A New York Knicks snow day

To all of our friends in the Northeast affected by the historic weather conditions, stay warm and be safe. And if you have access to the internet, we hope that this from-the-future recollection of what happened tonight at Madison Square Garden can get you through the blizzard a little bit quicker.

The New York Knicks were preparing for tonight’s game against the Sacramento Kings, in Madison Square Garden, when Derek Fisher came in to deliver the unfortunate update.

“Alright guys, I have some news for you all. Tonight’s game has been cancelled due to the blizzard…”

*everybody cheers*

“…and now we’re snowed in.”

“What do you mean by snowed in coach?” Tim Hardaway Jr asked quizzically.

“I mean, we can’t get out. We’re stuck here in MSG until some people can dig us out.”

“WHAT!?”

The entire team rushed for the doors, but when they reached them, it was too late. The door opened to reveal only a wall of snow. Everybody really was trapped.

Derek Fisher spoke up once more to try and calm his team down. He hadn’t faced a task this tough since Scott Brooks bet him a permanent spot in the rotation that Fish couldn’t make Kendrick Perkins smile. I mean, who knew all he needed was some Mentos and Diet Coke, along with the world’s largest slip-and-slide, but…

“No, not now, Fish!” the coach thought to himself. This wasn’t the time to reminisce about his playing days. He had a job to do.

“Listen guys, if we all do what I say, we can get through this as a team. Just think of it as a … training exercise.”

“It’s not like the triangle, is it?” a voice piped up from behind the parapets of an already-impressive towel-fort.

“No, Melo, it’s not like the triangle. Why do you keep asking if everything we do is related to the triangle?”

“If it’s like the triangle then I bet I can do it better than Melo can, coach!”

“Tim, two minutes ago you didn’t know what ‘snowed in’ meant. Now sit down and let me think.”

This was bad. Carmelo Anthony and Tim Hardaway Jr sniping at each other — actually, that was normal. Things were going well, all things considered. No one had tried to lead anyone to freedom yet. Maybe normalcy was the answer.

As Fisher pondered how to keep everybody calm, Amar’e Stoudemire stood up and walked over to the snow wall.

“I’m tired of waiting. I’m gonna dig us out of here. Someone keep an eye on how long this goes though, because I don’t want to get frostbite or nothing.”

Well, then. Forget normalcy.

“Alright, Amar’e, way to take the initiative. You see, guys? This is just like a game. When a player takes the initiative, he almost always has an advantage over his opponent.” Fisher went with the changes, trying to make the best of a bad situation.

“I don’t see why you all are so worried about a little snow. Back in Toronto…”

“Andrea, nobody wants to hear about how cold it is in Toronto. So help me God, if you mention it one more time…”

“Calm down Melo! Andrea, we understand it was cold in Toronto, but a lot of us have played in cold places before. It’s not a unique thing.”

“Coach, stop favoring Carmelo like that!”

“Oh, you got another problem Tim?”

“Yeah Carmelo I do, and it’s your face!”

“It’s still not as cold as Toronto, amici…”

Maybe it was the cold billowing in through the open door that no one ever considered closing. Maybe it was the Italian. But at that moment, hell broke loose. Any semblance of control was lost. Langston Galloway had Lance Thomas in a headlock, Melo and Hardaway, Jr. were hold-me-back fighting, and Andrea Bargnani wouldn’t stop talking about how cold Toronto is. This literally couldn’t get worse, as far as Fisher was concerned.

“ENOUGHHHHHHH!”

Oh sweet Jesus, it got worse.

“Quincy, was that you?”

“It was. Well, my beard. Anyway.

Now I KNOW you aren’t all having a fight without me.”

“UUSSSSSSSSSSS!”

“…without us!”

This was bad. This was bad. This was bad. This was bad. This was bad. If they let Quincy Acy and Beard-Acy start fighting, then nobody was going to be available to play whenever they got out of the blizzard. All would be beard.

Suddenly, angelic harmonies came from the corner of the room. Light seemed to pour from everywhere and nowhere; it and everything simply was, in perfect balance, and had always been, and would always be.

“Hey, coach.”

“Pablo? To be honest, I kinda forgot you were here. What’s up?”

“Well…I just noticed something. Amar’e is still digging in that tunnel. Isn’t he on a minutes restriction?”

Everybody rushed over to the tunnel Amar’e had been digging, where they found STAT shivering, yet still digging, digging forever toward freedom.

“Amar’e!? Are you okay Amar’e!? Say something!”

