u/Greedy-Bedroom-4301

Our Father, who art in the Garden,

hallowed be thy Brunson.

May Mike Brown guide us through the valley of wine and gold,

past the ghost of LeBron’s franchise,

past the Rock & Roll Hall of Mid,

and into the Finals promised land.

Bless Jalen’s footwork,

KAT’s touch,

OG’s limbs,

Hart’s cornrows,

Mikal’s arms,

and every corner 3.

Lord, we ask that Donovan Mitchell remember his true calling:

almost being a Knick,

almost being the guy,

and almost making it past expectations.

May his stepbacks be dramatic,

his 40-pieces be empty calories,

and may the bright lights of May remind him

that Madison Square Garden faithful will never consider him at the level of Brunson

And as for James Harden, Lord,

the beard who wandered from Houston to Brooklyn,

from Philly to LA,

and now somehow to Cleveland like an NBA tax audit,

we ask that he be blessed with his usual playoff gifts:

A 3-for-14 masterpiece,

a suspiciously sore hamstring,

four free throws on spiritual flops,

one stepback that hits the side of Lake Erie,

and a postgame outfit louder than his fourth quarter.

May he dribble for 14 seconds,

stare at the ref for 8,

pass with 2 left,

and call it “creating offense.”

May Cleveland’s title hopes age like a Harden elimination-game box score,

may Jarrett Allen discover that rebounding against New York is a full-time job,

and may Evan Mobley’s wingspan be long enough

to reach Cancun before Game 6.

May Big Meech tower over them both, as he has towered in series passed

For this is the Eastern Conference Finals,

not a regular-season February fake contender showcase.

The lights are hot.

The Garden is rabid.

And the Cavs have brought playoff dropperDonovan Mitchell and the Anti-clutch himself, James Harden

In the name of Clyde, Ewing, Melo, Brunson,

and Mike Brown’s revenge tour,

we say:

Amelo.

They are both soft as fucking puppy shit, like neither of them muscles for rebounds.

Our Father Clyde, who art in MSG,

hallowed be thy suit.

Thy Garden come,

thy Brunson be done,

in Game 3 as it was in Games 1 and 2.

Give us this day our daily Josh Hart backbreaking rebound,

and forgive us our stress-refreshing of injury updates,

as we seek to forgive those who still believe The Process was anything more than a very long group project with no final grade.

Lead us not into hamstring despair,

but deliver OG from tightness, strain, pull, tweak, or anything that requires a Shams tweet with too many adjectives.

Bless the holy hamstring of Anunoby.

May it be mild.

May it be precautionary.

May the MRI read like a love letter.

May the training staff work with the hands of Willis Reed, the wisdom of Clyde, and the urgency of a Mike Brown timeout that somehow never comes.

Grant OG rest without regression,

healing without setbacks,

ice without swelling,

and a return by next series with those long arms, quiet menace, and “why is their best player suddenly in jail?” defense.

And while Philly searches for answers,

may they find only Knicks fans, in MSG East, and flashbacks to every time New York refused to fold.

Let the Knicks protect the 2-0.

Let OG protect the hamstring.

Let the Garden protect the vibes.

In the name of Clyde, Willis, and the Holy Mecca…

Amelo.

Our Father Clyde, who art in MSG,

hallowed be thy suit.

Thy Garden come,

thy bing bong be done,

on Broadway as it is in Villanova.

Give us this day our daily Josh Hart rebound,

and forgive us our missed free throws,

as we forgive those who still think “The Process” was a plan.

Lead us not into foul trouble,

but deliver us from phantom Embiid whistles.

Bless the left hand of Jalen,

the chaos of Deuce,

the clamps of OG,

the boards of Hart,

the roar of Mitch,

and the sacred ankle tape of every Knick playing 44 minutes because Thibs knew no mercy.

May Willis Reed’s tunnel walk guide our injured.

May LJ’s four-point play bless our crunch time.

May Allan Houston’s bounce remind us that destiny wears orange and blue.

May Melo’s jab step haunt every Philly closeout.

And when the Sixers arrive speaking of trust,

remind them that trust is earned in the Garden,

not processed in a decade-long rebuild.

May every Philly flop land softly,

every challenge go our way,

every Maxey sprint meet a wall,

and every Embiid pump fake be met with New York skepticism.

Let the Mecca shake.

Let Spike scream.

Let Clyde rhyme.

Let the Nova Knicks do what Philly thought they had.

And when the final buzzer sounds,

may the Knicks stand tall,

may the Sixers search for another slogan,

and may New York keep marching.

In the name of Clyde, Willis, and the Holy Mecca…

Amelo.