To paraphrase “Baseball’s Sad Lexicon” by Franklin Pierce Adams and shift it upon another landscape of American sports, these are the oddest of possible words: The New York Knicks are the world champions.
A 53-year wait came to a merciful and jubilant end on Saturday night in San Antonio — a 94-90 victory in Game 5 from Frost Bank Center, clinching the Knicks’ first NBA crown since 1973 — with the reverberations not only being felt 1,800 miles away in the heart of New York City, but through decades of near-misses, so-closes, and heartbreak galore.
Jalen Brunson has officially etched his name upon the pantheon of franchise legends despite the ceaseless bloviating from worthless pontificators who said he was too small or too slow to carry a team to a championship.
He now has a franchise NBA Finals record 45-piece in a title-clinching game to show them.
OG Anunoby has achieved sainthood, in large part due to his right hand of destiny in Game 4.
Karl-Anthony Towns has completed a redemption arc that began with his defense being picked apart and him being driven out of town in a trade for, say, Giannis Antetokounmpo, and ended with him being the invaluable piece that helped neutralize Victor Wembanyama.
There might very well be a state of emergency declared upon the streets of Midtown, and local law enforcement and politicians alike might be cringing at the impending property damage that awaits. That is for a political or social commentator to worry about. From a strictly team-and-fandom standpoint, generations of tortured supporters and alumni alike have been healed in one fell swoop.
This was for Charles Smith’s four consecutive missed layup attempts in Game 4 of the 1993 Eastern Conference Finals.
This was for John Starks’ disappearing in Game 7 of the 1994 NBA Finals.
This was for the chokes against the Pacers, whether it was Reggie Miller terrorizing the Garden or Tyrese Haliburton trying to do his best impression 29 years later.
This was for Pat Riley resigning by fax.
This was for drafting Frederic Weiss.
This was for surviving the Isaiah Thomas years, or the Steve Mills years, or the Phil Jackson years.
This was for Stephon Marbury, trying to make it work in his hometown.
This was for horrendous acquisitions of Antonio McDyess or Eddie Curry, or Andrea Bargnani.
This was for signing Amar’e Stoudemire without an insurance policy.
This was for Carmelo Anthony, who provided a sliver of competency for a franchise that had been wandering the desert for much of the previous decade.
This was for Patrick Ewing.
This was for Walt Clyde Frazier, who brought the Knicks to the mountain-top and now finally gets to revel in it as a broadcaster at 81 years young.
This was for Willis Reed, the captain who willed the Knicks to two titles, and is undoubtedly enjoying this from somewhere amongst the cosmos.
This is for the city that lived and died with their team through the lean years and those a bit more bountiful.
Words that are magic that have made a city whole: The Knicks are the world champions.
