co-author: Stokes Howell (who wrote most of it)
Todd and I were going to a basketball game at Madison Square Garden. It was the Knicks’ second game in the NBA playoffs. We were hoping it wouldn’t be a repeat of the first game, which was as sorry an exhibition of roundball as you’ll ever suffer through. The Knicks’ guards couldn’t buy a bucket in the fourth quarter. All they hit was iron, but they wouldn’t stop gunning. Meanwhile the Pacer guards were draining threes and the Pacers blew the Knicks out, 111-92.
“The coach needs to crack the whip and make these guys toe the line,” Todd said. “Ewing is working his ass off down in the blocks to get position, and those ballhogging guards are hoisting three-pointers from way downtown. That ain’t gonna get it. We need to pound the ball inside and get some easy baskets.”
“If they’d take the ball to the hole, then Ewing’d at least have a shot at grabbing the miss and getting some put-backs,” I replied. “Or maybe they’d get fouled and go to the line. Starks and Harper only shot three freebies between them all night.”
“And Smith has to step up and play some ‘D’,” Todd said. “His man blew right by him the whole game. If that keeps up he’ll be seeing a lot of pine time tonight.”
“Yeah, well, maybe he needs to be on the bench. Smith can’t get his shot off under the hoop. Did you see Davis stuff him three times in a row? He really gave him a facial.”
We bought a program, and some beer and fries. We went down the ramp to Section 344, where we had season tickets. The crowd was already loud.
“The joint is jumping tonight,” I said.
“I guess we’ll be behind those loudmouth Pacer fans again,” Todd said.
“Man, what a bunch of dorks. They were jumping up giving high-fives in the first quarter. They must get loaded before the game.”
“Yeah, then they pig out on hot dogs and spill beer all over the floor.”
“Whaddya gonna do,” I said.
“I’m gonna tell ‘em to sit their fat asses down if they keep me from seeing the floor, that’s what I’m gonna do,” Todd said.
Todd likes to mouth off. When we played hoops together in high school he was known as the best bench jockey in the city. He could mess with guys’ heads until they lost their cool and started screwing up. Now that he wasn’t playing anymore, his outlet for his sharp tongue was to needle players and fans of the Knicks’ opponents.
“Get a move on,” I said. “It’s almost game time.”
“Gimme a break, tip-off isn’t until eight o’clock and we’ll be in our seats in half a sec.”
“I don’t want to miss the introductions.”
“Okay already. I’m right behind you.”
The first quarter the Knicks came out like gangbusters. Oakley and Ewing were sweeping the boards, the guards were getting out on the break and Mason went coast-to-coast for a slam, jamming right over Smits. Mason’s a widebody, but he can sky. Harper was dishing the ball to the big men, and even showed some shake-and-bake moves to get good penetration. The Knicks went ahead of the Pacers by ten points. Todd and I were fired up.
Todd said, “We’re eating their lunch. This is taking the wind out of Reggie Miller’s sails. I don’t see him talking trash tonight. Reggie, you suck. Bite me!” Todd screamed.
“Don’t write him off yet,” I said. “Reggie’s got game. When he gets in a zone, he’s unstoppable.”
“I know he’s got game. And he’s got the ‘tude too, but it’ll make my day if Starks can shut him down. Oh shit, he just faked Starks’ jock off.”
Sure enough, Miller had just given Starks a head fake, got him in the air and shot by him like he was standing still. The three Pacer fans in front of us jumped up out of their seats.
“Yo, Reggie, way to be, dude. Take it to ‘em!” said the first one.
“Did you see our homey? He burned him! He left scorch marks on his back,” the second one chimed in.
The third one stood up and looked over his shoulder at Todd before shouting, “Reggie’s the man! He’s the man!”
Todd couldn’t stand it. He had to say something. He screamed down at the players:
“Reggie blows! He’s all mouth! Get that hotdog off the court!”
