It's Wednesday, you deserve a treat, like an episode of the Hell Gate Podcast! Listen here, or wherever you get your podcasts.
It is fucking happening, you guys: 53 years since the New York Knickerbockers last won a championship, 27 years since they last even appeared in the Finals, the team is now three victories away from winning it, having prevailed over the Spurs in San Antonio last night. Our long metropolitan nightmare is (almost) over. There is an energy in the streets. It is palpable. It is intoxicating.
And as with any intoxication, the elevated, altered state of Knicks ascendancy is causing some people to say stupid things. Like callow teens swept up in the glow of bonhomie borne of 30 solo cups of Natty Light, bellowing "I love you man" to strangers and known assholes, major media outlets are now busy talking with new appreciation about Knicks owner James Dolan.
New York Magazine is sketching out "James Dolan’s Unlikely Redemption Arc." The New York Times is speculating that "For the Knicks' Owner, a Title Might Finally Stop Some Boos." The Wall Street Journal, hanging shirtless from a lamppost, is asserting that "James Dolan Can't Miss."
If the guys on the hardwood bring home a championship, one can imagine that chorus to become louder and more explicit: New York, isn't it time we forgive James Dolan? Do we not love this man?
The answer, of course, is: "Absolutely not. Go home, drink a big glass of water, sleep it off, and try to lie on your side so you don't choke on your own vomit."