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...York, see, is a place where former Knicks general manager Scott Layden served as the primary target for so many years. It was easy. Too easy, maybe. “Fire Layden” was bound to be heard at an NBA Draft as sure as the sun rises in the morning. The Knicks could have somehow redrafted the second comings of Wills Reed, Clyde Frazier, Bill Bradley, Earl Monroe and company during Layden’s tenure but it wouldn’t have mattered. The mockery was a draft-day rite, although this year, Layden was very explicably...
...void for the rest of us, it seemed. I considered chanting “Rufio, Rufio” a la the movie Hook but that plan foolishly fell by the wayside. There was the always good “TIMMERMANS” chant (see Part One of this NBA Draft diary) to fall back on, but that was too obscure for anyone else to get. We were at a loss, and the quiet was disheartening...
...like a shining beacon of hope, and fitting the requisite criteria of being at least tangentially involved with the NBA Draft, possibly incompetent and alive—tight rules, really—a man stepped up to save us all from our collective funk: Tom Tolbert...
Regardless, it didn’t take long for the Garden to smell blood. Even as the lottery picks were being called, people focused their attention acutely on Tolbert, who had done nothing wrong on this night. His reputation, unfortunately, preceded him. He is pretty well-known by NBA fans in general as a brashly self-assured commentator who seemingly lacks the commentating chops. Arguably, he is Steven A. Smith, except white, not entertaining, and without the ability to angrily strike the fear of God into your heart. And so they pounced...
...paraphrase one of Chris Farley’s better bits on “Saturday Night Live,” in which he goes on Weekend Update and recalls fond memories of being a baseball streaker, “To me, the NBA isn’t about the score, or who drafts who…it’s about going to the Garden on a Thursday night, drinking a few beers and mocking, wild and free. Until the security guards come and beat the holy beejeezus...