 3 AST | 1 STL | 0 BLK | 2 TO | 11 PTS | -10
I can’t really fathom what hearing trade rumors does or might do to a athlete. I mean, think about it for a sec. You could be forced to leave. Leave your home. Leave your friends. Leave whatever life you’ve built in a city or town. And you have zero control over whether that’s going to occur. I know, I know. These guys are pros and “It’s part of the game/business,” and whatever other content-free clichés men wearing nothing but towels or XXXX-Long designer suits burble as a means of providing understanding/assessment in post-locker room/game quotes.
Call it a lack of professionalism if you like, but I can certainly see how and why it’d affect one’s game. AndB it’s clearly bugging Shump. Even with the two pretty bombs he dropped in the aborted comeback effort, he looks jittery and unsure, as opposed to the overflowing-with-swag feller we saw in the preseason (and even the first few games). He’s going to get traded. It’s coming. It’s going to be awful. Like a cresting wave that you’re just waiting to come crashing down, or the freaking Entourage movie—truly the perfect encapsulation of our worship of the new dumb; of misplaced priorities; of hairgel/shots/models-as-a-social/political ethos.
If that isn’t enough, Spike Lee’s taken to wearing Iman’s jersey courtside. As a reminder, when he’s not dressing in a manner similar to the way that Willy Wonka would garb a particularly masochistic Oompa-Loompa,—an Oompa Loompa that in addition to being essentially slave labor in an English Chocolate factory was also a Knicks fan—the noted auteur has been seen sporting Landry Fields and Jeremy Lin unis. Kiss of freaking death, mang.
Ooh my stomach. That’s not good.
|Kenyon Martin, PF 17 MIN | 3-6 FG | 0-0 FT | 6 REB | 2 AST | 1 STL | 0 BLK | 1 TO | 6 PTS | -12
So there’s this:
And the fact that Martin absolutely nailed Teague in the Jeffs on a dribble penetration (see what I did there. I’m so, so sorry). If you don’t legitimately fear Kenyon Martin’s Oakley-esque ability to intimidate, you’re doing it wrong.
(Runs to bathroom)
|Amar’e Stoudemire, PF 14 MIN | 2-5 FG | 1-2 FT | 2 REB | 1 AST | 0 STL | 0 BLK | 0 TO | 5 PTS | -16
Two nice moves to score at the rim doesn’t make up for the fact that he’s an absolute blight on the other end of the court. . Before tipoff, there was some very ominous pouring out of his heart’s chyme about his early-season frustrations: “”It’s making me look like my game is gone or that I don’t have game anymore because when you play five minutes, it’s just tough to really get in a rhythm.”
This is a true thing, to be sure. Unfortunately, right now, doling out the minutes he requires to get in rhythm leads to a parade of Angry Birds strolling to the basket or a simple pass—the kind that a pee-wee team has the wherewithal to execute—leading to a wide open trey. This game was lost with when the Goateed one went with an Amar’e-Melo-Bargs front line (aka the Human Defensive Cheesecloth), and the Atlantans promptly scored ten points in four possessions, turning a seven-point defect with eight minutes to go to a soul-crushing seventeen.
(Silence. Still in bathroom)
|Cole Aldrich, C 3 MIN | 1-2 FG | 0-0 FT | 2 REB | 0 AST | 0 STL | 0 BLK | 0 TO | 2 PTS | 0
COLE ALDRICH ANAGRAM: CHILL ARC, DOE
(From bathroom) Do we have any Pepto?
|Pablo Prigioni, PG 15 MIN | 2-4 FG | 0-0 FT | 0 REB | 0 AST | 1 STL | 0 BLK | 2 TO | 5 PTS | -5
If Prigioni isn’t going to start, we should just send him to console each and every Knick fan individually. Make use of his talents.
