Raptors 113, Knicks 106: All good things come to an end?
It took the kings of the north to send New York’s winning streak south for the winter.
All good things must come to end, some say. I’m not sure I believe that. The great storyteller Neil Gaiman once wrote of a man named Hob Gadling, a British bloke who sometime around the 14th century decided he was never going to die. Hob concluded the reason everybody died was because they thought they had to, so he would get around that unpleasantness by simply refusing to accept it as inevitable. In Gaiman’s world, at least, Hob is alive and well 600 years later.
The New York Knicks went two-and-a-half weeks without losing, a lifetime in the NBA, before finally succumbing to the Toronto Gumbys 113-106 at Madison Square Garden. Doesn’t seem very fair to be bothered by the loss – the Knicks just won eight straight, after all; that’s a more than respectable run. Yes, the Raptors came into the night on a six-game skid, but there’s a difference between that and the Pistons on a six-game lull; Toronto is a known quantity in the East, a team many had in the top-six before the season began. Plus it’s basic probability: what are the odds of any team, much less one everyone ranked ahead of New York this year, losing seven straight?
Perhaps all winning streaks must come to an end. If so, last night made a certain sense as the Knick streak’s endpoint. Like the Knicks, the Raptors play a physical brand of ball; unlike pretty much every team in the league, Toronto is basically a dozen dudes who are 6-foot-9 with 7-foot-3 wingspans. That and Fred VanVleet. So their defense is a different proposition than most. Jalen Brunson learned this to his chagrin; the point guard of the future looked as flustered as any from the recent past trying to deal with the seemingly many-armed Raptor lineups. Mitchell Robinson sometimes beasted like a tyrannosaurus rex among smaller, hopeless foes; at other points, Toronto’s length and defensive intensity seemed overwhelming.
But is it a loss if you don’t lose sight of the lesson? How much to heart do we take this loss? The Knicks were without Quentin Grimes, whose insertion into the starting lineup has been cited as one of the biggest catalysts for the Knick turnaround of late. Without Grimes, Tom Thibodeau turned to Immanuel Quickley, who had one of his best shooting nights in a while. Thing is, replacing Grimes with IQ means someone had to replace Quickley off the bench. Derrick Rose seems an admirable player and teammate, but he can’t replicate the defense or energy of Quickley.
In Hob Gadling’s (extended) life, he sometimes encounters Death, literally. She offers to take him away, after he’s down in the dumps over losing his lifelong friend. Hob refuses. The angel of death for New York last night was Pascal Siakam, who put up quite a line: 52 points, 17 of 25 from the field, 16 of 18 from the line, nine rebounds, seven assists and only one turnover. It was odd seeing him dominate quite so thoroughly. We know Siakam is a great player, but last night it’s like he was temporarily possessed by Michael Jordan, where a point of absurdity was reached wherein nothing anyone did could slow him down, much less stop him. I felt like I was 13 again, watching MJ vs. the Knicks in the playoffs, knowing my team was up against someone so good it didn’t really matter what they tried – MJ was the author, pure and simple. Last night, that was Siakam.
New York’s fight late in the fourth was reminiscent of the last minutes of their recent win in Indiana. That was a fun takeaway: the logic of long-term memory telling you they were done, the game lost, then realizing they simply didn’t know when to quit and nearly pulled another rabbit out of their hat. There were the usual vagaries of lost nights – the refs were juuuust bad enough to be noticeable; the Knicks got killed on the offensive glass, especially late; their opponent needed the win more desperately than New York.
But a loss doesn’t mean you have to accept losing as inevitable. The Knicks’ next game is tomorrow when they host Chicago. Defend your homecourt against that rough trick of a foe and you’re sitting on a 9-1 stretch heading into the Christmas matinee. Feels like about 600 years since we went into the Christmas game on such a roll.
