This Close to Crisis Blog – Year in Review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.  These stats are good.  Because I am highly transparent in everything I do, I thought I would share these stats with my readers.  Once you take a look, make a New Year’s Resolution, to help me do better in 2013.

Here’s an excerpt:

600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 5,400 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 9 years to get that many views.

Click here to see the complete report.

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Hey Knicks – How About Just Once In My Lifetime?

This is the image that comes up first when you Google Knicks Sadness. It pales in comparison to how I felt after watching them play Wednesday.

In the 1940’s and 1950’s, the Brooklyn Dodgers would always make the playoffs only to fall victim to the New York Yankees in the World Series.  Despite this fact, the diehard fans never gave up.  “Wait ‘til next year!” became an unofficial slogan for the team, even after actually beating the Bronx Bombers in 1955.  At least Brooklyn got a winning team once, right Billy Joel.

As a New York Knicks fan in 2012, I’m still waiting for my next year.  The Knicks haven’t won a NBA championship since 1973.  Of course, I was born three years later and have been miserable ever since.  For 36 years, I have had to live with broken promises, heartbreaking losses, and bitter disappointment. Each year, I keep coming back, waiting to be punished and never learning from my mistake in unjustified excitement – always ending up hanging my head down in defeat.

You’re making fun of me right now.  “Basketball is only a game,” you’re thinking.  And you’re right, but it’s more than that.  Sports involve a commitment that is only rivaled by marriage, friends and family.  You want to see your team win, so you make the conscious choice to turn that television on every day, or buy those tickets to Madison Square Garden, and then read about it all over again in the paper the following morning.  For months, you cheer and players like Patrick Ewing, John Starks, Charles Oakley, Anthony Mason, Larry Johnson, Latrell Sprewell, Amare Stoudemire and Carmelo Anthony become a special part of your lives.  You have made an investment of time, money and energy and just want to see significant returns.  And then they rip your heart out.

Sports are more than just games.  A crappy day is erased when you finally get home, dump yourself on the couch and get lost in the action.  Sports bring people together – high-fiving your friends…hell, you high-fived a total stranger when Stoudemire nailed that nasty one handed dunk in Game 4.  And before Game 5, you went to work and discussed the keys to success for that night’s game. When your team wins, everything that happened that day is insignificant – you can deal with it tomorrow.  When your team loses, you put your head down and reflect about all the bad things that occurred.  I bet you might have said, “Why couldn’t one thing good happen today?  Fuckin’ Knicks.”

Why such emotion?  Quick…what was the most memorable year of your youth?  For me, 1986 easily popped in my head.  That was the year the Mets defied the odds behind a Mookie Wilson dribbler through Bill Buckner’s legs and won the World Series.

I’ll never forget hanging out in Carvel around a black-and-white TV set in 1996, watching Andy Pettitte hold on to a 1-0 win, as the Yankees moved closer to winning their first World Series.  That year was the first time I went to an Opening Day Game with my dad.  Those memories sort of sync up, like in 1991, when me and my pops watched a missed field goal in the final second give the New York Giants their second Super Bowl title.  And the memorable gathering with my girlfriend’s family as we watched the Giants end the Patriots’ perfect season to win an improbable Super Bowl…or this year, when me and Kristy just stayed home together, ate appetizers, drank beer and watched the Giants do it again.

Even the Rangers, who hadn’t won the big one since 1940, allowed me to witness my first home-team Stanley Cup win in 1994.  I may get to see my second this year.  Damn Knicks.  Starks’ dunk over Michael Jordan and Horace Grant erased by four straight missed layup attempts by Charles Smith that cost us the playoffs in 1993.  Great shooting by Starks in the 1994 Playoffs erased by poor shooting from Starks in Game 6 of the NBA Finals that same year.  A great season in 1997 erased by images of Jeff Van Gundy clinging to Alonzo Mourning’s legs during a brawl that cost the Knicks the playoffs.  A shocking playoff win over the No. 1 seeded Miami Heat in 1991 erased by a lackluster performance against the San Antonio Spurs later in the finals. The exciting signings of Stoudemire, Anthony and Chandler during the 2010-11 and 2011-12 seasons erased by selfish play and a lackluster attitude in two playoff appearances that went nowhere.

