BOSTON – A few months ago, flush in the glory of the Knicks winning a couple of games in a row and him extending his hero-for-life Isiah Thomas’ contract another few years, James Dolan, noted deep thinker, went on the radio and said he welcomed the day that Anucha Browne Sanders’ sexual harassment lawsuit began.
Dolan laughed that hearty rich-boy laugh of his, spit scornfully at his legion of detractors, said the truth would come out then, don’t you worry.
And you have to give Dolan this: He was right about that. The truth is coming out, and it’s Technicolor truth, and it’s the kind of truth it normally costs you $12.99 to take a peek at in a hotel room with the title of the movie “discreetly” taken off your bill.
Forget about Isiah Thomas, the subject of this sordid little legal soap opera; he’ll get his day in court in a few days, he’ll get his time on the witness stand to give his side of the story. Is he guilty of sexual harassment? Is he guilty of merely picking the wrong fight with the wrong disgruntled employee? We’ll know soon enough, one way or the other.
But no matter what happens, the one place sure to be the big loser out of this whole unseemly mess is James Dolan’s Garden, a place that had already lost its luster as a home of legitimate sports franchises, one that now is proven, day after day in court, to be a distasteful frat house in which the only rules that are relevant are the ones that can be bent, bruised or broken by its boys-club members.
Dolan, so far, has been kept directly out of the dirtiest deeds, and it’s likely that he’s going to stay there, because even a man of his limited savvy is smart enough to steer clear of such bad behavior. But that really doesn’t matter.
Because Dolan is the one who has clearly sent the message that classless, embarrassing behavior will not be met with any kind of stern consequence. He is the one who oversees this whole disgusting mess.
He is the one who allowed the Knicks to make Stephon Marbury the face of the franchise, and that is the same face that went on a bizarre jag on the “Mike’d Up” show a few months ago, the same face that defended Michael Vick, the same face that was seen on the front pages of all the newspapers earlier this week smiling from ear to ear after speaking frankly about having sex with a Garden intern, an act that would be ethically repulsive even if there wasn’t the small, inconvenient fact that Marbury happens to be married.
Dolan is the one who’s empowered a lightweight empty suit like Steve Mills, a man shown time and again this week, according to testimony, of being incapable of maintaining even the slightest bit of decorum in what is supposed to be a high-class, high-end organization. He’s the one who apparently has allowed certain nameless Rangers executives to make sure they kept up their libidos point for point with the fellows in the Knicks offices.
And, oh yes: let us not forget he’s allowed the main tenants at the Garden, the Rangers and the Knicks, to combine for a total of six playoff victories in the last six years.
That’s what it’s come to. When you take the time to list all of the reasons why the Garden Empire of James Dolan has crumpled and crumbled into an indecipherable mess, it actually takes you a while before you get around to just how dreadful the on-court and on-ice products have been the past few years. The Rangers seem primed to make a splash this season, finally, for the first time in a decade. The Knicks sure look like the classic on-paper playoff team.
Which is nice, and fine, and wonderful, and about time, because everything else about the Garden reeks of Sodom and Gomorrah.
There was a time when you said the words “Madison Square Garden” – or even just “The Garden” – and the connotation was magical, almost mystical. The words rolled off your tongue. The image was of glamour, and glitz, and class, class, class. New York has a lot of beautiful sporting venues, it has Yankee Stadium and Belmont Park and there’s so much history trapped between the walls of those two buildings that you sometimes trip over the ghosts and the old stories they tell.
But no place, ever, held the same romance as the Garden. The Garden was Ali-Frazier, and it was Willis and Clyde, it was Hope and Crosby, and it was Mark Messier shaking the Stanley Cup up and down. The Garden was Sinatra in the Main Event, and the circus, and the lingering stench that only in a place like the Garden could smell almost exotic. The Garden was the Concert for Bangladesh, and No Nukes, and Paul McCartney singing about “Freedom.” Rick Nelson played a Garden party to reminisce with his old friends, a chance to share old memories, and sing a song again. The Garden was Rangers-Bruins and Knicks-Lakers and St. John’s-Georgetown, it was Woody Allen and Spike Lee and John F. Kennedy Jr. looking on from the good seats and all of the rest of us looking down from the blue seats, wondering what the view looked like from there.
All of those memories? They belong to Yesterday’s Garden. The modern Garden, the Dolan Garden, is a place where Smilin’ Steph can get his cousin on the payroll, where the kegs are always tapped and the music is always loud. Class has been replaced by crass, and you have to wonder just how much fun will be contained in this week’s testimony. Yes, James Dolan was right. The truth is starting to come out.
The more it does, the more it seems he’ll regret not trying to pay Anucha Browne Sanders to go away. Which only seems right. Because New York would right now pay whatever it could to make James Dolan go away. But as an old, regular Garden visitor used to say: You can’t always get what you want.
Mike Vaccaro’s e-mail address is michael.vaccaro@nypost.com. His book,”1941: The Greatest Year in Sports” is available in bookstores.
VAC’S WHACKS
Next time, maybe the Jets ought to try the trick that worked for Greg Brady back in the day, when he got Jerry Rogers to steal the fake playbook while he was over the house trying to score with Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.
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The privilege is, and always was, reading Dave Anderson’s elegant work in the Times. The honor was in getting to know him, and learn from him, and talk to him, and study both his gifts and his grace. His retirement is a loss for both sports and the writing of sports.
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You know how after you’ve seen your 10th or 11th horror flick, you find yourself screaming at the inevitably stupid kid on the screen, “NO! FOR GOD SAKES NO! DON’T GO IN THAT ROOM! DON’T OPEN THE DOOR! NO!!!!!” Same deal with Mets fans, whenever Willie’s walking slowly to the mound and the only guy lurking behind the bullpen door is Guillermo Mota.