In a stunning display of civic pride that would make a Roman emperor blush, Manhattan erupted in a symphony of gunfire and bonfires last night after the Knicks secured a win. A teenager, still damp with the sweat of fandom, was shot. Municipal buses, those lumbering beasts of public transport, were set ablaze like funeral pyres for the city’s collective sense of proportion.
The Knicks, for crying out loud, the Knicks. This is a team that has given its supporters more therapy fodder than championships. But no, we must treat a basketball victory as grounds for a low-grade insurrection.
The New York security apparatus, that sprawling hydra of badges and budgets, now quivers in its boots. Fear grows, they say. Fear of what, precisely?
That teens might celebrate a win by committing arson? That buses might become mobile barbecues? This is the new normal in the city that never sleeps, because it’s too busy running from burning wreckage.
One wonders, if the Mets ever win a pennant, will they simply secede from the Union? The shooting is tragic, yes, a young life punctured in the name of sports. But the real crime here is that no one seems surprised.
We have become a people who expect this, who nod sagely when the evening news reports another casualty of athletic enthusiasm. The governor will make a statement, the mayor will promise action, and by the weekend, we’ll be worried about something else. The buses will be replaced, the teen will be treated or buried, and the cycle will continue.
The Knicks, meanwhile, will bask in the glow of a Pyrrhic victory, their win forever tainted by the scent of petrol. This is America, where everything is a spectacle, even our descent.
