FIVE years ago, there would have been no sheltering him from the scorn. Can you imagine? Think about what Madison Square Garden would have had in store for Kobe Bryant then. Wearing that uniform? Facing these charges?
Are you serious? Bryant would have been booed the moment he stepped into the layup line. He would have been booed every time he touched the ball. Mike Walczewski, the public address man, wouldn’t have gotten out one syllable of “Lower Merion High School” before the Garden would have shook with venomous rage. Security guards would have been confiscating signs by the armful. The chants would have made a longshoreman blush.
Instead?
“This,” Kobe Bryant said, after contributing 21 points to a 104-83 Lakers victory last night, “was the best reception I’ve had so far.”
If the intention was to turn this unsightly early-season game into a three-hour recruiting pitch, then maybe it was worthwhile. Bryant has talked about opting out of his contract after this year, finding his own franchise, stamping a solo legacy. The way he lovingly talked about the Garden after the game last night, you could tell it’s crossed his mind.
“This has always been my favorite place to come and play,” Bryant said. “I’ve always enjoyed playing here. I always get an awful lot of support when I play here.”
When someone asked if he might want to try it 41 times a year (assuming he isn’t otherwise occupied for the next 5-to-20 years, of course), Bryant just smiled as he walked out of the Garden. Which may not be a “Yes,” but isn’t exactly a “No.”
So if, in the long run, Bryant ultimately encourages the Knicks to take Latrell Sprewell’s old No. 8 out of mothballs, and hand him the keys to the company car, then maybe this benign, buzz-free Garden night will be remembered fondly, and forever.
Otherwise, it was the surest sign of all that professional basketball, as we know it, as we remember it, as we used to treasure it, is dead within the city limits of New York.
For if Kobe Bryant can’t draw waves of venom out of the dormant voice boxes of Garden faithful, who can? This is a man soon to stand trial on a charge of rape, for crying out loud. Where were the signs? Where were the jeers? Where were the chants? All day long, folks wondered what kind of greeting Bryant would get from New York. Allan Houston said, “It’ll be interesting to see;” and Phil Jackson said, “I don’t think it’ll be terribly friendly;” and Bryant, an hour before the game, said, “I’m sure they’ll treat me the way they’d treat anyone else trying to beat the Knicks.”
They all were wrong. There were some boos. There were some cheers. You could hear every word Walczewski said. Shaq got the exact same response. And as soon as the ball went up, the Garden settled back into its slumber.
Yes, this was the surest sign yet that basketball is dead in Manhattan, that the Knicks have finally managed to suck all the life, all the energy, all the passion out of the world’s most famous gymnasium. Derek Jeter sat courtside and silently pulled on a bottle of designer water, flanked by Ashanti, flanked by Jay-Z. A few seats down, Spike Lee, wearing an old-school Dave DeBusschere No. 22 jersey, clapped his hands with melancholy disinterest. Even Woody Allen, in his customary seat behind the Knicks bench, seemed ready to nod off.
They were here, but you could tell they were here because they felt they had to be here, because Knicks-Lakers is supposed to be one of the can’t-miss nights of the basketball calendar, even if it seems like an eternity since Willis Reed limped onto the court and knocked down those two 15-foot Js. They were here because the uniforms still say “Lakers” and “New York,” even though anyone with eyes could see they might as well say “Varsity” and “JV.”
They were here, and they looked as if they would have rather been somewhere else, anywhere else, as if they were counting down the days till pitchers and catchers, (88, if you’re keeping score at home, as of midnight tonight).
Anywhere but here.
