And true to form, we eagerly tuned in again, just happy that some familiar faces in new uniforms were back on the hardwood. So happy that we'll let Barkley get away with his latest potty-mouth antics. So happy that we'll drool over the next Atlanta-New Jersey brawl as the NBA spins it to be the new Eastern Conference rivalry.

Like my own Knicks malaise, watching the NBA is an extended exercise in how long one's tolerance will hold out before snapping, an exercise everywhere shot through with impatience and bitterness. And as the league continues to look more and more like daytime drama, the expectations it has for its fans approach indolence and a wit slower than a Buck Williams drive.

What other conclusion can we draw from attempts to palliate our collective indignation with $10 nosebleed seats, or the persistent dumbness of Ahmad Rashad, Bill Walton and the rest of NBC's cozy broadcast ensemble? Being an NBA fan implies malleability in the hands of the corporate machine. Failing that, masochism.

I'm coming to grips with the reality that the Knicks will not win the title this season; that in all likelihood they will not make the Conference Finals. But I'm equally certain that they'll persuade me along the way that they have a legitimate chance, they'll sucker me into devoting hours of bright spring afternoons to brawny, sloppy Knick-ball.

And when the final blow comes--whether Larry Johnson whiffs on a dunk, or Charlie Ward loses his dribble in the paint, or Ewing's ungracefully aging knees finally give out--I'll store up the memory and trot it out years later, maybe the way Red Sox fans grumble and whisper, with repressed pride, of the Curse.

Until then, I'll hate myself for watching.