Spike Lee | Best Seat in the House

Books@Random

Grab (n., v.)
1. A blocked shot. 2. The act of blocking a shot.

more words

I'm busy here. I'm making promises to my wife. Promises I don't know if I can keep.

"I'm just gonna sit here."

"Um..."

"No, I am."

"... We'll see."

Tonya knows I'm not exactly under oath. We are sitting courtside, Thirty-first Street side, Eighth Avenue end of Madison Square Garden, and it's beginning to heat up in here. The Knicks' bench is directly across the floor. "Watch me," I say. "I'm staying cool this evening. And I'm not saying anything. I'm just gonna sit here. I swear. I don't care what the score is or what's happening out on the court. I don't care how bad the calls are. I'm just gonna sit here. I'm too tired tonight."

I look down at a copy of Hoop, the official National Basketball Association magazine. Then I hear a change in the pitch of the crowd's drone. I take my time looking back up. The visiting team is entering from the dark square passageway to the locker rooms, on the Thirty-third Street side. Tonight the visitors wear--could be the blood-red road warm-ups of the Chicago Bulls; the purple with gold trim of the Los Angeles Lakers; the Kelly green of Boston; the Seattle emerald; the tricolor of Houston or the Washington Bullets-soon-to-be-Wizards; the cardinal red of the Philadelphia 76ers; Orlando's natty pinstripes; Indiana blue. But in my mind's eye, it all comes back around to the World Champion Bulls. That's what I see. Blood red. Hope the Knicks have the Answer tonight.

I half-lid my eyes, look up without raising my head as the opposition jogs onto the court, greeted by a smattering of boos and the booming hip-hop that the Knicks warm up by.

>>>

Tonight, Bull is on the menu in the Garden. At the end of their line of talent ... there he is. Michael Jordan. Black Jesus. Money. Black Cat. Air. High Pharaoh. Jordan flows onto the court with a rhythmic pigeon-toed gait that he, Jackie Robinson, Bullet Bob Hayes, John Elway, Dominique Wilkins, and I share, along with a few million other people, including our two-year-old daughter, Satchel. I think being pigeon-toed gives you character. Tonya is inclined to say "Corrective shoes." Well, no one walks as confidently as Jordan, except maybe Naomi Campbell.

Jordan looks over and winks, about to apply his multidimensional game, steel-edged will. Plans to put on a show. He calls this the Mecca of basketball. He's done it before, to the Knicks and to me--come in and defiled Mecca. I saw Jordan drop a double nickel--55 points--on March 28, 1995, in the fifth game he played after he came out of retirement. He signed the Air Jordans he wore that game for Satchel. For now his Bulls are defending World Champions, and they've won the NBA title four of the last six seasons. And I'm thinking, "This time we've got the Answer."

But I'm just going to sit here.

"Um--hm." Tonya isn't going for it.

Now the Knickerbockers come out. My hometown team. Hard for me to sit here. Charles Oakley, co-captain of the Knicks, at the head of the line, tosses me the rock. I dribble it twice, run my hands over the pebble grain, then toss it back. I look around and see John McEnroe, Johnny Mac, is here. Ed Bradley, Woody Allen, the Baldwin brothers (how many of them are there?), Kevin Bacon, Tom Brokaw, Richard Lewis, Matthew Modine, John F. Kennedy Jr. The regulars. Plus the stars who come out because Jordan is in orbit, who come out to the game with sunglasses on. If NBA commissioner David Stern sees me, he'll say: "Spike, are you behaving yourself?" Like I'm two years old. Like it's not my league, too. Stern's been saying that to me ever since Reggie Miller dropped ... Well, let's not spoil it. Be patient. Let the Game come to you.

During the pre-game introductions last season at Air's Crib, the United Center in Chicago, Steve Ross, the editor of this book, came by and said he thought I had a story about basketball in me. He asked me to think about it. I thought about it. I thought that in many ways I came of age with this NBA game; it was a game and league whose development had in many ways paralleled my own. I had learned what the Game is all about: relationships. ... Now the Bulls are introduced to the awe of courtside stars and seeming disinterest of the regs. The lights bounce off Jordan's head. Then they dim....

