The Best of Everything and Its Discontents
Please, do spend some time with the links post I put together earlier today.
But hold up and stop the virtual presses, even if it means sticking your hand in there until it's pulped and spewing blood everywhere. Crawford for Harrington. Knicks officially dead, my trip to the Garden possibly postponed. The 2007-08 Golden State Warriors become my favorite team of all time and we start a Wiki on them, just like this bullshit local NPR show is telling me to do.
Knicks thinking to the future, Crawford not a true point, blah blah. Bring him to Nellie—and this might be the difference between this current incarnation of D'Antoni-ball (training wheels, system will guide you) and the all-out psychedelic meltdown happening in Oakland—and you're looking forward to a back court of Monta and Crawford, with Maggette at PF, Stephen Jackson somewhere, that Latvian guy whose name I can't spell at center, and a bench of Turiaf, Wright, and He Whose Name Is Not Spake. And Azubulke. Oh, and the net result of the Anthony Morrow experience. Nelson will have to dream up all sorts of treats, instead of just letting them play loose, because they're not good enough for that. And then they will anyway. This team is so bizarre, so mismatched, and so lacking in any kind of internal coherence, that it will be like burning down a forest for the trees, or whatever the saying is.
Truly overwhelmed right now. I just know that we rarely get to see such a perverse need for both desperate coach-ly imagination and players taking themselves to their barely comprehensible limits because there's just no other option. This is not a celebration, or an affirmation, it's deep, dark, and even in failure will have the power to scar us for life. In a good way, like that one on your arm or hand that tells a story unto itself.