The party ended so prematurely, so abruptly. There was so much energy, so much life, so much buzz inside the old gym on top of the train station, and all across the city, and it had been building for the better part of four weeks, and it all died in a blurry haze of hot Indiana shooting and sore Knicks joints, muscles and nerves. Just like that.
Do you remember? The Pacers walked into Madison Square Garden, just past 3:30 on the afternoon of May 19, and they made their first few shots and never really stopped: They made a 1985-Villanova-versus-Georgetown-esque 67. 1 percent from the floor, an astonishing 54.2 percent of them from 3. If it felt like they couldn’t miss, it’s because they couldn’t miss.
The Knicks? OG Anunoby tried to give his ruined hamstring a go, lasted 281 seconds. Josh Hart hurt everywhere. Isaiah Hartenstein was bloodied, and Mitch Robinson was already out, and by the end, as an aggravating parting gift, Jalen Brunson fractured his hand. By then, the Garden was emptying rapidly. The run was done. The summer was nigh.
That was 335 days ago.