Why do the bad memories erase the good ones so often?  Memories of my early youth, watching the Knicks on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day on Channel 9 before my Dad would take me in for my regular dentist checkup.  Memories of that brief span of time in the 90’s when we would cramp into my friend’s bedroom to watch every Knicks game, as he was the only one who had cable.  Memories of that same timeframe and playing basketball at Loreto Park, working hard until we won every game in honor of our love of everything Knicks.  That one time in 1996, when I paid $200 for a courtside seat to watch the Knicks win their only playoff victory against The Bulls.  Or that one time in 1997 when I lost a bet with my co-worker as the Heat beat the Knicks and I got to take her out on a date, as a result.  Or in 2010 when I bonded with my sister over a Knicks loss at Madison Square Garden thanks to tickets she got us at the last minute. Or this year, watching the Knicks beat the Celtics and Bulls with my in-laws on Christmas and Easter, respectively.

These memories – these are the ones that would come flooding back and feel that much sweeter with a Knicks Championship.  Just once in my lifetime.  Is that really too much to ask?

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I Don’t Want to be “That Guy”

Ken Minks was over 70-years-old and played against 18-year-old kids as a member of a community college basketball team. This guy is my role model.

“Will there be anyone there around my age,” I asked, knowing deep down that the answer would be no.  I didn’t expect a slight chuckle when I got the answer, but I wasn’t really all that shocked.

I’m turning 36 later this year and I fully realize that I can no longer do the things I used to do as a kid.  But later tonight, I might have to try and do exactly that when I step on the basketball court for the first time in about five years.

I’ve been finding excuses to avoid this moment for several weeks now.  My close friend Brian has asked me to come back to Loreto Park – the old stomping grounds as old people like to say – to play basketball with the guys.  But I have made other plans; my ride got sick and it will take me too long to get there by train; I have a meeting in the City; it’s too cold.  These were the legit excuses I used for why I haven’t been able to make it, but I have no more left, because now it’s my future brother-in-law who has asked me to play ball.  I have no other plans; they are playing until 9 p.m.; I have no meetings; and they are going to play in an indoor gym.  Despite there being no excuses, I still initially balked at the idea when my fiance passed the message on to me.  My trepidation was met with disappointing eyes.  You know how that feels.

But it’s not that i don’t want to hang out with my friend or my future brother-in-law.  That has nothing to do with it at all.  The real fact of the matter is, I just don’t want to be “that guy” – the one who “used to be good”, but looks pathetic and out-of-shape today.  I’m a strong believer in karma, and because I used to make fun of those guys, I can only assume others will do the same when I step on the court and look bad in my feeble attempts and recapturing my past glory.

Back in the day, I was pretty damn good playing basketball.  I even remember my old high-school gym teacher Ms. Greene warning classmates not to allow me to shoot a jumper from the outside. I didn’t have any ball handle and I never even bothered to learn, because I could drain a jumper from anywhere.  Why bother learning a dribble.

When I met my friends, Chris and Brian, at Loreto Park, all they played was basketball, so I did the same.  We became a regular team and the everyday play, from morning to night, allowed my game to evolve.  I perfected the tip-in off the rebound from almost anywhere on the court, studied Patrick Ewing’s drop step to make me unstoppable in the paint, and “gripping the archive for great sky hook” (that’s a Heavy D. and Notorious B.I.G. lyric not a grammar mistake).  I could also shut the opposing offense down with a stifling defense.

The three of us began complementing each other so well, we went from losing every game to beating everyone on the court so bad, we drove them to play roller hockey (The Rangers winning the Stanley Cup in 1994 might have also had a hand in that).  It became almost laughable how good we became and was especially true when we went up against these two older Italian guys who tried to relive their glory – one we would affectionately call Chess Master, because he literally challenged us to play chess after he realized basketball wasn’t his thing anymore.  They both showed signs of what had once made them good, but they always end up looking worn out and beat up as we got to the end of the game.  Their shirts became soaked with sweat and as they seemed to be doubling over in pain and trying to catch their breath, I turned to Brian and said, “I never want to be one of those guys who can’t let go,” and now here I am.

I know…it’s just a game of basketball, but it doesn’t feel that way to me.  For me, it’s almost a test of my age and I am definitely feeling old.  My jump shot has lost some of its arc; I’ve lost a lot of height on my jump; and I’m not expecting passes when I am on the inside with two defenders on me, because no one knows if I can handle a battle in the paint.  If they play a full-court game, I’m expecting to become extremely out of breath.  It’s not pretty -  the cramps, the struggle to regain my breath – someone is going to joke that I need an oxygen mask (Why?  Because that’s a joke I have literally used on others).

So, while the young kid inside of me is excited about getting my hands on the ball, the realist in me is dreading tonight like I dread blood tests and public speaking engagements.  Tonight, I may discover just how old I really am.

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