Manhattan, the island that never sleeps because it is too busy mainlining adrenaline and bad decisions, erupted last night. Not in the good way, not in the way of confetti and champagne corks popping with celebratory pop-gun glee. No, this was eruption of the volcanic, Vesuvius-buries-Pompeii variety. The New York Knicks, in a feat of athletic prowess that defies all logic and the team’s own historical trajectory of mediocrity, actually won a game. And Manhattan, in its infinite wisdom, decided the appropriate response was to set a bus on fire and pepper the night sky with gunfire.
Because that is what adult humans do when their favourite large men successfully place a ball through a hoop. They commit arson and attempted murder. It is a sacred tradition, passed down through generations of tribal warriors who painted their faces and beat drums. Now they paint their faces with face paint from Duane Reade and beat each other over the head with Metrocards. Progress is a beautiful thing.
The reports dribbled in like blood from a nose punch. A bus, that stalwart caterpillar of city transit, was torched. It sat there, a metal dragon belching black smoke, its passengers presumably having fled to safer climes or joined the burning. And then, the crescendo: gunshots. Because nothing says “We are the champions” quite like turning the Second Amendment into a party popper. The streets of Manhattan, already a canvas of neon and desperation, became a war zone. Not a war for territory or resources. A war for the soul of a basketball game.
Let us dissect the absurdity. A basketball game is a contrivance. A made-up conflict between millionaires in shorts. It is a distraction from the crushing weight of rent and the gnawing void of existence. Yet we pour our hopes and, apparently, our incendiary devices into it. The Knicks win, and suddenly the fragile social contract is null and void. Civilisation is but a veneer, and beneath it lurks a pyromaniac who just needs a good jump shot to unleash his inner demons.
What kind of society are we building when a sporting victory is a trigger for violence? We have become a nation of emotional invertebrates, so unmoored from reality that we must externalise every internal tremor in the most destructive way possible. I blame the gin. No, wait, I blame the lack of it. If everyone had a stiff drink and a quiet sit-down, would they still feel the urge to set a bus on fire? Perhaps the answer is not more policing or more gun control but more sedation. A gentle, pharmaceutical haze over Manhattan. A city so sedated that a Knicks win is met with a collective shrug and a request for another G&T.
But no. We choose violence. We choose the primal scream of gunfire and the guttural roar of flames. We are not evolved. We are just better dressed cave men with Twitter. And the Knicks, those unwitting gods of chaos, just keep on winning. For now, the city burns. Tomorrow, the headlines will decry the madness. And the next game, we will do it all over again. Because that is who we are: a species that sets buses on fire to celebrate a ball going through a hoop.
I need another drink. Preferably one that is not served from a burning bus.
