The saga of James Dolan, Phil Jackson and Isiah Thomas will bring new meaning to the phrase Triangle Offense.
“Phil…PHIL! Wake up!” Jim Dolan yanked his GM’s shoulders back to lift his head from the desk. A rivulet of drool escaped from the corner of his mouth. Dolan shook Jackson as he slapped his cheek.
“PHIL!…C’mon man, wake up now. It’s three in the afternoon for crissake!”
“Wha’, what’s wrong? What do want?” Jackson asked groggily. He slowly opened his eyes and straightened in his seat. “Did my package from Amazon come? I’m waiting for a trimmer for my soul patch.” He stroked the grey chin hairs between his thumb and forefinger.
“No, I don’t care about that. What are we gonna do about Melo?”
“What do you mean?” The Zen Master squinted at his boss.
“He’s telling the press he’s fed up with losing, that he wants to get traded to a contender.” Dolan was frantic.
“Fuck him,” Jackson spoke calmly. “Let him go.”
“What are you talking about? You know I can’t do that. I gave up half the team and put us back in salary cap hell to get him. It’s what Isiah wanted.” Dolan gazed wistfully skyward as he thought about his former team president. “You need to apologize to him and get him to re-sign. I don’t care what it takes.”
“Apologize? To who, Isiah?”
“Yea, no wait…you know what I mean.”
“Alright, I’ll pay him what he wants and tell him we’re negotiating with Lebron.”
“That’s better,” Dolan exhaled as he brightened slightly.
“Are we done now?” Jackson grunted.
“I guess so,” Dolan paused as the short-lived smile left his face. “Why can’t you be more like Isiah?” he asked.
Jackson answered as his head sank back into his long arms folded on the desktop, “I’ll see what I can do about that…”
Jimmy’s thoughts drifted back to memories of a simpler and happier time when he and the love of his life, Isiah, roamed the halls, offices and courts of Madison Square Garden. It was a magical place where they shared inside jokes and ruled like kings.
“Isiah, does this suit make me look fat?” Jimmy looked to Isiah for approval.
“Of course not. You’re perfect!” Isiah beamed.
“Do you think I’m pretty?”
“As pretty as you want to be.”
Jimmy was pleased. “Isiah, I wrote a song for you. Would you like to hear it?” Jimmy reached behind a cabinet for his guitar.
“Of course,” Isiah replied as he sat in the corner and looked up attentively.
“There once was a man, a giant among men, his achievements were the stuff of legend…”
“Mr. Dolan, please call One-Nine-Seven-Three…Mr. Dolan, One-Nine-Seven Three please,” the page blared over the loudspeakers. Dolan sighed and headed back to his office.
Four Square Miles of Noise 
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