Report From The Besieged City

In advance of tonight’s Shame of the Century Player Haters Ball The Toilet Bowl Game, here are some pictures and words and more words from your friendly neighborhood Knickerbloggers. Get us started Mike!



New York is buzzing...Nope that's snoring.
New York is buzzing…Nope that’s snoring.
Netsest Man In the World
Netsest Man In the World
Oh Cole, someday you'll find the right coach.
Oh Cole, someday you’ll find the right coach.
How I'll be watching the game tonight.
How I’ll be watching the game tonight.

How the rest of the NBA will view this game…



And now, an adaptation of a Zbigniew Herbert poem by Robert. You can read the original here


a poem by Robert Silverman


Too old to carry arms and fight like the others for rebounds –


they graciously gave me the inferior role of chronicler

I record – I don’t know for whom – the history of the siege of New York basketball


I am supposed to be exact but I don’t know when the invasion began

two hundred years ago in December in September perhaps yesterday at dawn

everyone here suffers from a loss of the sense of time


all we have left is the place the attachment to the place

we still rule over the ruins of temples spectres of Madison Square Gardens and Barclays houses

if we lose the ruins nothing will be left


I write as I can in the rhythm of interminable weeks

monday: empty storehouses a pasta shell became the unit of currency

tuesday: Glen Grunwald murdered by unknown assailants

wednesday: negotiations for a cease-fire the enemy has imprisoned our bloggers

we don’t know where Frank is held that is the place of torture

thursday: after a stormy team meeting a majority of voices rejected

the motion of the spice merchants for unconditional surrender

friday: the beginning of the plague saturday: our invincible defender

Iman Shumpert committed suicide sunday: no more water we drove back

an attack at the eastern gate called the Gate of Tyson Chandler’s Knees


all of this is monotonous I know it can’t move anyone


I avoid any commentary I keep a tight hold on my emotions I write about the facts

only they it seems are appreciated in foreign Twitter-ish markets

yet with a certain pride I would like to inform the world

that thanks to the war we have raised a new species of basketball-hating children

our children don’t like fairy tales of championship banners; they play at killing

awake and asleep they dream of soup of bread and bones and Deron Williams

just like dogs and cats


in the evening I like to wander near the outposts of the internet

along the frontier of our uncertain freedom.

I look at the swarms of Feltons and Blatches; soldiers below their lights

I listen to the noise of Dolan’s drums, JR’s barbarian shrieks

truly it is inconceivable the City is still defending itself

the siege has lasted a long time the enemies must take turns

nothing unites them except the desire for our extermination

Rockets, the Heat, even Bobcats; Warriors of the Emperor Stern, regiments of the Transfiguration

who can count them


the colours of their banners change like the forest on the horizon

from delicate bird’s Pacer yellow in spring through Celtic green through Bulls red to winter’s Spurs black


and so in the evening released from facts I can think

about distant ancient matters for example our

retired friends beyond the sea I know they sincerely sympathize

they send us memories of Clyde, and Dollar Bill, and Willis and Red, Super John and Doctor J and Drazen, lard sacks of comfort and good advice

they don’t even know that Layden and Ratner betrayed us

our former allies at the time of the second Apocalypse


their sons are blameless they deserve our gratitude therefore we are grateful

Billy King has not experienced a siege as long as eternity

those struck by misfortune are always alone

the defenders of Carmelo Anthony, Paul Pierce, KG and Bargs the Italian mountaineer


now as I write these words the advocates of conciliation

have won the upper hand over the party of inflexible rotations

a normal hesitation of moods fate still hangs in the balance


cemeteries grow larger the number of perimeter defenders is smaller

yet the defence continues it will continue to the end

and if the City falls but a single man escapes

Prokhorov will carry the City within himself on the roads of exile

he will be the City


we look in the face of Jason Kidd, the face of hunger the face of fire face of death

worst of all – the face of Mike Woodson’s betrayal


and only our dreams have not been humiliated

And finally, here’s some spoken word free prose from Jim Cavan. Go Knicks!

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Robert Silverman

Hey, did you know that in addition to banging the keys here and occasionally for the NY Times and at ESPN, Robert is a playwright, an actor and a wand'ring mendicant/gadfly? He also once wrestled a bear...and lost.

5 thoughts to “Report From The Besieged City”

  1. Bravo! Bravo! Everything about this is delightful. Beauty from ashes, art from suffering. I love it.

  2. God save thee, ancient Silverman!
    From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—
    Why look’st thou so?—”With my crossbow,
    I shot the Albatross.”

  3. Instead of tonight’s game I may just watch those kids punch and kick each other. Probably much more enjoyable.

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