>>>

...."Michael Jordan has a heart like a lion. With him you have to compete every single night, or he's going to put you to shame," said Starks. "I think about this all the time. Chicago is about psych. They try to get into your head. They know at the end of the day they have one of the greatest players ever to play. They use him to get inside the other team's heads. Can't get caught up in what Michael's doing. He's going to get his. I've got him. Let me have him. Stop the others.... The key to beating them--let me guard Jordan, and everybody else get theirs.... It's going to be the Knicks and the Bulls in the Eastern Conference finals, Spike. And it ain't gonna go seven."

The buzzer sounds. My senses heighten. The run is on.

>>>

"All ball! Aw, no! That's all ball, Ref! Terrible call! All ball!"

The ref smiles at me and wags his finger back and forth. Ah-ah-ah. His teeth look filed down. Maybe he wants my blood. The Knicks are down one. In Tonya's eyes I see reflected what she calls madness. I've promised. Five minutes later I'm jumping up and down. I'm a Knicks fan. I'm looking for the Answer--to recapture the championship seasons of 1969-70 and 1972-73, the only two NBA world titles the Knicks have won. Happened back when I was a kid, so it's not right that New York has won only the two. Judging from the roar, I'm not alone. We're hungry. We're impatient. We're loud. We boo. We shout. We are dyed-in-the-wool, unregenerate, no flip-flopping Knicks fans. Like it or lump it as long as you don't jump it--our view of the court, I mean.

That would be hard to do, now that I've got the best seats in the house.

We're here game after game, watching the rotations; watching wheels begin to wobble and fall off the rookies as they find out what it is like, how insignificant they are in the history of the Game; watching the rotation of the teams as they pass through the Garden, the rotation of the substitution pattern of the Knicks, the players off the bench within a game; watching the rotation of the ball during a deep j or a free throw, backspinning just right if the shot is reliable; watching the defensive rotations, critical when you double-team, play team D, because everybody who plays the Bulls--or any team with a special player--must do this well, if it is going to have a chance to win. Winning the NBA title is about will, luck, and understanding the other guy's game. The Game itself is about skills, problems, answers, unselfishness, rotations ... it all comes back around.

Books@Random
		Grab (n., v.) 1. A blocked shot. 2. The act of blocking a shot. more words

