Hope floats on forever in sports. The darkest days are preserved by a dawn reflected in the future. We cling to prodigies, the gifted. Basketball prospects benefit from their obscurity. We carve legends from the unknown, those unblemished by close inspection. Why would one of these mythical characters want to wade into the polluted waters of a beleaguered program? Was Lance Stephenson really born ready so he could lace them up for a team that couldn’t even qualify for a conference tournament?
Absolutely. Here are four good reasons why:
1. The Savior Factor: Who wouldn’t want to be a hero, besides that summer movie buzz-kill Peter Parker?
It could be argued that arrogance is a necessary ingredient within the psyche of any great athlete. And while that blind state of mind may be nothing more than a palatable substitution for ignorance, it becomes an invaluable asset in these crazy games we play. Did the Atlanta Hawks mind the odds while they battled eventual champion Boston to seven games in their memorable early round showdown? Did Joey Chestnut consider any long-range health consequences while stuffing his face with five hundred hot dogs in a bid to dethrone legendary master of gluttony Kobayashi?
Reason and logic aren’t applicable when men are serving as living metaphors. These are people who actually believe that existential Muhammad Ali Poster: Impossible is nothing. Sure, you or me may think it a clever turn of phrase, but elite athletes live it. They are blessed with talent they never requested and would never relinquish. This condition is a practical prerequisite for hubris. How many free agents have insanely agreed to pacts with languishing franchises, sporting broad smiles at press conferences, totally assured that they alone could represent the difference between victory and defeat? When the plans are scuttled however, scattered awry, how often do our beloved independent contractors refuse to live up to the agreement set forth in their labyrinth contract? They flee, thieves in the night, refusing to exist in a new nightmarish reality where the hero is conquered. Vince Carter didn’t quit on Toronto; he simply pressed reset, returned late to level one. It’s an unavoidable maze, prestige the cheese, a path traversed by the best and worst.
The overpowering allure is in surviving the metaphorical minefield, overcoming the odds, playing LeBron, carrying a franchise beyond mere respectability. LeBron didn’t even have a choice playing for his hometown, making the free agents’ potential victory all the more complete. The money is a monopoly prop. Ego is everything.
But we shouldn’t rush to judge. Because without the overwhelming arrogance, could there be virtuoso performance? The answer is no. So I propose to the recruit: why fight your hyper competitive wiring? The reasons for St. John’s languishing performance are multifold, but the results are simple and unacceptable. If the player is great, he will want to save the world. They all do. Where better to start than our oozing red quagmire?
2. The Big East: Sports run in cycles. League wide roles are reversed seemingly at random. A wide variety of circumstances congeal, largely without notice over a considerable duration of time, before exploding into clear proof that a tectonic shift has occurred between the NFC and AFC, Eastern and Western Conference, National and American League.
The clandestine machinations becoming this process are so subtle, so easily lost in the transaction wire, that the transformation is often perceived as spontaneous and disorienting. It would take an entire piece to examine why the Big East has taken such a recent quantum leap in terms of talent and depth, but it’s universally recognized by the finest college basketball minds as a totally loaded conference. Playing against weaker siblings would benefit St. John’s through the narrow prism of instant gratification, but revitalizing the dormant Red Storm in a strong, beast of a Big East is the kind of challenge a top talent senses and craves. Just how much prestige would be added, in these circumstances, to a Conference title? How much more excitement would flourish in a tournament run?
3. The Garden: Does anyone really care anymore? Can one idiotically run team ruin the image of the prestigious venue it plays in?
The New York Knicks of recent vintage have been a total disgrace. Nobody besides Jim Dolan and possibly Isiah Thomas would rebut this point. [Maybe the ominously optimistic collection of desperate Knick fans featured in those ill-fated commercials airing this past fall?].
Have the orange bloodstains of a lobotomized organization irrevocably sullied the sacred Garden hardwood? Probably not, but the loving serenades referencing the arena’s tradition and mystique have faded. The reverent flock has narrowed to those featured in the sprawling series “50 Greatest Moments at Madison Square Garden”, hosted by Matthew Modine, and no doubt airing every day until the apocalypse.
Nevertheless, salvation in sports is attainable through victory. Nothing and nobody is excluded from the blessing. The player, working tirelessly, the sportswriter, drinking heavily, the fan, booing loudly, winning redeems all, including the arena. Yankee Stadium wasn’t so romantic in the early nineties, when drug dealers and crack-heads lurked in the upper deck, more secure in the tier seats than on the Bronx streets. Then? Yankee Stadium was a liability. Now? It’s a cathedral. This osmosis, not so coincidentally, occurred upon contention. If Yankee Stadium could rise from those ashes, Madison Square Garden is poised for a fitting final run before it too, is claimed by time. The interior is still blemish free, the security staff still refreshingly intolerant of idiotic behavior, the court still shining, clothed in a favorable ethereal light. Madison Square Garden, where St. John’s always plays a slate of games, represents legitimacy. It’s delivered what greatness required, and still can.
Add in the steep, multi-million dollar financial commitment made by the administration to refurbish Carnaseca Arena, and it is the farthest from a stretch to deem St. John’s facilities impeccable.
4. New York: This town loves basketball.
New York is a Brooklyn teenager practicing his foul shots far past sundown, alone and in a zone; his will the competition, his dreams the game. New York is a fistfight breaking out between well-mannered middle age men at the Y, “a dirty pick!” one yells in the scrum. New York is Patrick Ewing ambling up court after cleaning up Stark’s mess and jamming it home.
When an activity becomes ingrained inside a society, revered for all the right and wrong reasons, the team reflecting that passion is placed on a pedestal, whether or not the roster accepts, or enjoys, this burden. The tragedy of New York basketball is this unrequited passion, a meandering play pieced together by boundless energy but long led adrift by a soulless narrative. They were starving enough to accept Isiah Thomas’ delusional trading tripe. They breathlessly defended the merits of Zach Randolph. They stuck up for Eddy Curry. They all bought Marbury jerseys back in 2002. They wait patiently for David Lee to develop a perimeter game. They plead with Crawford not to take that shot. The Knicks have been run so abhorrently, it has become a generally accepted fact, in the most demanding sports city in the world, that Donnie Walsh needs a couple of years to salvage the wreckage.
St. John’s, and the savior who accepts the responsibility of an entire city, can fill the void. New York is not a college sports town, hasn’t been for years. But with the Knicks in self-imposed purgatory, an exciting, competitive Big East team has the delicious capability to captivate a ready and willing audience. The masses could gather as one, a united front under a red flag.
In a not so distant future, Lance Stephenson just may be a way bigger star than anybody on the Knicks, the downtown billboards all his.
Who could resist this city?
Personal Note: Uncle Anthony,
Thank you for always, always encouraging me to do what I love. You were real, and when you said you liked my writing, there was no doubt in my mind you meant it. Our lack of substantial communication in recent years will be a major regret. Remember when we used to talk baseball? You were a real friend of mine. The joy I heard in your voice when you talked about that story truly redeemed what was previously a wasteful and discouraging experience. There’s no way you could have known how much that meant to me, but it meant a lot. This is dedicated to you. Everything else I write will be too. It’ll be understood from here on, like how I felt we understood each other.
Written By: Matt Waters
Matt is entering his junior year at St. John’s where he is studying Journalism. He is a lifelong resident of Whitestone, NY and he has aspirations of making it big as a screenwriter in Hollywood. In the meantime his fallback plan is continuing writing for Johnny Jungle.
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