I did it for you, Indy.
The smothering defense, the torrent of net-ripping jump shots–it was all for you.
It was shock and awe on the hardwood. A 34-point win that, somehow, wasn’t even that close. And it came against the Knicks.
The goddamned Knicks.
Remember in the ’90s when they derisively referred to us, with a sneering condescension only New Yorkers can summon, as “hicks?”
I do. And it’s hard to believe, but their current corps of knuckleheads is even more insufferable than the one from back then.
So I systematically dismantled them, disabusing them of the notion that they’re anything resembling a contender.
I didn’t just humiliate them: I violated their human rights. It was cruel and unusual. Right now, Spike Lee is furiously planning a revisionist documentary to explain it all away.
Oh, don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it. I saw you grinning when Paul George took one step from the three-point line and exploded toward the basket for that thunderous, exclamation point of a dunk. And when Lance Stephenson careened the distance of the court, finishing with a move so spectacular even ESPN won’t be able to ignore it, you squealed like a schoolgirl.
Admit it. You were turned on.
I know–you’re not ready to commit. Not yet.
You’re concerned about our predictable pick-and-roll offense. And you’re worried about the lack of respect we get from officials.
You think I’ll build up your hopes just to let you down again.
I know it’s too soon to expect things to just go back to the way they were back in 2000, when our love was so strong, nothing–not even Shaquille O’Neal’s illegal post game–could keep us apart. I have to earn back your trust, one game at a time.
All I ask is that you acknowledge that I’m not the team that I used to be. That I’m more mature. That I’ve got a real bright future ahead of me if I keep my head on straight.
It’s a future we can share together, Indy. I just know it. And I know, deep down, you know it too.