	I'm busy here. I'm making promises to my wife. Promises I don't know if I can keep. "I'm just gonna sit here." "Um..." "No, I am." "... We'll see." Tonya knows I'm not exactly under oath. We are sitting courtside, Thirty-first Street side, Eighth Avenue end of Madison Square Garden, and it's beginning to heat up in here. The Knicks' bench is directly across the floor. "Watch me," I say. "I'm staying cool this evening. And I'm not saying anything. I'm just gonna sit here. I swear. I don't care what the score is or what's happening out on the court. I don't care how bad the calls are. I'm just gonna sit here. I'm too tired tonight." I look down at a copy of Hoop, the official National Basketball Association magazine. Then I hear a change in the pitch of the crowd's drone. I take my time looking back up. The visiting team is entering from the dark square passageway to the locker rooms, on the Thirty-third Street side. Tonight the visitors wear--could be the blood-red road warm-ups of the Chicago Bulls; the purple with gold trim of the Los Angeles Lakers; the Kelly green of Boston; the Seattle emerald; the tricolor of Houston or the Washington Bullets-soon-to-be-Wizards; the cardinal red of the Philadelphia 76ers; Orlando's natty pinstripes; Indiana blue. But in my mind's eye, it all comes back around to the World Champion Bulls. That's what I see. Blood red. Hope the Knicks have the Answer tonight. I half-lid my eyes, look up without raising my head as the opposition jogs onto the court, greeted by a smattering of boos and the booming hip-hop that the Knicks warm up by. >>> Tonight, Bull is on the menu in the Garden. At the end of their line of talent ... there he is. Michael Jordan. Black Jesus. Money. Black Cat. Air. High Pharaoh. Jordan flows onto the court with a rhythmic pigeon-toed gait that he, Jackie Robinson, Bullet Bob Hayes, John Elway, Dominique Wilkins, and I share, along with a few million other people, including our two-year-old daughter, Satchel. I think being pigeon-toed gives you character. Tonya is inclined to say "Corrective shoes." Well, no one walks as confidently as Jordan, except maybe Naomi Campbell. Jordan looks over and winks, about to apply his multidimensional game, steel-edged will. Plans to put on a show. He calls this the Mecca of basketball. He's done it before, to the Knicks and to me--come in and defiled Mecca. I saw Jordan drop a double nickel--55 points--on March 28, 1995, in the fifth game he played after he came out of retirement. He signed the Air Jordans he wore that game for Satchel. For now his Bulls are defending World Champions, and they've won the NBA title four of the last six seasons. And I'm thinking, "This time we've got the Answer." But I'm just going to sit here. "Um--hm." Tonya isn't going for it. Now the Knickerbockers come out. My hometown team. Hard for me to sit here. Charles Oakley, co-captain of the Knicks, at the head of the line, tosses me the rock. I dribble it twice, run my hands over the pebble grain, then toss it back. I look around and see John McEnroe, Johnny Mac, is here. Ed Bradley, Woody Allen, the Baldwin brothers (how many of them are there?), Kevin Bacon, Tom Brokaw, Richard Lewis, Matthew Modine, John F. Kennedy Jr. The regulars. Plus the stars who come out because Jordan is in orbit, who come out to the game with sunglasses on. If NBA commissioner David Stern sees me, he'll say: "Spike, are you behaving yourself?" Like I'm two years old. Like it's not my league, too. Stern's been saying that to me ever since Reggie Miller dropped ... Well, let's not spoil it. Be patient. Let the Game come to you. During the pre-game introductions last season at Air's Crib, the United Center in Chicago, Steve Ross, the editor of this book, came by and said he thought I had a story about basketball in me. He asked me to think about it. I thought about it. I thought that in many ways I came of age with this NBA game; it was a game and league whose development had in many ways paralleled my own. I had learned what the Game is all about: relationships. ... Now the Bulls are introduced to the awe of courtside stars and seeming disinterest of the regs. The lights bounce off Jordan's head. Then they dim.... >>> ...."Michael Jordan has a heart like a lion. With him you have to compete every single night, or he's going to put you to shame," said Starks. "I think about this all the time. Chicago is about psych. They try to get into your head. They know at the end of the day they have one of the greatest players ever to play. They use him to get inside the other team's heads. Can't get caught up in what Michael's doing. He's going to get his. I've got him. Let me have him. Stop the others.... The key to beating them--let me guard Jordan, and everybody else get theirs.... It's going to be the Knicks and the Bulls in the Eastern Conference finals, Spike. And it ain't gonna go seven." The buzzer sounds. My senses heighten. The run is on. >>> "All ball! Aw, no! That's all ball, Ref! Terrible call! All ball!" The ref smiles at me and wags his finger back and forth. Ah-ah-ah. His teeth look filed down. Maybe he wants my blood. The Knicks are down one. In Tonya's eyes I see reflected what she calls madness. I've promised. Five minutes later I'm jumping up and down. I'm a Knicks fan. I'm looking for the Answer--to recapture the championship seasons of 1969-70 and 1972-73, the only two NBA world titles the Knicks have won. Happened back when I was a kid, so it's not right that New York has won only the two. Judging from the roar, I'm not alone. We're hungry. We're impatient. We're loud. We boo. We shout. We are dyed-in-the-wool, unregenerate, no flip-flopping Knicks fans. Like it or lump it as long as you don't jump it--our view of the court, I mean. That would be hard to do, now that I've got the best seats in the house. We're here game after game, watching the rotations; watching wheels begin to wobble and fall off the rookies as they find out what it is like, how insignificant they are in the history of the Game; watching the rotation of the teams as they pass through the Garden, the rotation of the substitution pattern of the Knicks, the players off the bench within a game; watching the rotation of the ball during a deep j or a free throw, backspinning just right if the shot is reliable; watching the defensive rotations, critical when you double-team, play team D, because everybody who plays the Bulls--or any team with a special player--must do this well, if it is going to have a chance to win. Winning the NBA title is about will, luck, and understanding the other guy's game. The Game itself is about skills, problems, answers, unselfishness, rotations ... it all comes back around.