The three Pacer fans stopped cheering and turned back to glare at Todd. One of them said something to the others. Todd and I ignored them giving us the hairy eyeball. Finally they sat back down and we could see again. Unfortunately, Reggie got hot and started hitting everything he threw up. He was unconscious. At one point he scored eleven points in a row, either by breaking his man down off the dribble or running off screens. The Knicks were trying to key on him but once Starks got three personals and Davis came in off the bench to try to play defense, Reggie ate him alive. The Pacers were running and gunning. By halftime they had a 7 point lead. Todd and I went out to the hall to light up. Todd was looking pretty bummed.
“Man, what a dismal second quarter. We’re getting our heads handed to us. They’re killing us on the boards. They’re camping in the paint and getting every rebound, then Jackson gets it out to Reggie and he hits nothing but net. Did you see him drill that jumper from the corner? He even banked one in off the glass.”
“Yeah, they’re playing in-your-face b-ball tonight. If Ewing hadn’t hit those two hook shots we’d be down double digits. We can’t afford to get down two games to none at home.”
“We’re not going to. We’ve got a deep bench. We’ll wear ‘em down in the second half. We got to. I can’t stand to hear any more bullshit from those Pacer fans.”
But the third quarter was more of the same. The Pacers were shooting the eyes out of the basket. Turn-around jumpers, sky hooks, reverse lay-ups, they made it look easy. Meanwhile the Knicks couldn’t hit the side of a barn. At one point they didn’t score a basket for six minutes. Their only points came from the charity stripe. They had a lot of turnovers, too. Harper got called for traveling twice, and Starks double dribbled and threw the ball away a couple of times. It wasn’t looking good for us. The Pacer fans in front of us were eating it up. They were as happy as pigs in shit. Every time Miller threw down a dunk or swished a trey, they turned and razzed us. Normally Todd would have answered back. It wasn’t like him to sit there and take abuse. But the Knicks’ lousy play had him too upset.
“It’s over, man,” he said to me. “We’ve lost. We stink. We haven’t got a snowball’s chance in hell.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “We still have one more quarter to go.”
“But we’re down fifteen and nobody’s playing. It’s like these guys never played hoops before in their lives.”
“Yeah, but we’ve weathered their run,” I said. “I think they’re just about out of gas. It’s time to take it to ‘em. Come on, don’t wimp out on me now. Get your second wind.”
Sure enough, at the start of the fourth quarter the Knicks started showing some signs of life. Oakley made a good hustle play to save a ball out of bounds. They started isolating Ewing one-on-one against Smits and he nailed a couple of short jumpers. Gradually the Knicks got back in the game. When Mason blocked Miller under the basket then threw a fullcourt pass to Davis for the jam at the other end, the Knick fans went wild.
“How’d that taste, Reggie?” Todd screamed. “Salty enough for you? Man, that was too cool for school. He made him eat leather.”
That started a Knick comeback. They reeled off thirteen points in a row to deadlock the score, then Smith threw one down on the break and suddenly the Knicks had the lead! The Pacer fans in front of us weren’t liking it much. When Todd got carried away and shouted “You’re choking!” at Reggie, the biggest of the three fans took offense.
“Hey man, stick it up your ass,” he said to Todd, not very politely.
“The Knicks are the choke artists, not the Pacers. We beat your butt Monday night and we’ll do it again tonight. So shut the fuck up.”
If it had been me, I would have shut the fuck up or thanked the guy for correcting me. I’m telling you, this guy was a monster. His head was shaved in the back and the words “In-your-face” had been shaved into his hair. He looked like he just got let out of Riker’s with a day pass to come to the game. But Todd never backed down from anybody. He’d fight King Kong himself if the big guy rubbed him the wrong way.
“In your dreams, dude,” he replied. “If your mind wasn’t so clouded by steroids you’d realize it’s all over for the Pacers.” Then Todd said to me, under his breath, “This guy doesn’t have anything between the ears. It’s not a plea for less books about Star Trek, it’s a plea for an end to stupid books about Star Trek.”
I was getting worried. This guy looked like a professional wrestler and seemed just plastered enough to want to shove Todd’s teeth down his throat. But just then play started up again, the Big Guy’s buddies got him to chill out and once again we all had our eyes glued to the game.
