Tony Soprano once said that the lowest form of conversation begins with "remember when."
I'm not sure if I completely agree with this, only because sentiment is a powerful tool, a useful tool at times. But I certainly agree with a big part of that premise. If you're constantly conjuring up the past, how good is the now? How bright is the future? But for St. John's, for far too many years, it's really all we had. The past. Depressing, actually.
For too many years, we watched with disappointing eyes as collegiate athletics morphed into mega-bucks, several planets away from the organic, insulated culture long ago created by the legendary Lou Carnesecca. In that world, subway tokens, hitting a few of the prominent NYC gyms and slipping players a stipend for living off-campus was all the fuel the Johnnies needed to dominate. A national power. An army of first round NBA picks. Sold-out venues. Top seeds in the Big Dance. But this century, we too often wondered where our piece of the pie was? Instead, we were left with empty promises, early season hype that too often wasn't met, and Selection Sundays without reward.
But back in the day, the recent plight of the program was absolutely unimaginable. In Flatbush, every kid with a basketball in their hand, a hoop in their yard, a CYO gym to play in somewhere in Bay Ridge or Rockaway…we all aspired to be the next Chris Mullin.
We all rocked red, satin St. John's Starter jackets to school and we all had red and white Nike dunks, even if they didn't quite match our uniforms. And we all despised Georgetown, and Hoya fans emitted the same exact emotion toward us. We were both chasing the same thing: college hoops supremacy. We were in their way and they were in ours.
Growing up, after Saturday morning practices, my Dad and I hit would hit Foursome Diner, share the New York Post and News and bounce from topic to topic. When was Bernard King coming back? Was Dwight Gooden the next Gibson? Mattingly the next Musial? But it always ended by 11:45, because without DVR back then, we wouldn't dare run the risk of getting home late, instead making a beeline to the basement to watch the Johnnies battle Ewing, Pearl, or Pinckney.
As hard as it is to imagine today, St. John's, in many respects, was bigger than the Knicks. Mullin weaving thru screens, perpetual motion, finding a sliver of space before flicking the prettiest J you've ever seen. Walter Berry hammering home a lefty jam in traffic. Mark Jackson delivering a perfect no-look pass with mustard to a streaking Willie Glass for a roof-rocking dunk. We took it for granted, in a way. We expected them to be this good, this interesting forever. Boy oh boy, were we wrong.
Just like that, without warning, the train came to a screeching halt. It just stopped. Felipe was good, but he wasn't quite what he was advertised to be. Brian Mahoney, who succeeded Louie, eventually handed the reins to Fran Fraschilla, who turned back the clock a bit with Artest and the crew, but was quickly gone. Enter Mike Jarvis, who won with Fran's players, before things quickly turned ugly and went up in flames on and off the court.
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At that point, most of the program's identity had already dried up. Jarvis turned into Norm Roberts, who turned into Steve Lavin, who turned into Mullin who eventually turned into Mike Anderson. And by now, we were deep into the abyss. The facilities as antiquated as ever. The banners collecting dust with no new additions. Sad. Depressing.
Those Starter jackets we all once wore with such pride now were generating a few bucks on eBay, but nothing more. Only visible digitally, long ago replaced by Duke, Carolina, Kentucky, Syracuse, UConn, Michigan, and an assortment of other colors. Powerful brands. Brands with history, but also brands with the foresight and deep pockets to treat their programs as businesses. To evolve.
Soon we were left only with grainy snapshots of memories tucked away deep in our memory banks. The Big East expanded, St. John's remained stationary, then painfully regressed, then showed a slight uptick in pulse, but were never able to cut through. A painful, frustrating treadmill to nowhere.
Too often, opposing fan bases would simply take over the Garden. Old enough to remember what it used to be, I would often take off my headsets after another disappointing loss, and lament what was. But, more specifically, I’d wonder if it was truly and officially a wrap. Maybe my youth simply happened to coincide with the brightest era of St. John's basketball. They intersected, hooking me for life, but leaving me saddened about what, in all honesty, would never be again. Sometimes that happens in life, and St.
John's was not immune to that painful, potential fate that seemed more and more real by the year.
Enter Rick Pitino.
And just like that, it's already different. In less than 24 hours, the University has seen nearly a 25 percent rise in season ticket subscriptions. Pitino's already pushed the venerable on-campus gym to the side. The Garden's the venue. He said so, and when Pitino talks, the school will acquiesce. It's his show and his show only, his stage.
He's already bluntly stated that most of the players won't be back. They simply do not have what he needs. Rick Pitino is all about winning; if you can help him accomplish that, you're an asset, and if not, you're a detriment. Nothing to interpret, it's my way, because my way works. It's always worked. That simple.
Now, he gets to put that to the challenge at a place that has had, in essence, a 23-year nap. He's 70, but he's feisty. Starving to reconnect the brand to the past while simultaneously elevating it with a necessary, modern overhaul. It's one thing to play in front of big crowds at Rupp Arena, ranked inside the Top 5. That's incredibly special. But to do that in his hometown, at the Garden, it's different. Just like coaching the Knicks was different than coaching the Celtics. It matters more. It's us.
Eventually, there will be new facilities. Before that, there will be Garden sellouts. High-profile wins. March runs. First-round NBA Draft picks.
St. John's past has, in a lot of ways, oddly, been its own worst enemy. They've tried everything, but the one thing they never did was throw their arms up and cried out for help. They never conceded that the old way would never, ever work. They never swung for the fences. They always played it safe.
No, Rick Pitino is not perfect. Who is? Just do a Google search and you'll quickly figure that out. But the man is a basketball genius. He's repented, paid for his indiscretions. And he's one of us. And quite frankly, he's the only one capable of truly crushing it at St. John's. No one else. Not like he can. Not like he will.
St. John's is about to enter the deep part of the ocean. And there are sharks everywhere. It's survival of the fittest. Spend money to make money.
After all these years, St. John's finally understands that. They finally have a shark, and he's ready to eat.
A whole lot of payback to dish out. New memories to make.
Game on, NYC.
Follow BT on Twitter: @BrandonTierney
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