Inexplicable

I don't believe what I just saw.

Game 2: Knicks 91, Celtics 90

When is seeing not believing?

Depends on your perspective.

For 47 minutes and 58 seconds last night, we all saw the Knicks play the Celtics in Game 2 of the 2025 Eastern Conference Semifinals.

I saw that game. And as the images entered my cornea, went into my retina, and went through my optic nerve, the part of my brain that stores 30+ years of basketball knowledge received those signals loud and clear.

No wires got crossed. I didn’t sustain a concussion at any point between the hours of 7:05 and 9:50 pm. The message was getting through without static:

Loss.

Loss. Loss. Loss.

LOSS.

There was no way the Knicks - the New York Knicks, who I’ve been rooting for since I was in third grade, and have never once completed a comeback when they were this dead to rights - were winning this game.

Zero. Zilch. Nada. No chance whatsoever.

The game was over. When you’ve watched the NBA for long enough, you can tell when a game is over. 3-point era be damned, sometimes it just ain’t your night. Games like this have a certain look to them, a certain odor. Like a piece of fish served at dinner that you know you shouldn’t eat, games like this show you who they are early on.

And this one had all the signs.

The laundry list of necessary improvements after Game 1? They must have been written on the last roll of Charmin. Turnovers abound. Offensive rebounds to be had by all; just come right up and claim your prize. No cogent plan for generating efficient half-court offense. Nothing, really, except some spats of solid half court defense was there to hang your hat on.

And to make matters even more hopeless, unlike Monday night, no one had it going on offense. The closest thing they had to an efficient high-volume scorer was Karl-Anthony Towns, who once again commandeered the offense to start the third quarter and once again left with a larger deficit than he started with. They had nothing.

Neither did the Celtics, of course. On one hand, Boston’s continued poor shooting kept the Knicks within striking distance. On the other hand, with how badly New York was playing, I had mixed feelings every time the Celtics bricked another shot.

There’s no way they’re going to keep missing like this. We’re wasting another cold shooting night on this dogshit effort. Save some of these misses for Games 3 and 4 in New York, otherwise this series might be over in five. Start making shots, Boston!

By the time they were down 20 in the third, I had lost it. On the bright side, I sensed sweet release in the near future. Finally, they would put us out of our misery. We would go back to MSG, tied 1-1, with a chance to lick our wounds and re-examine the road map to the play better button. I just needed to get through another 16 minutes of basketball, think of a positive spin for this here newsletter, and we’d be on our merry way.

And then it began.

What was “it,” exactly? I can’t say.

Saw it. Definitely saw it. But can’t tell you what I witnessed. My brain didn’t let me. Still doesn’t. The images that were being fed to the ole’ microprocessor weren’t computing with those three decades of sport-watching wisdom I’d built up.

At first, it happened fast…

Deuce dunk, down to 18.

Hart three, down to 15.

Deuce triple, down to a dozen.

How cruel all of this was.

The ruse finally ended with a Payton Pritchard triples to give Boston a 16-point lead with 8:40 to go. As fake comebacks go, that one barely earned the moniker. Four offensive rebounds in the first three minutes of the fourth quarter were the last reminder I didn’t need that this game should be flushed down the crapper.

But of course, they weren’t done.

Next time down, Hart cleans up his own miss and dishes it to Mitch, who literally flings the ball over his head as he’s getting fouled. And-one incoming. Do I believe in miracles? I believe I saw a free throw that would have been good on an eight-foot rim.

Finally, glorious death was upon me.

Except Brown can’t convert a bucket to extend the lead. After OG misses rim on a drive, Prichard bricks a three, gets another chance after another offensive board, and bricks again. Bridges down the other end for two, 12 point game. Why won’t the voices be quiet, mommy? Why do they keep talking to me, telling me they’re here to haunt me in my dreams? What madness is this?

Horford misses, Mikal makes. Horford misses again, Mikal makes again. It’s down to seven.

Bridges has 14 points in the last six minutes. He’s averaged 12.6 points per game against Boston so far this year. Of all the gin joints in all the world, why does Mikal Bridges and his nine lives keep walking into mine?

We’re now in crunch time, and sure enough, a Brunson three erases the two White free throws that ended the Celtics’ drought. Bridges finally misses. Tatum can’t take advantage, bricking from the corner with no one in the same area code after Brunson fell down in the paint. Rebound Knicks. Hart drives middle from the corner for his easiest bucket of the night. Lead down to four.

Would I, could I now believe this was happening? No. Absolutely no. Boston would wake up. Or we would fall asleep. With under three to play, it felt like one more basket might be enough to end this madness, end the pain of hope.

Brown can’t deliver on a three, but neither can Brunson. Boston hacks Mitch out of the game. A Hart miss, a KAT put-back, an and-one, a one-point lead.

I can’t.

OG stifles a Tatum middy, and then…

Filth.

Get the fuck out of here. I mean, really: get the fuck out of here.

I’m almost back in. I can feel it. Sense it. Taste it.

But I refuse. Give in now, and the loss will only hurt more - exponentially more. Even with the lead, I won’t be duped.

I wait for the other shoe to drop.

Another Brown miss…and I wait.

Another Brown miss…and I wait.

A White miss after an offensive rebound…and I wait.

Brunson coast to coast, easy finish over the puddle that remained of Al Horford. Knicks up three, under a minute to go. New York on a 22-2 run, and this isn’t the Pistons.

If this is a cruel joke, I will never forgive the basketball gods. Hadn’t we been through enough already? This isn’t funny.

Before I could catch my breath, Tatum gets fouled, sinks both, Brunson misses, and Tatum goes the length of the floor for a dunk after a timeout.

See? I knew. I knew the whole time. Fools, the lot of ya’.

How would it end? How would the final shiv be delivered? It didn’t matter. We didn’t deserve it. Did we deserve two losses in one? Hold that thought…

That’s a foul. That’s two free throws. That’s Captain Clutch.

That’s hope.

The wall was about to break. I couldn’t contain it anymore. 12.1 seconds.

An eternity, or an opportunity?

Grab it and find out.

Metaphorically? How about literally:

How…how on earth-

Wait.

We know how.

Sports aren’t special because of what happens the first 99 times; they’re special because we still don’t know how the hundredth time will end.

It’s 4:15 am. More than six hours have passed. I’ve had time to digest, process, and come to grips with the reality that the New York Knicks have a 2-0 lead in the Eastern Conference Semifinals against the defending world champion Boston Celtics.

And not a word of that has sunk in.

Things like this don’t happen to us.

Or at least they didn’t used to.

Explain it?

I can’t.

Embrace it?

We must.

Here’s to a forever win, and that hopefully one day, we’ll believe what we saw.

🏀

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”