“Do you wanna borrow my headband, Amar’e? I mean it’s kinda sweaty…but it’ll keep you warm.”

“What if I rub my beard all over him?”

“I don’t think that’ll work, Quincy…”

“THERMOOOOOODYNAMMMMMMMICSSSSSSSSSSSS!”

“How do you know if it will work or not, Tim? Now back in Toronto…”

As the din rose and rose, Amar’e struggled to gather enough strength to say something. Finally, with a sharp inhalation, he spoke.

“I’m alright guys…I gave it my all. It’s like coach said…take the initiative when you can.”

Amar’e sighed. Amar’e closed his eyes. It was time for a nap.

Tears formed in the corner of Melo’s eyes at the sight of the supine Stoudemire. He loved naps. “I guess we weren’t really listening to coach Fisher enough, huh guys?”

“No, we weren’t. We were too busy getting in fights, and focusing on ourselves. And Toronto.”

“It’s alright guys. The important part is Amar’e is okay, and now we can work as a team. And I can do it better than Melo can.”

“Alright coach! Now how are we gonna make it through this? Should I fight the snow?”

“CAAAAABLEVIIIIISSSSSSIIIIIIONNNNN!”

“That’s right, beard! …also, stop talking, because it’s giving me the creeps addressing a beard.” Fisher shook his head rapidly, trying to clear his mind of the thought. “You see, guys, MSG is equipped for emergencies like this. In the next room over there should be rations of food to last us a whole month if need be, and enough JD and the Straight Shot videos to entertain us for at least 13.5 seconds! It’ll be a veritable party!”

Then, a harrowing sound filled the air. A low, gnashing crunch, like carving the Statue of Liberty from an iceberg with the jaws of life.

Was it the snow? No, it came from inside the building. From someone getting closer. From something walking around the corner.

“Hey guys! Long time no see.”

“RAYMOND!? What are you doing here!? And is that…OUR FOOD!?”

“Yeah, funny story man. I was up in New York talking to Commish Cueball about something, some NBA Fit photoshoot or something, I dunno, they gave me a bunch of these T-shirts…but anyway, then this snow started coming in. I mean, not like it is now, but there were some flakes and stuff, you know? And I didn’t know where else to go, so, you know, I came to MSG, like the swallows to Capistrano or something. Before I knew it, I was trapped here, and then I found all this food, and you know that saying about there only being one set of footprints in the tough times? Well, it’s like that, but with ramen and, man, I don’t even know, I think this is powdered milk? I’ve just been dipping into it with a mozzarella stick I found like it’s Fun Dip, though.

So what’s up?”

Crazy eyes. 16 pairs of crazy eyes, all staring back at Felton. That was the only response.

“Uhh….guys….why are you looking at me like that. I don’t like where this is going”

The team slowly started to close around Raymond. Snow had finally driven them insane. And at that moment, when man stares at man and decides whether man should become beast, another unlikely face literally swooped in, dangling from some unseen anchor point on a grappling hook stretched from a utility belt, cackling like a mad man. He dropkicked the snow, sending chunks hurtling across the street, where they landed with military precision in the waiting freezers of local merchants. The hero finished clearing the path and stood proud in the center of the room. He grinned, and he let loose.

“YOU TRYING TO GET THE RESCUE!?”

“J.R.!? You’re here…you’re rescuing us!?”

“Yeah. J.R. Smith heard that his old Knicks teammates were in trouble. So J.R. Smith came to save the day like J.R. Smith used to always do back in the day. Now everybody follow J.R. Smith and lets get out of here. J.R. Smith stole one of James Dolan’s old helicopters when Shumpert got traded…”

“You mean when you got traded?”

“…so we can use that to get out of here.”

Once again, everyone cheered. Everyone, that is, save a lone cynic.

“Guys, wait a minute. Doesn’t this whole ending seem kind of contrived and, well, deus ex machina? I mean, it worked in The Pit and the Pendulum, but it’s pretty well done at this point, and I’m not sure being aware of how overplayed it is really suffices as a meaningful acknowledgement. Shouldn’t we at least wonder what kind of benevolent force would create a scenario that would see us rescued in such an unlikely fashion, and whether that force is so powerful as to be entirely focused on every other person, or if it — because to specify a gender or even guess at its nature is itself folly — has some odd reason to care about us, specifically?”

“…coach, can we trade Pablo?”

“Seriously, coach, I’m done with this guy. That’s not even in the book you gave us about the Triangle.”

“Yes. Trade him to Toronto.”

“EXISTENTIAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLL.”