Classic Post
This one, titled "It's time to put a bullet in Mr. Potato Head" was posted for the first time only a month or two ago. And even though the hiring of Phil Jackson makes this seem like a complete impossibility, I remain fond of the idea.
Thus today's classic post ...
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It's Time to Put a Bullet in Mr. Potato Head
By which I refer to the now-inevitable firing of Mike Woodson. A man of whom I'm very fond and for whom I have great respect. But he's lost his connection with the admittedly disfunctional Knicks and it's time to shoot him in the head. Metaphorically, of course.
Do you know that if you Google the words "Mike Woodson Mr" the search bar automatically completes the sentence to read "Mike Woodson Mr. Potato Head." Go to the image section and you get plenty of things like this ...
... which is him wondering why J.R. Smith cannot effectively harness the considerable gifts bestowed upon him by the Basketball Gods.
Anyway, the point is that when I call Mike Woodson Mr. Potato Head, a) it's not just me, and b) it's done in the spirit of good-natured fun. Also, it can't be very satisfying coaching this fucked up team anyway, so send the man away with his pockets loaded with millions of dollars and the opportunity to find a better job with a better team and let's move on.
Whither? one might ask.
Excellent question, although the answer -- to me at least -- is clear. Take a moment and think it through. I'll even give you a hint. That being: Old #33.
This is the six and a half inch version ...
This is the seven foot version ...
I love this man.
The good thing about living in America -- unlike, say, Russia -- is that I can declare the deep love I have for this man without repercussions. And so I say again, I love this man.
Interestingly, I actively disliked him when he was at Georgetown, although that may have been a transference of my considerable antipathy towards John Thompson. But his Knick career was a thing of deep beauty. Deep, flawed beauty. Like a Ming vase. And I will forever be grateful.
Judging from the cap he's holding, the Knicks must have won some kind of playoff series. Sadly, there weren't enough of them for Patrick Ewing. He had the singular misfortune of aligning the zenith of his career with the zenith of Michael Jordan's career. Big mistake. And the one year Jordan was off playing baseball, John Starks, who I also love, was shooting two for eighteen in Game Seven of the NBA finals.
Anyway, the Knicks owner is possibly the worst owner in the history of professional sports. And even if that's not true, the general consensus amongst those of us who know is that he's a miserable little shit of a man, not deserving of a treasure the likes of the New York Knickerbockers. I sometimes wonder how Walt Frazier goes to sleep at night, just thinking about it.
But there's an opportunity here for James Dolan to do the right thing for once in his life; to give the people of New York one beautiful, shining gift.
Hire Patrick Ewing to coach the Knicks.
Thus today's classic post ...
_________________________________________________
It's Time to Put a Bullet in Mr. Potato Head
By which I refer to the now-inevitable firing of Mike Woodson. A man of whom I'm very fond and for whom I have great respect. But he's lost his connection with the admittedly disfunctional Knicks and it's time to shoot him in the head. Metaphorically, of course.
Do you know that if you Google the words "Mike Woodson Mr" the search bar automatically completes the sentence to read "Mike Woodson Mr. Potato Head." Go to the image section and you get plenty of things like this ...
Anyway, the point is that when I call Mike Woodson Mr. Potato Head, a) it's not just me, and b) it's done in the spirit of good-natured fun. Also, it can't be very satisfying coaching this fucked up team anyway, so send the man away with his pockets loaded with millions of dollars and the opportunity to find a better job with a better team and let's move on.
Whither? one might ask.
Excellent question, although the answer -- to me at least -- is clear. Take a moment and think it through. I'll even give you a hint. That being: Old #33.
This is the six and a half inch version ...
The good thing about living in America -- unlike, say, Russia -- is that I can declare the deep love I have for this man without repercussions. And so I say again, I love this man.
Interestingly, I actively disliked him when he was at Georgetown, although that may have been a transference of my considerable antipathy towards John Thompson. But his Knick career was a thing of deep beauty. Deep, flawed beauty. Like a Ming vase. And I will forever be grateful.
Judging from the cap he's holding, the Knicks must have won some kind of playoff series. Sadly, there weren't enough of them for Patrick Ewing. He had the singular misfortune of aligning the zenith of his career with the zenith of Michael Jordan's career. Big mistake. And the one year Jordan was off playing baseball, John Starks, who I also love, was shooting two for eighteen in Game Seven of the NBA finals.
Anyway, the Knicks owner is possibly the worst owner in the history of professional sports. And even if that's not true, the general consensus amongst those of us who know is that he's a miserable little shit of a man, not deserving of a treasure the likes of the New York Knickerbockers. I sometimes wonder how Walt Frazier goes to sleep at night, just thinking about it.
But there's an opportunity here for James Dolan to do the right thing for once in his life; to give the people of New York one beautiful, shining gift.
Hire Patrick Ewing to coach the Knicks.
posted by Geoffrey at 9:03 AM
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