There was one minute left. The Knicks went up by a point when Harper threw an alley-oop to Ewing which the Knicks’ center slammed home. Oh Captain my Captain! (see the 1989 film Dead Poets Society, starring Robin Williams and directed by Peter Weir). Then the Pacers came down and Reggie laid one in with a finger roll. The Pacer fans loved it.
“What hangtime! He was in the air five seconds!”
It didn’t look great for us. There were fifteen seconds left and the Knicks were playing for one shot. The whole ballgame was riding on one throw of the dice. With the clock winding down, Starks passed the ball into the post to Ewing, who was supposed to take the shot but was immediately double-teamed and had to kick it back out to Harper at the top of the key. With just two seconds left on the game clock, Harper took one dribble and launched a desperation shot from well beyond the three-point arc. It seemed like the ball was in the air for half an hour instead of half a second. Finally it dropped through the cords and the Knicks were winners, 96-94!
Todd was beside himself. He kept saying “Oh my God. Oh my God. What a clutch shot. Un-fucking-believable. I can’t believe it went in.”
The Pacer fans couldn’t believe it either.
“Christ,” said the Big One. “We had it in the bag and we let it slip away. Harper nails a prayer and that’s all she wrote.” The Pacer fans left their seats and started heading our way.
“Todd, keep your trap shut when these guys walk by us,” I whispered. “Don’t get that big S.O.B. upset. I don’t want to have to scrape you up off the sidewalk.”
I could see Todd was preparing to say something rude. He just couldn’t help it. I was just hoping I wouldn’t get bodyslammed too.
“Watch this,” Todd whispered, his voice croaky from screaming. I was ready for the worst.
The Big Guy strutted by in his yellow high heels. He looked at Todd like he was ready to jump down his throat if Todd said spit to him.
“It’s cool, man. I dig your ‘do’,” Todd said.
The Big Guy looked back, rubbed his hand over his chrome dome, smiled, and said, “Thanks, man.” He walked on a couple of steps then stopped and turned around. “The Pacers are going to kick butt Wednesday night.”
“Hey, man,” Todd said. “Let ‘em take their best shot.”
The Big Guy turned and walked away. I took a deep breath. That was it. We didn’t get our butts kicked. We didn’t get whaled on. We lived to watch another game.
The Knicks won the series in six, but then got beat by the Bulls in seven in the conference finals. As Todd and I left the Garden after the final game of the season, Todd turned to me and said, “Next year, man. We’ll win it all next year.”
“For sure,” I said.
“The 1970 NBA Finals are best-known for Willis Reed’s inspirational moment, when he limped out onto the floor at Madison Square Garden for Game 7 and scored New York’s first two baskets of the game, sparking the Knicks to a 113-99 victory over the Los Angeles Lakers for the franchise’s first NBA championship. But Game 3 of that series produced another memorable moment in NBA history, thanks to an amazing shot by Lakers guard Jerry West, who earned the nickname “Mr. Clutch” for his ability to perform in pressure situations. After splitting the first two games, the teams moved to Los Angeles for Game 3 and the Lakers promptly grabbed a 56-42 halftime lead. The Knicks, led by Dave DeBusschere and Dick Barnett, chipped away at the margin in the third quarter and finally drew even at 96-96 with two minutes to play. The lead seesawed until Wilt Chamberlain made one of two free throw attempts to tie the score again at 100 with 13 seconds left. DeBusschere scored on a short jumper with three seconds to play to put New York up by two. The Lakers were out of timeouts, so West took the inbounds pass from Chamberlain in the backcourt, dribbled as far as he dared and then launched a 60-footer. It found its target as DeBusschere, under the basket, threw his arms up in disgust. West’s bomb tied the score at 102-102 and sent the game into overtime, but the Knicks managed to regroup for a 111-108 win. Had West’s shot been taken today it would have been worth three points and the Lakers would have won the game in regulation, which might well have changed the course of that series.”
The above paragraph is stolen from the office of www.Redux.com
