An Atrocity on 33rd Street: The Knicks Find a New Way to Break Our Hearts

 

Ladies and gentlemen... I have been a lifelong New Yorker. I bleed orange and blue. I have stood by this franchise through Charles Smith getting blocked seventeen times in four seconds... through Reggie Miller treating the Garden like it was his living room. Through Isiah Thomas. Through Andrea Bargnani shooting a three with a lead. And just when you think—just when you think—they’ve turned a corner... they invent a new way to torment you.

The New York Knicks—yes, my New York Knicks—just blew a 20-point fourth quarter lead in Game 1 of the Eastern Conference Finals at Madison Square Garden. Let me repeat that for the people who were too stunned to hear it the first time: THEY BLEW A 20-POINT LEAD IN THE FOURTH QUARTER.

And how did it all fall apart, you ask?

Oh, just your standard horror movie plot. First, the Knicks managed to score six points in two and a half minutes. SIX. That’s fewer points than your average toddler scores in a Nerf basketball game in his bedroom. Then, when the game somehow, miraculously, limped its way to overtime—thanks only to Jalen Brunson dragging this team on his back like a man with a refrigerator strapped to his spine—they collapsed again.

Now here’s where it gets insulting.

With 15.3 seconds left, tied at 135, and Indiana inbounding the ball, all the Knicks had to do was defend one play. One. Uno. But Mitchell Robinson—God bless him, I like the brother—but he forgot he was playing basketball. He let Obi Toppin, yes, Obi “I Used to Wear Knicks Blue” Toppin, slice to the basket like he was late for brunch at Sarabeth’s and throw down a DUNK. Not a layup. Not a floater. A dunk. Right down Broadway.

138-135. Garden silent. Spike Lee probably aged ten years.

And then came the final possession. Oh, sweet mercy.

Jalen Brunson—who gave everything he had—launches a three. Misses. Chaos ensues. The Knicks look like a group of men playing hot potato with a live grenade. The ball pinballs around, Mikal Bridges flops to the floor like a fish in a Bass Pro Shop commercial, the ball rolls out of bounds, and the game... the game ends not with a roar, but with a wet fart.

I don’t know how else to say this: This was malpractice. Basketball malpractice.

This was a choke job of historic proportions. I’ve seen a lot of Knicks collapses. I’ve had my heart broken by this team more times than I can count. But tonight? Tonight was special. Tonight was a masterclass in how to lose a basketball game you were winning by 20.

Indiana now leads the series 1-0, and I swear, I don’t know whether to cry, laugh, or call the NYPD and report a robbery. Because what happened tonight was a crime against basketball.

To the Knicks: GET IT TOGETHER. You don’t get to the Eastern Conference Finals often. You don’t squander it like this. Do not let the ghost of Reggie Miller start smiling from his couch.

I’ll be watching Game 2. Begrudgingly. Cautiously. And with TUMS on deck.