Well, that was yet another in a series of perfectly awful games by the New Dutch City Dutch Short Pants.
Not that anyone should expect anything different, but since Kevin stoically analyzed the larger failures of the team, in a way that was sad and true and yet totally aware that the situation at hand, like a real-life Toby Ziegler…
…let’s take a look as some amusing and not-at-all amusing odds and ends, plucked out from the wreckage last night’s toxic waste spill of a game, in the early stages of a season that probably should be declared a biohazard/targeted for a SuperFund clean up.
Despite all the lineup silliness, the Knicks were only down five with six minutes to go. There on the floor was a gentleman named Andre Drummond. Mr. Drummond is currently hitting 17.6 percent of his free throws. The Knicks are currently 28th on D. It might have behooved them at that particular juncture to engage in a “Hack-A-‘Dre” strategery, ya think?
I was screaming at the teevee machine. The Twittererers were also screaming, with the all-caps and whatnot. The Helen Keller with a goatee-type on the sideline clearly did not hear this collective outcry from the electronic village because they did not foul Mr. Drummond. Not once. Kenyon Martin, a gentleman who at times seems to resemble a Sufi mystic that’s taken a little too much of Heisenberg’s blue on court, what with the whirling dervishes and flailing arms and vocal chord-shredding yawps of rage/joy, somehow failed to foul him, even by accident.
I’d offer that this was a poor plan, except Woodson’s gone all Colonel Kurtz. It’s not that his methods have grown unsound, like Willard, I don’t see any method at all.
Speaking of the well-made plans of mice and men, The Udrih-Shump-Bargs-Melo-K-Mart quintet was the ‘Bockers’ 5th starting lineup in the first 10 games. Even without Felt’s tender hip (do Penguins have hips?), really? No Prigs? You’re going to start Udrih—a solid vet, for sure—but he’s been MIA. I get the whole, “don’t burn out the vets, but he ended up playing the vast majority of the 2nd half anyway (and really well) and as such, was not available down the stretch, when the team went with a first ever (for Woodson) zero PG look in the final 4-5 minutes. In a related story, the team alternated ISO’s for Melo and JR in all of their final possessions, pretty much freezing out Bargs’ pick and pop skills.
This also was bad.
And this is a ball hitting off Kenyon’s hands, followed by… something by JR.
And this is Melo passing up a wide-open Bargs to take a contested three with the Knicks only down five with 1:21 to go in the 4th quarter
And this is Amar’e. His operating system appears to have crashed right in the middle of a defensive sequence. Reboot him, quick!
Really, watch the whole thing. DO IT. It watches time stop for STAT or else it gets the hose again.
And this is JR Smith, with a pro tip for everyone’s fave beat reporter, Chris Herring:
Sidenote: JR saw me tweeting post-gm quotes in the locker room. Then said, in a serious tone: "Ay, watch what you tweet. They'll fine you."
— Chris Herring (@HerringWSJ) November 20, 2013
So for a while now, we’ve been wondering what in the world Grunwald did or didn’t do that
got him fired earned him the glorious title of special advisor. Based on the drips and drabs of scurrilous rumors and gossip about everyone’s favorite soon-to-be-traded ephebe, Iman Shumpert, I’ve come to the conclusion that Glen was sent packing because he refused to placate a fit of Dolan pique by trading Shump for Zlotys on the Dollar. It’s all speculation on my part, but when you see news like this rumored offer from Zwerling, it is the only answer that makes sense. (‘makes sense’ clearly being a relative term)
So yes, but I’d like to harken back to Kevin’s dandy recap, and add, that’s what’s so maddening/frustrating, much more than the sad, tepid losses and all of the bleating noise/drama that surrounds the team is that many smart people spend a lot of time talking about and thinking about what might be done to keep this leaky, ill-constructed, overpriced yacht with Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack at the wheel from sinkin’. And there’s chatter about ‘blowing it up’/dealing Melo for picks/prospects cap space or just holding the fort until Chandler comes back or trying to swing a big move with Shump/Tim Jr. and a draft pick or two from the 3rd Millennium AD. All of these things could conceivably come to pass.
The larger problem is that any conversation in which we attempt to figure out what the Knicks might (let alone should) do is silly by definition. It is chucking practice basketballs at windmills. A Sisyphean nightmare, with no end in sight. They (Dolan) cannot hear us. They (Dolan) care not what our opinions might be. They (Dolan) take only their own council, and they (Dolan) will do something dumb. Like the man said in Ezekiel 39, IT. IS. COMING.
My holy name I will make known in the midst of My people Israel; and I will not let My holy name be profaned anymore. And the nations will know that I am the LORD, the Holy One in Israel. Behold, it is coming and it shall be done,” declares the Lord GOD. “That is the day of which I have spoken. Then those who inhabit the cities of Israel will go out and make fires with the weapons and burn them, both shields and bucklers, bows and arrows, war clubs and spears, and for seven years they will make fires of them… As for you, son of man, thus says the Lord GOD, ‘Speak to every kind of bird and to every beast of the field, “Assemble and come, gather from every side to My sacrifice which I am going to sacrifice for you, as a great sacrifice on the mountains of Israel, that you may eat flesh and drink blood.
And even if they do start to play at a level consistent with the 45-50 wins that most folks predicted, they’re still doomed, because it’ll only reaffirm to the powers that be (Dolan) that they’re doing the right thing. So failure won’t cause a reassessment of all things Knickerbocker and neither will success. That realization is what’s causing the gnawing pain, deep down in our bones that we (or at least I) just can’t shake. Literally, an existential hoops crisis. They are fucked.
We could stop, I guess. Just walk away. Pick a nice, shiny new team. Somewhere further out west, perhaps, and stop sacrificing our hearts and minds to a patently dumb religion/God; one that doesn’t even particularly seem to like us. But that won’t happen either—not in numbers great enough to affect this church/synagogue/mosque’s (Dolan’s) wallet.
It didn’t happen when they ditched Lin. It didn’t happen when there were effing protests outside MSG at the nadir of the Zeke years. We’re addicts, you see, or really, really devoted battered husbands/wives. (To any that take offense at said analogy, I don’t mean this is as bad as being either a junkie or an abused spouse. It’s not a one-to-one comparison.), and we’ve got an emotional bond to this product, even if it tastes like steaming hot used baby diapers and isn’t very healthy.
But on a lighter note, Kevin also wrote this amazing reinterpretation of Billy Joel’s “We didn’t Start the Fire.” Sing along!
And on an even lighter note, I got the chance to chat with Jameson Draper of PistonPowered at the half. I informed his viewers that I swore to wear this lion’s head until the Knicks win. I probably should have added a clause that I get to take it off to wash it, because this thing gets really sweaty. But I am a man of my word. Accountability, yo.
Oh, and there’s another game tonight. Just nifty. Let’s take a look-y loo at the ol’ handy-dandy pocket schedule and see who’s…DEAR GOD. NOOOOOOOOOOOO!
This is going to be a bloodbath; a slaughter of epic proportions. Yeah, I just referenced the freaking Book of Revelations a few ‘grafs ago, but this game is gonna make that look like a walk in the freaking park with sunshine and lollipops and gamboling and dancing twixt the tulips, spreading our happy magic fairy pixie dust hither and yonder.
David West is going to park his tuchus at center court and just gnaw on one of STAT’s knees, trying to suck out whatever marrow’s left, claiming “He needs his life-force.”
Hibbert’s going to erect a massive bonfire under the basket, and torch whatever pathetic butcher scraps might remain of this so-called team at the end of the evening on a funeral pyre, while Cope giggles and uses that freaking pink backpack as kindling. The Knicks!