The world — led by Stephen A. Smith — has decided that the New York Knicks’ first NBA championship in 53 years is, as one eager beaver proclaimed on X, “one of the best stories in sports history.”
Yeah, but could it beat Jesse Owens in the 100-yard dash?
Could it upset the Soviets at Lake Placid?
Could it score in its first game back after cancer?
Would it play in Peoria?
The Knicks are an above-average team that won a below-average NBA. Going 53 years between titles reflects mostly on the long-term incompetence of a franchise located in the world’s biggest market and gifted with unlimited resources.
Is it a redemption story for the Knicks’ long-suffering fans?
After hitting Victor Wembanyama with an egg, assaulting San Antonio fans on the streets of New York, lighting a school bus on fire and shooting one of their own, they certainly need some redeeming.
It’s a huge story because of New York’s footprint. Because Smith and ESPN are slobbering all over it. The Worldwide Leader has regressed to bad local sports talk. (Ahem.)
The celebrity fans exacerbate. But Spike Lee has been there forever. Timothee Chalamet and Ben Stiller appear to be real.
It’s a great story. The draught. The epic comebacks.
It’s just not biblical.
If the Knicks’ championship is so mega, imagine what it will be like when one of these teams win:
• Cleveland Guardians (not since 1948).
• Cleveland Browns (not since 1964).
• Buffalo Bills (not since 1965).
• Toronto Maple Leafs (not since 1967).
• Philadelphia Flyers (not since 1975).
• Pirates (not since 1979).
There are other examples, but these teams are mentioned because none of them are ever going to win.
Or maybe they will.
American pro sports produce very random winners as per adding layer upon layer of playoffs. It’s more about surviving than winning. (That said, the Knicks were a convincing 15-5 in the postseason.)
The most precise champions are crowned in Europe’s soccer leagues.
No playoffs. You play each team twice, home and away. The first-place finisher is the champion. It’s a true, fair test.
Speaking of soccer, the World Cup is underway in North America.
In keeping with the spirit of the times, Americans have chosen sides. They either love the World Cup or hate it.
The haters use familiar ammunition:
• “I hate the flopping!” As opposed to NFL receivers yanking out an imaginary flag every time they absorb an ounce of contact. As opposed to the Oklahoma City Thunder.
• “Change the offside rule!” The current law has existed since 1925, with a slight tweak in 1990. But you want to turn soccer into a pinball machine to suit your minuscule American attention span.
• “There’s not enough action!” Be aware that the average NFL game can have as few as 11 minutes of actual action and 85 minutes of huddles, substitutions, halftime and general loitering.
As a soccer lifer, my advice to the haters is, as always: Don’t watch and shut up.
There are plenty of viewing options. I flipped the dial on Sunday morning and came upon a bass-fishing tournament, pickleball, cornhole and competitive table-waiting.
I’m going to continue watching the World Cup.
The U.S. team provided a launch pad for sports-fueled temporary patriotism with that amazing 4-1 victory over Paraguay on Friday.
The U.S. too often plays soccer. That night, the U.S. played proper football.
Sure, Paraguay stinks. That’s what you get with a watered-down, 48-team World Cup.
I’m adopting Scotland as my mistress team — Rod Stewart, Andy Robertson, Kenny Dalglish, etc. — and Friday will see me join the Tartan Army at Gillette Stadium in Foxborough, Mass., for the game against Morocco.
The Scots are in the process of drinking Boston dry. Save a wee bit for me!
No school buses will be burned, nor eggs thrown. Just good old-fashioned, sports-driven alcoholism.