Writer Experiences the Dog Days of November

NEW YORK —  After leaving Seventh Avenue on a rainy night and passing through a security checkpoint manned by agents with metal detectors, I came to a ticket window at Madison Square Garden where I said, “What’s the cheapest ticket?”

“Forty-five,” said the man behind the glass.

“Dollars?” I said.

He gave me a Soprano look.

I gave him the money.

For $44.50, I bought the cheapest seat available at a Knicks-Pistons game. Section 347, Row A, Seat 10 is seven rows from the arena’s ceiling with a sight line that passes through a backboard.

There is no reason to attend an NBA game in November. I went as a fan. No press table at courtside, no press access, no crib notes from the teams’ publicists. Bought a ticket, paid $6.75 for a hot dog and Coke, took a series of escalators and from an eagle’s perch looked down on a scene familiar and yet mystifying.

The basketball floor was golden, even shining.

There were tiny bodies sprawled in bunches on the floor.

Tiny men in suits sat on stools in front of bright lights.

A rap song, gentle and insistent, being broadcast by the arena’s public address system, mixed with the sounds of bouncing basketballs and customers murmuring in anticipation of the night’s entertainment.

How odd those sights and sounds must seem, I thought, to someone who never had seen players stretching before a game or never had seen television commentators talking to a light or never had known rap as a signal of an athletic competition. Well, why not be a newbie myself? Watch an NBA game as if I never before had seen one. As scenes presented themselves, I would ask questions -- such as, “That HAIR! What is THAT about????”

From Section 347 every player on the court looked much like every other player, except for a Piston distinguished by a crown of hair, tall hair, untamed hair, falling this way and that, hair allowed freedom from restraint, bending in the wind of movement, hair encircled by a red headband.

Early on, I listened to the Garden announcer in an attempt to learn the name of that man with electric hair. But the announcer intoned visitors’ names in a voice so soft, so clipped, that those men were reduced to whispered asides. So when the haired one scored, I cupped a hand to my ear and this is what I heard: “benwallace.”

At 38-20, Knicks leading at the end of the first quarter, the Pistons’ coaches wanted nothing to do with the players. As players took seats on chairs at the sideline, the team’s four coaches -- men in suits, anyway -- moved away from those chairs and stood out on the court. They were almost at the free-throw line, gathered in conversation. They came to the bench just before the second quarter was to begin, perhaps to say, “Guys, we’re outta here, we’ve got tickets to The Producers, catch you later.”

Or maybe a coach said, “Somebody needs to get a hand in SpreeeeeEEEEEEwellllllll’s face,” for that was the name of the Knicks’ best player, as often cited by the arena announcer who took pleasure telling us that last field goal was made by “La-treLLLLLLLLLL SpreeeeeEEEEEEwellllllll.”

The Garden was maybe half full, only 10,000 people, quiet people, no Spike Lees thrashing about. What I heard mostly were the sales pitches of vendors passing by Section 347 every 15 seconds. “Popcorn! Getchyer popcorn!” “Hey, pretzels!”

“Cotton candy, cotton candy, here’s yer cotton candy!” “Hot dogs!”

“How much for cotton candy?” I said.

“How much you got?” the vendor said.

Everybody in New York is a Soprano.

“Naw, $5 will cover you,” the vendor said.

The decision: cotton candy or next month’s house payment?

“I’ll pass,” I said.

It was a curious night with barely a murmur of interest moving through the crowd, even when the Knicks led by 30 at halftime, 64-34. As odd as that silence might have been to anyone ever harmed by the sensory assault common to NBA arenas, it was odder still to realize I’d spent $51.25 to be entertained and had yet to experience an entertaining moment.

Thank heaven for The Fat People’s interruption.

Yes, just when it seemed nothing would happen, fat people in street clothes and sneakers took over.

“If (fat person’s name here) makes this shot from midcourt,” the arena announcer said with excitement, “he wins $77,777.”

Enough to buy three cotton candies, two beers and one of those pretzels the size of Rhode Island.

The shot fell 20 feet short.

People booed.

Not nice of them, but they also booed the Knicks later when benwallace and richardhamilton led the Pistons on a long rally. Though the Knicks once led by 32 points, the Pistons had a chance to win in the last minute. Finally, SpreeeeeEEEEEEwellllllll’s two free throws with 4.7 seconds to play saved the Knicks, 94-91.

The next morning’s New York Times said the Knicks’ collapse had been “mental, the result of anxiety, dread and trepidation.” An earlier judgment had come from the Soprano in section 347, Row B, Seat 8, who flipped the back of his hand toward the golden floor and said, “Them’s chokin’ dogs.”