Lin was different. He was always moving, always creating, always trying to make a play for a teammate. He had an uncanny talent for slithering his way into the lane and either (a) converting reverse layups on impossible angles, or (b) drawing shotblockers, then flipping up a lob to a big man for an uncontested dunk. He had exquisite court vision, especially on the fast break, constantly pushing the ball and getting teammates open shots before the defense could set up. His greatest allies were Steve Novak, a sharpshooting journeyman who morphed into a giant-sized Steve Kerr once Lin arrived, and Tyson Chandler, a defensive stalwart who embraced Lin's ?lan and became more involved on the offensive end than at any point in his career since he played with Chris Paul in New Orleans. In fact, immediately after Lin's tour-de-force performance against the Nets, I fired off an email to four friends who are fellow NBA diehards, quasi-sarcastically comparing Lin to Paul. He was that exhilarating.
He wasn't perfect, naturally, but even his deficiencies doubled as strengths. Defensively, he gave too much ground to penetrating guards, but he also had canny anticipatory instincts (at one point, he racked up 13 steals in a three-game stretch). His jumper was an absurd, Purvis Short-style rainbow, but it had smooth rotation, and he became a reliable closer at the free-throw line (in a game against Philly, he buried 10 consecutive freebies in the game's final six minutes). And of course, he turned the ball over constantly, including a ridiculous six-game span with at least six giveaways. But those mistakes derived from his relentlessly aggressive playmaking, and if I'm choosing a point guard, I'll always take a slightly reckless visionary who consistently generates opportunities for his teammates over a conservative floor general who makes the safe pass and never penetrates. (Trivia question: You know who finished in the top seven in turnovers each of the past eight years, including five different times in the top three? Steve Nash. **** turnovers.)
But truthfully, his weaknesses didn't even matter. Watching Lin was fun. Case in point: Before I wrote that aforementioned email, I'd hardly ever contacted my friends about the Knicks in years except to complain about their ineptitude. Lin changed that, and he changed my engagement with the Knicks' franchise. Rather than merely watching the team out of an inexplicable sense of duty (a concept that only makes sense in the cloistered world of sports fandom), I started eagerly awaiting the games. I was anxious to watch Lin, to see what remarkable, bizarre plays he might make. For the first time in years, I was happy to be a Knicks fan.
And for all Knicks fans, following Lin's ascendancy, one question became paramount: Given the team's precarious salary-cap position, would we be able to re-sign Lin? Mercifully, thanks to an obscure provision in the new collective bargaining agreement dubbed the Arenas Rule, the answer was an unequivocal "yes". So when the Knicks fired D'Antoni after a 2-8 skid that coincided with Anthony's return and replaced him with isolation guru Mike Woodson, I wasn't worried. (Technically, D'Antoni resigned. In reality? He didn't.) When Woodson immediately declared that Lin was "in a learning stage", that rookies should "sit and listen and learn", and that the offense would now run through Anthony and Stoudemire because they're "guys that have done it", I remained sanguine. Even when Lin tore his meniscus in late March and missed the rest of the season (which ended with the Knicks limply losing their first-round series to the Heat in five games), I was at peace. This season didn't matter. I was going to get to watch Lin lead the Knicks for at least the next three years. This was my reward for enduring The Isiah Era: to watch one of the most dynamic players in the NBA run my favorite team. Lin wasn't just a basketball player. He was the future. He was hope.