No! Oh, my God! Boooooooo! Children wept, women howled, and hefty men in Knicks jerseys thrust thumbs down as if auditioning as extras for “Gladiator II.”
The stink of unspeakable betrayal hung over Barclays Center on Thursday evening.
Phil Jackson, Zen Phil, had just made the decision to draft a talented 7-foot-1 Latvian waif by the name of Kristaps Porzingis. Who had an unrecognizable surname. Who was a European. The horror.
Porzingis rage swept the house.
A less than gratifying aspect of being a born-and-bred New Yorker is listening as our tribal, irrational selves rain down invective on some European kid who committed the sin of being insufficiently well known at an N.