They chained up the Pearl in New York. New York will fucking do that to you. Its a clinical, vainglorious, anxious, and insecure big town. They're fuckin' New York, centre of the motherfucking universe, if you didn't know. You can't be you in New York. Manny can be Manny in Boston; but not in the Big Apple. The Pearl was Black Magic in Winston-Salem and Baltimore, Black Jesus always in Philly. In New York? Monroe. He was just Earl Monroe in New York, playing second fiddle to the "No Play for Mr. Gray" guy.
They put the chains on the Pearl, Lebron. They always put on the chains. Then, when its time, you get the boots. You go from Black Magic, Black Jesus, to just another flamboyant disposable. A-Rod? He's just Madonna's playoff choke-artist. Darryl Strawberry? He's the straw no more, just broke up, washed up, and never reaching the insane expectations of New York fans. Patrick Ewing? The frozen envelope got them a yearly playoff ass-kicking courtesy of the Bulls, Pacers, or any team that could put together thirteen able bodies. Ewing was not just a savior; he was the savior. Look at what that got him - I mean, other than a lifetime VIP at the Gold Club.
Spike is suffering. He wants the true chosen One to redeem the heathen Knicks. But there's no redemption. Its fate was sealed when it robbed the world of Black Magic, denied the rise of Black Jesus. Ewing, X-Man, Starks, Oakley, LJ, Spree, and the whole lot of the know what invariably lies in wait in New York: an ignominous and inglorious descent into mediocrity.
They put the shackles on the Pearl, Lebron. Remember that come the summer of 2010. Don't let their standing ovations fool you. New York will chew you up in a flash and trade your bones to Oklahoma City for Kevin Durant and a couple D-Leaguers. Don't let them put the shackles on the King.
