In a turn of events that has left even the most cynical gin-soaked hacks like myself clutching their monocles, New York Knicks fans have reportedly declared a pilgrimage to San Antonio as the 'greatest day' in their miserable, orange-ball-chasing lives. Yes, you heard it here first, or possibly on a Livestream from a bloke in a Jeremy Lin jersey weeping into a chimichanga. Meanwhile, the British Basketball Federation (or whatever they call their ever-so-slightly-less-embarrassing version of the sport) has seized upon this transatlantic frenzy to announce ambitious plans for grassroots growth, as if a few thousand Brits lobbing a ball at a hoop in a damp community centre could ever replicate the glory of Madison Square Garden. The audacity. The sheer, unadulterated pluck of a nation that invented the sport of 'netball' thinking they can muscle in on the NBA's turf is precisely the sort of delusional optimism that fills my columns with something other than pure, unvarnished despair.
Let us first consider the scene in San Antonio. The Knicks, perennial also-rans who have spent the better part of two decades achieving glorious mediocrity, somehow convinced their long-suffering fans that a mid-season road game in the Alamo City constituted a day of biblical significance. Perhaps it was the novelty of winning two consecutive games. Perhaps it was the Tex-Mex. But more likely, it was the desperate need for any scrap of joy in a city that has given us Rudy Giuliani and car alarms. One fan, interviewed between slurps of a margarita the size of a toddler's head, proclaimed, 'This is better than the day my son was born, because my son doesn't play power forward.' I couldn't make this up if I were paid in Jermyn Street silk.
And what of the British basketball initiative? Typically, whenever the UK tries to appropriate a sport, it does so with all the grace of a badger attempting tap dancing. The press release, no doubt crafted by a marketing intern named Gemma who thinks 'basketball' is something you do with a basket and a ball of wool, promises to 'bring the game to the masses' by installing hoops in 'deprived urban areas.' Because nothing says 'grassroots' like a rusty hoop nailed to a lamp post in a car park next to a Greggs. They cite the success of the NBA's global outreach, ignoring the small fact that Britain's last notable contribution to the sport was a man named John Amaechi, and before that, someone who vaguely resembled a basketball player in a 1948 film reel. The elite plan to cherry-pick kids who can jump higher than a puddle? Mark my words: the only thing this will grow is bureaucracy and the market for overpriced tracksuits.
But back to the Knicks. Their 'greatest day' involved beating the Spurs, a team that has more championships than the Knicks have had competent coaches, by a margin that required overtime. It was, by any objective measure, a Tuesday. Yet the faithful celebrated as if they had discovered a new flavour of Gatorade. They chanted. They hugged strangers. One man was reportedly seen crying into a foam finger. This is the same fanbase that once booed Patrick Ewing. The cognitive dissonance is staggering, even by my standards.
So what have we learned? That basketball is a religion, and its holiest of holies is wherever the Knicks can manage to avoid total humiliation. Meanwhile, the British Basketball Federation will trundle along, spending taxpayer money on inflatable hoops and branded sweatbands, achieving perhaps one or two players who will ride the bench in the G-League before returning to a job in accounting. And I, Biff Thistlethwaite, will be here, watching it all from a bar stool, wondering if this country will ever understand that you cannot gin up passion for a sport by public relations. You can only drown it in gin, which is exactly what I intend to do now.
