Last Night in Boston, or: The Knicks Get Properly Introduced

 

Dear Friend,

Well I suppose you will want to hear about the basketball game they played up here last night, though personally I would have preferred they postponed it until the Knicks learned how to stop a man from running straight through them like a trolley with no brakes. But they went ahead and played it anyhow, on account of the Celtics had already warmed up and it would’ve been rude to send the people home after they paid good money.

Jaylen Brown was the fellow chiefly responsible for the trouble. You might remember him from such previous incidents as “the playoffs,” where he also used the Knicks for cardio. Last night he put in 42 points, though it felt more like he gave the Knicks 42 instructions on how not to defend him, if they ever feel like trying something different. He also collected a few rebounds and assists just to stay hydrated, I guess.

There was one point where he plowed through a couple of Knicks on his way to the basket and I swear he looked offended they didn’t give him more resistance. If this was, as the kids say, “revenge,” then the Knicks might want to apologize again just to be safe.

The Celtics didn’t even ask Tatum to do anything except breathe, and even then they didn’t insist. Derrick White pitched in 22 and four threes, mostly out of politeness.

As for the Knicks, Mikal Bridges decided he might as well shoot the ball since nobody else seemed particularly committed to the task. He made eight threes and scored 35, which means he was the high scorer for both teams not named Jaylen Brown. The rest of the gang looked like they’d taken a vow of offensive modesty.

Jalen Brunson, usually the dependable sort, contributed 15 points that took so much effort you’d think he was being paid by the brick. He spent the evening taking shots that should have come with a warning label, something like “Do Not Attempt Unless Supervised by a Professional.” Unfortunately, he is the professional.

The Celtics won 123–117, which sounds close enough if you squint, though it never felt close unless you count the many instances where Brown got close to a Knicks defender on his way to knocking him over.

The talk around here is that the way to beat the Knicks is to play that old-school physical defense that reminds everyone of the good old days, back when men were men and whistles were ornamental. Judging from last night, I would say the Knicks understand this theory completely, except for the part where they are supposed to respond in some fashion.

Anyway, that’s the news from Boston, where the Celtics improved to 12–9, the Knicks dipped to 13–7, and I developed a renewed respect for sturdy hardwood floors, which spent the whole night getting acquainted with Knicks players who were recently knocked onto them.

Write soon, or send help, whichever comes first.

Yours truly,
A Very Tired Witness

Orlando: A Gentle Execution

 

The city wore its usual mask of artificial cheer tonight — pastel skies, obedient palms, the faint perfume of vacation. But inside the arena, there was no fantasy at all. Only truth. And it was unkind.

The Orlando Magic carved through the New York Knicks, 133–121, with the grace of surgeons and the detachment of poets. There was no chaos to it. No vulgar celebration. Only a clean, stylish dissection.

Franz Wagner, elegant and unhurried, treated the Knicks as one might a familiar novel — a story he’d already read, already understood, and had grown slightly bored of. Thirty-seven points, seven assists, six rebounds. The numbers appear clinical. The performance was intimate. He knows the Knicks now. Knows their hesitations, their fragile bravado, the way their defense folds late in the night like tired fabric. One might almost say he owns them. But ownership implies effort. This required none.

Desmond Bane, a cool extension of Wagner’s will, delivered 27 points with quiet efficiency — the loyal companion in a well-plotted tragedy. Together they wrote the final act long before the fourth quarter arrived.

Jalen Brunson attempted rebellion. Thirty-three points. Eleven assists. A gentleman’s protest against an inevitable fate. Admirable. But there is something lonely, almost decorative, about courage in a losing cause. The ship was tilting. He simply chose to stand upright as it did.

And then — the fourth quarter. That familiar hour when the Knicks seem to forget who they are, when their defense softens into something almost charitable. Passing lanes opened like invitations. Orlando strolled through them, methodically, impeccably, as if late for a reservation they had no intention of missing.

With this win, the Magic rise to 10–7. The Knicks slip to 9–6. But the true shift occurred in something more elusive than record. The illusion of New York’s readiness dissolved under arena lights. The whispers of Eastern Conference contention were silenced by something far louder: reality.

They are not kings. They are not even threats. They are a rumor that has overstayed its welcome.

And Franz Wagner — that courteous, devastating presence — continues to move through them like fate in sneakers.

Orlando did not defeat the Knicks tonight.

Orlando revealed them

THE HEAT PREVAIL AS THE KNICKS FALTER IN THE FINAL MOMENTS: A TALE OF MISSED GLORY IN MIAMI

Tonight, in Miami, we witnessed a contest emblematic of the unpredictable theater that is the National Basketball Association. The Heat — resilient, composed, unfazed by the moment — emerged victorious over the New York Knicks, 115–113.

Norman Powell, a man determined to impose his will, delivered a team-high 19 points and 3 assists. And alongside him, Davion Mitchell — precise, efficient, purposeful — added 18 points on 7-for-12 shooting, including two from beyond the arc, with 5 assists to round out a stellar performance.

For the Knicks, young Miles McBride stood tall. Twenty-five points, five three-pointers, and the unmistakable swagger of a player refusing to concede. Yet even his brilliance could not alter the outcome. The Knicks fall to 8–5, while the Heat climb to 8–6.

But there is more — the cruel hand of misfortune. OG Anunoby, the defensive anchor, felled by a hamstring injury, now sidelined for at least two weeks. A punishing blow for a team already searching for answers.

And once again, let it be stated with clarity: the best play on the floor did not belong to a Knick. When the game hung in the balance, when the moment demanded greatness, Karl-Anthony Towns had two opportunities to seize it… and both fell short.

A wild finish, electrifying in its chaos, but in the end, the New York Knicks come up short against the seventh-place Miami Heat. Such is the relentless, unforgiving nature of sport.