THE shock had worn off, the fear had dissipated, so now there was no need to keep anything inside. Jason Kidd had been on the ground, writhing, his face contorted in an ugly mask of terror, and the silence that had accompanied those awful few moments had left Meadowlands Arena temporarily numb.
But that was a distant memory now. Kidd had risen from the floor, given these long-agonizing Nets fans their very own Willis Reed Moment, put the finishing touches on the Pistons, and now his workday was over.
There were exactly three minutes left before the Nets could don the blue “2003 Eastern Conference Champions” caps that were resting in cardboard boxes on the sideline, before this 102-82 dismantling of the No. 1 seed was done.
And here is where you heard the first real thunder of these playoffs, the sellout crowd of 19,923 rising as one, roaring like the sea, lifting their voices to the rafters, their joy spilling outside, into the parking lot, into the night, maybe all the way across the river. Maybe loud enough for Madison Square Garden to have a listen, so it could hear how its kid brother in the Jersey swamps was doing.
How was he doing?
Two nights, two tenants, two clinching victories, two teams heading off to the Finals riding a crest of momentum, that’s how. First the Devils, in Ottawa. Now the Nets.
By the time Anthony Johnson dribbled out the clock, the Garden was completing its 38th consecutive night of playoff darkness. It lay quiet and still, unless someone happened to leave a window open, allowed the party from Jersey to slip in through the cracks.
“I think it’s great for New Jersey to be represented by both teams,” Kidd would say later, his throbbing ankle swaddled in a designer shoe, 10 full days of R&R now buffering him and a return trip to the NBA Finals. “I wish the Devils the best of luck, and I’m sure they wish us the same.”
Sure they do. Now, as for the basketball and hockey fans of Greater New York, whose seasons seemed to end six months ago, this is a much different story. Of all the miseries that have lately befallen the world’s most famous arena, this has to qualify as the all-time weekend from hell. And New York City – starting with fans No. 1 and 1A, both named Dolan – must gulp hard and close its eyes and maybe swallow a shovel of sugar to digest this most bitter medicine.
Nine short years after the Rangers and Knicks kept the Garden’s lights on all the way to the end of June in an unforgettable tag-team, the poor cousins across the Hudson are perfecting the same trick, determined to take that old parlay one step forward: two titles, one address, and one future have-to-see-it-to-believe-it-sign that would soon grace the highways and byways connecting the outside world to the Meadowlands:
“Welcome to East Rutherford, N.J., Titletown, USA.”
The Garden, this morning, must feel like that other all-time stepped-on, put-upon, overlooked big brother, Fredo Corleone.
MSG: “I was your older brother and I was stepped over.”
Meadowlands: “That’s the way Pop wanted it.”
MSG: “It ain’t the way I WANTED IT!”
Two nights, two teams, two trips to the Finals secured eight miles west of midtown. And, for the Garden: take two tablets, call us in October. When you matter again.
“I watch [the Devils] on TV,” said Richard Jefferson, a native of Arizona, which is likely never be confused with Saskatchewan as a hockey hotbed. “For a long time, they were the only thing Jersey could hang its hat on, before Jason Kidd came here, before the rest of us arrived.”
Now, the two of them just may plan alternating trips down Jersey’s Canyon of Heroes, also known as Paterson Plank Road. For Lou Lamoriello, the Machiavelli of the Meadowlands, and everyone else in New Jersey, the next few weeks will be filled with laughter and good cheer. You can hear it everywhere. Especially eight miles away, distant echoes bouncing inside the world’s most futile arena.
