We Are All Tom Thibodeau
Image courtesy of Miltiadis Fragkidis
Let the record show that on Martin Luther King Day of 2022, I finally handed my heart and soul to the New York Knicks. There have been many stops and starts over the years — Linsanity, “F*** Trae Young,” bing-bong — influenced by the ever-fluctuating odds of immigrating and interacting directly with the franchise. On Monday I forgot there’d be any hoops on; so imagine my pleasant surprise, stumbling across a handful of hot, delicious, godly hour basketball games. (It was 7 and then 8 PM in Zambia, which is very rarely the case.)
The Knicks lost on Monday by a significant margin to a Charlotte Hornets unit that didn’t even field its best player. I can’t remember the last time I saw a team jack up so many bad shots, a great many of them unabashed airballs. Having abandoned the first quarter of a Celtics game to catch the Knickerbockers, wishing nothing but good upon the team that got me here in the first place, you’d be apt to presume my forehead slap was epic. What had I gotten myself into, you’d wager I asked myself. Not at all, dear reader! That’s how you know it’s true love.
Having discussed a bunch of meaningless trade scenarios with my nephew, a Suns or maybe Raptors or maybe just Shai Gilgeous-Alexander fan, and having thereon determined that Tom Thibodeau is the sort of coach you shuffle along after he builds you a culture, I began my next couple of mornings on Knicks Fan TV. The general citizenry dials in and laments (lately) the coach’s personnel decisions at tip-off and in crunch-time. Irate callers from across New York’s boroughs share armchair tactics with the small handful of armchair tacticians who’ve converted their frustrations, and passion, into Internet savvy and (I hope) YouTube dollars.
At the moment, no one in Knicks land understands why Obi ‘What’s Poppin’ Toppin (a high draft pick with considerable promise, and also ‘hops’) is yet to hear his number called consistently. (It is a waste of a draft pick, and a top ten one especially, to not make a real go of developing young talent.) Last night, the Knicks dropped another home game to the increasingly troublesome but by no means overwhelming Minnesota Timberwolves. An umpteenth time/long time caller named Michael, who sounds barely 14, dialled in to inform the hosts he hopes everybody gets traded.
New York sports fans are famously vitriolic towards their own when they need to be. Just last week, underperforming power forward Julius ‘Iffy Handle’ Randle felt compelled to ask fans to, quote, shut the fuck up. New York sports fans are also famous for their suffering. Why you come, like me, is you admire the cut of a team’s jib: the colours speak to you, the fans cheer louder than anything you’ve ever heard, and you’ve always wanted to catch a show on Broadway someday. Why you stay, with the consistently terrible New York Knicks, is the glum camaraderie in the mornings. The heaving sighs at the postseason spaceship slipping into orbit without you. The wry joke that cracks the ice, and then another. And then, of course, the trade possibilities and what ‘we’ could do for next season.
I find all of this wildly fascinating, eerily homey, like I’ve been doing it or been meant to do it since a quality medical team in New Delhi no-look passed me into existence. (Yeah, there’s a basketball reference in there.)
Yesterday, Q-Tip from A Tribe Called Quest dialled in. Today, Chuck D from Public Enemy. Everyone’s on the same page. Everyone has to get up the morning after a spurned lead and do a job they dislike, and worry during work hours about cap space after the (Evan) Fournier signing and the (Julius) Randle extension. You can see it, hear it, feel it when the Knicks play at Madison Square Garden, even from a spotty stream in Southern Africa: a fanbase that’s one in wanting just a little bit more from life, a little more squeeze out its lemon, but perpetually foiled by ego, game mismanagement, and the fact that God Himself is a Los Angeles Laker.
Or, possibly, President of the Miami Heat.
I had to catch the loss to the Timberwolves on the highlights wire. The crowd was electric every time Fournier splashed one. Without seeing all of the bad decisions, I could make out that RJ ‘The Future’ Barrett perhaps made a couple. I knew instantly that Alec Burks shouldn’t have been on the floor for the last second, ‘cause that’s the only surefire way he doesn’t end up holding the ball. I didn’t know til I sugared my tea, to the tune of KFTV, that he had zero points. He bricked the three, and today we’re all daydreaming again about Donovan Mitchell in a Knicks uniform.
You come for the blue and orange. You stick around for the blues, and orange.
