The thinking was, we could hop in my ’78 Cutlass Salon right at noon, be on Route 17 and on our way and, with luck, hit the GW Bridge by 5:30 or so, give or take a few minutes, give or take a few state troopers. Mac had called ahead. The game wasn’t a sellout, because the Knicks of 1987 weren’t just a basketball mess on par with anything we’ve seen this year, but a business bust, too.
“Let’s do it,” I said. “I’m in.”
Ah, but as so often happens the big ideas of a late Thursday night dissolved in the harsh reality of early Friday morning. So we weren’t going to make the pilgrimage from the Southern Tier to the blue seats — some ideas are even too dumb for a couple of college kids. Instead, we would have to seek out bars in town that night that had two important things: 1) a satellite dish and 2) a willingness to put that night’s Knicks-Bucks game on the TV, at least for a little while.
Because on this April 10, 1987, if you were a true-believer variety of Knicks fan, as both Mac and I were, you had to be in front of a TV if you couldn’t actually be at the Garden.
Because Bernard was coming back that night.
There were just six games left in a long-lost season. Patrick Ewing’s season already was over. The Garden was a ghost town. But none of that mattered: After more than two years, Bernard King would be suiting up for the Knicks.
Back in ’85, King was the NBA’s leading scorer. He was a year removed from damn near carrying the Knicks past the eventual-champion Celtics by himself. He was a genuine basketball icon in his home town. Then one night in Kansas City, he jumped to try and block a Reggie Theus shot, and when he came down his knee had morphed to oatmeal. And like that he was gone.
He was a more established star than Matt Harvey was when Harvey’s elbow started barking at him, but in so many ways King’s injury was exactly the same millstone around the necks of Knicks fans when it happened, 30 years ago this March 23. Both were singular beams of hope in dark franchise times, enough of a spark to keep the people nourished even as the losses mounted around them.
That’s the curiously unique thing about injuries that take our favorite athletes away from us for extended periods of time. In absentia, their appeal always grows, sometimes replaced by honest-to-god mythology.
In his final years, Mickey Mantle’s disabled-list stints always prompted Yankees fans to launch into what-if monologues and diatribes, and the beauty of that is there is never any true rebuttal necessary. Same with Joe Namath, who after 1969 spent more time on sidelines than he did in huddles, who always seemed one hit — or one wrong turn — away from six weeks of injured reserve.
And every time they would come back, they would seem twice as heroic. When you see tape of Mantle’s 500th home run, it still seems like he might need a pinch runner to make it all the way around the basepaths. Namath came back after a long time away in ’71 to nearly lead the Jets past the 49ers at Shea before (of course) throwing a late game-sealing pick, but there are Jets fans of a certain age who will swear to you that day thrilled them almost much as Super Bowl III.
Harvey’s return Friday afternoon at Tradition Field always was bound to be strangled by hyperbole, because more than 500 days had passed since we had seen him throw a pitch in anger, and because so much of what the Mets are, and who they are, is tied up in Harvey being Harvey again.
The Mets wanted you to focus more on the players who were on the team last year than the one who wasn’t — same as the ’86-87 Knicks wanted you to, same as the Namath-less Jets wants you to, same as the mostly Jeter-free Yankees of 2013 wanted you to — and, honestly, as much as you, as a fan, would have preferred to, too. But it’s impossible. Stars leave a vast vacuum in their absence.
And when they return …
Well, back on April 10, 1987, King scored just seven points in 23 minutes, the Bucks annihilated the Knicks, 132-93, and for a moment Mac and I were relieved we hadn’t wasted the gas. Of course, the Knicks didn’t re-sign Bernard, his last hurrah as a Knick would be those final six games (all losses) and we never would see him in a Knicks uniform again.
Twenty-eight years later, I’m not sure we made the right decision.
The moral of the story?
Watch Matt Harvey pitch as often as you can. Enjoy every start, every inning, every pitch. You just never know.
Whack Back at Vac
John Cobert: If they named a sandwich after Noah Syndergaard, would it be turkey, meat ball or hard cheddar?
Vac: I think at this point dessert is more likely, a generous slice of humble pie.
Joan Mettler: With all of the new faces in the Yankee 2015 spring lineup, I think management should break down and finally place names on uniform backs. If they don’t, not only will fans not be able to tell the players without a scorecard, they’ll barely be able to recognize them with the scorecard as well.
Vac: Where have you gone, Mariano Rivera?
@CouchPotatoCop: Were you surprised by fan reaction to A-Rod, which was clearly positive? I guess fans in Tampa aren’t going to pay to boo.
@MikeVacc: I actually think he’ll hear nothing but cheers at home in April. May and beyond? That’s a different story.
Bill Green: Do you think ancient Nassau Coliseum will be making any special “repairs” or “changes” for the upcoming Brooklyn Islanders Stanley Cup games?
Vac: All I know is, those two words still don’t look right together. I wonder if they ever will.
Vac’s Whacks
I hate to sound like an overprotective grandmother here, but was it really necessary for Matt Harvey to hit 99 on the gun Friday afternoon?
The Nets serve as a wonderful reminder to Knicks fans that just because you assemble a reasonably talented team, that team can still kick you in the solar plexus plenty.
Seriously, nobody thought to alert me to “The Americans” sooner than now? I thought we were friends.
On behalf of fat guys everywhere, I would like to welcome CC Sabathia back to the fold. Now make us proud.