(From bathroom) I think I’m gonna be okay. Just gimme a minute in here. (Sotto voce) Jeez. Can’t a guy get a second to hisself.
|Toure’ Murry, SG 3 MIN | 0-0 FG | 0-0 FT | 0 REB | 0 AST | 0 STL | 0 BLK | 0 TO | 0 PTS | 0
(Exits bathroom). No, I didn’t. I think I’ll be okay though.
|Tim Hardaway Jr., SG 22 MIN | 3-7 FG | 0-1 FT | 1 REB | 3 AST | 1 STL | 0 BLK | 1 TO | 8 PTS | -12
Why he wasn’t in the game in lieu of our favorite social media artist is a mystery understood only by God, Mike Woodson, Mike Woodson’s therapist, and possibly Mike Woodson’s dog. I would probably prefer at least 3 of the above 4 were currently the HC of the NYK. See if you can guess which!
(Runs frantically back to bathroom)
So, Son of Wood, what’s on your mind?
“Defensively, we’ve to figure out who we are. Right now I don’t know who we are.”
Right now, you’re a terrible team. That’s not some Sphinx-level riddle that requires Deep Thought from Hitchhiker’s to solve, Coach. Any other words of wisdom?
“I think everything we are doing is correctable.”
Okay. CORRECT THEM
(Disturbingly sub-human, not even mammalian sounds emerge from bathroom)
Four Things We Saw
- There’s not much to say about this game that we haven’t said ad nauseum: They’ve got a roster of subpar defenders that either can’t or won’t function in what appears to be a deeply flawed ‘system,’ the perpetual switching (with guards going under picks and bigs looking positively gobsmacked that said guard would go under a pick) yields mismatches galore or a wide open corner three after even a halfhearted screen, and they’re terrible at getting back in transition, such that any turnover or even a long rebound instantly turns into an easy bucket. On offense, they need a monstrously effective game from at least 2-3 of their top guns to stay competitive, and if the shooting is even slightly off, it degenerates into brackishly stagnant ISO-ball. Vomit. Wash. Rinse. Vomit. Repeat. Clean up toilet, as droplets of sickly-warm sweat hit the porcelain, feel a rush of salt-filled saliva well up in your jowels, gimly clutch toilet seat. Wonder how your stomach could possibly contain so much material. Silently curse and uncaring or at least absent God. Feel beyond empty, yet somehow know there’s still more to come. Close eyes. Hope beyond hope that maybe, somehow it can just be over; that if you clench your jaw and screw your face up tightly enough you can make it stop—dear Lord, please make it stop.
Toss a sidewalk pizza.
Toss your cookies.
Lose your lunch.
Have a Technicolor yawn.
Perform peristaltic pyrotechnics.
- I feel much better. Whew. Musta been something I ate. Or maybe I was nauseated trying to tell which team was which.
Zero wins, Four losses. In sum, NO. MORE. ORANGE.
- I didn’t get to watch it, because I was hard at work in my quaint, humble old-timey cobbler’s studio, hand-crafting this recap for you, the people, but I really hope the post game show was just 30 minutes of Hahn and Wally in a seedy roadside motel wearing nothing but boxer shorts and fancy ties, frantically/frenetically scouring the carpet for bits of white-colored dirt/grit and then examining them with the precision and attention to detail of a diamond appraiser, while Al Trautwig menacingly waved an empty bottle of Old Crow, unleashing bloodcurdling howls of self-righteous rage at a “Lady of the Evening” after she refused to wear the Jeremy Lin irregular jersey that he had just bought from the sale bin at a Modell’s in the Garden State Mall in Paramus. That’d be boffo.
- And that’s before we even get to the weird “injury” that kept Metta World Peace from suiting up. According to his brother Daniel, via the Twitterbox, there’s another reason and he isn’t feeling unwell. The tweet was quickly retracted, and in the post-game, Woodson said that Metta himself asked out. Which means that someone’s bullshitting us, and there’s more drama around the bend. Because of course there is. I can deal with rooting for a crappy team — we’ve all certainly had enough practice. What I can’t stomach is a team that’s so boringly awful, like the basketball equivalent of Hannah Arendt’s “The Banality of Evil.” It’s just terrible and seemingly fixable and yet utterly unfixable all at once, you know? That’s what’s so galling, so freaking depressing. I’m going back in the can. Let me know when the next game starts. Knicks!