The New York Knicks sit third in the Eastern conference, third in the league in offensive rating and third in offensive rebounds, having committed the third-fewest turnovers. Jalen Brunson just returned
from a twisted ankle that made him the third Knick starter to miss a game already, joining OG Anunoby and Frankenstein fifth-starter Jotchell McHartinson.
The two teams ahead of New York in the East are Detroit and Toronto. I’m not worried about either. Ergo, the Knicks are in a good place in the conference — only with Cleveland off to a ho-hum 10-6, Boston a medically-induced morass of middling and Indiana riding their once-in-a-lifetime lottery luck like a beaming Mia Malkova riding . . . well, metaphor aside, the point is that the Knicks could be doing better. Should they, though?
How do you feel about their start?
Hey, you having a kid soon? Hoping to? Someday? If you love that kid, make sure their name is four syllables. That’s how many it takes to get chanted at Madison Square Garden. You’d think that kinda thing boils down to greatness, or maybe time. Nah. Think about it.
Patrick Ewing’s name got chanted. Jalen Brunson’s will, if it hasn’t already. Carmelo Anthony never did, though. Too many syllables, even if you cut “Carmelo” to “Melo.” KAT never will, either; same reason. Julius Randle, Amar’e Stoudemire, Charles Oakley? Nope. Jeff Van Gundy did. Not Pat Riley.
It’s not just the syllables. New Yorkers always add a little flavor to what they do. That’s how 19,763 strangers (that used to be the sell0ut number; dunno what it is now, after the sellouts sold out some more) are somehow, immediately, intrinsically aware that where the stress falls in those syllables matters! “Tom Thibodeau” had the right number of beats, but the stresses are all wrong. Where would you even hit the accent? TOM thi-BO-deau? Not merely off-key, but literally diabolical; like a waltz danced in 4/4.
Landry Shamet has now had his name chanted at the Garden twice in six months. Julius Randle? Allan Houston? John Starks? Bernard King? Never! Sure, the Hall of Fame and All-NBA selections are fine, yeah, but have you ever considered the mouth-feel of a player’s name? Its play upon the ear?
I hated writing “Afflalo” when he was a Knick because my brain always wanted his first name to be “Aron,” not “Arron.” Strictly sonorously, “Afflalo” is a beautiful sound, if only for its strangeness, for the necessity of that strangeness. If Schoenberg were alive and heard the word “Afflalo,” he wouldn’t smile — he’s Schoenberg — but he’d recognize something of his twelve-tone music in that name, feel a ringing inside himself, an affirmation. That’s not nothing.
It’s November mailbag, babes. Whaddya wanna share? Ask. Seek. Knock. Come as you are.
