The telephone rang between halves of another bad Knicks blowout, just as you were drifting away to an idyllic escape, envisioning Kristaps Porzingis as a 12-year veteran, leading a run to the N.B.A.’s Eastern Conference finals, along with his young wingman, LeBron James Jr.
A pleasant voice, secretarial, said, “Can you hold for Mr. Dolan?”
Startled, you bolted upright. You stammered, “J-James Dolan — I mean, James L. Dolan?”
While you, as usual, snickered at the thought of “L” standing for loser, it was that raspy-voiced Dolan soon on the line, getting right to the point.