Neither the New York media nor Knick fans have the power to make Tom Thibodeau change. But in honor of Charles Dickens’ holiday classic, we ask what might happen if the supernatural got involved?

After dismissing his nephew with a mighty “Humbug!”, the door to Tom Thibodeau’s office stayed open despite the late afternoon chill, that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was studying film from the Toronto game. Thibs himself had a very small fire, but the clerk’s fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. Whether the clerk was worth having around in the first place was a fly constantly buzzing around Thibs’ mind, irritating him. If he were to fire the clerk, this balderdash world would label him cruel for doing the very same thing Atlanta did. If the clerk couldn’t earn regular minutes for one team, and then another found him wanting, doesn’t that point to the problem lying with him? Do these people even watch the film?

Now this lunatic, this Cam, in escorting Thibodeau’s nephew out, had let two other people in. They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood, with their hats off, in Thib’s office. 

“At this festive season of the year, Mr. Thibodeau,” said the gentleman, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for playing time for the less fortunate end of the 15-man roster, some of whom go weeks without minutes. Many are in want of a chance to prove themselves, many more in want of continued employment.” 

“Are there no international leagues?” asked Thibs. 

“Plenty of leagues,” said the gentleman, laying down the pen again. 

“And the NCAA? Are they still in operation?” 

“They are. Still,” returned the gentleman, “I wish I could say they were not.” 

“The G League? Summer league? Big3? All in full vigour, then?” 

“All very busy, sir.” 

“Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,” said Thibodeau. “I’m very glad to hear it.” 

“We choose this time,” the gentleman pushed on, intent on spitting his pitch, “because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?” 

“Nothing,” Thibs replied. 

“You wish to be anonymous?” 

“I wish to be left alone. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned – those who are badly off must go there.” 

“Many can’t, and many would rather die.” 

“If they would rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. It’s enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people’s. My job is stay focused on the process, day by day. You win, don’t get too high; you lose, you can’t sulk. You gotta stay focused on the next day, the next game, the next play. Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Thibs turned his attention to the L2M report from the Chicago game. The two men looked at one another, turned and left.

The drive from the practice facility to Thibodeau’s home in Westchester was unusually turbulent; the winds pushed his Pontiac Vibe around the highway beneath dark skies and rolling thunder. He was surprised at the relief he felt as he pulled into his driveway. Quite satisfied, he entered the house through the garage, closed his door, and locked himself in – double-locked himself in, which was not his custom. 

Thus secured against surprise, he took off his cravat, put on his dressing-gown and slippers, his nightcap, and sat down before the fire to take his gruel. It was a very low fire indeed, next to nothing on such a bitter night. Stay focused, he told himself. There is no cold. Keep your eye on the next thing you can control. Can’t control the weather. The fireplace’s just for ambiance. There is no cold. As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon his phone. It was with great astonishment, and a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked he saw the phone began to vibrate, so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound, but then louder and louder. This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The vibrating grew so loud it began to drown out Thibodeau’s senses; he could feel his ears bleeding. The vibrating downshifted to a clanking noise, as if some person were dragging a heavy chain. The cellar door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door. 

“It’s humbug still! I won’t believe it.” 

His colour changed though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, then fell again. There stood Jeff Van Gundy, in his pigtail, usual waistcoat, tights and boots; the tassels on the latter bristling, like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts, and the hair left upon his head. A long chain wrapped around his torso several times and dragged beside him like a third leg.

“Who are you?” said Thibodeau. 

“Ask me who I was.” 

“Who were you, then?” 

“Your predecessor. For I, In life, was once the HC of the NYK. Just like you.”

“Wait. ‘In life’? Are you – are you dead, Jeff?”

“Dead? Oh, no, no. It’s just, you know, you can make a nice career out of doing TV work, but it’s not coaching. It’s not the rush. That kind of alive you don’t find everywhere. You know better than most, Tom. In fact, that’s why I’m here. But we have a more immediate problem. You don’t believe in me. Don’t believe what your senses are telling you.” 

“I don’t. No.” 

“Why?” 

“Because any little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There’s more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!” 

At this the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that Thibodeau held on tight to his chair, to save himself from falling in a swoon. 

“I’m sorry, Tom.”

“What the hell was that?”

“For whatever reason I suddenly remembered Enes Kanter’s pick-and-roll defense.”

At this Thibodeau raised a frightful cry, and shook with such ferocity that it was Van Gundy’s turn to wrap his ghostly grip around a chair. It took them both a while to catch their breath. Once he had his back, Thibodeau looked at Van Gundy.

“Why are you here, Jeff?”

“You’re gonna be haunted, Tom. By three spirits. Without their visits, you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first to–”

“Hold it, Jeff. I kinda like the path you took. Coach for, say, 10-12 years; walk away before they can cut you loose; slide into a TV analyst gig. You and Stan both seem like you’ve found–”

“Expect them early this morning.” Van Gundy floated backwards toward the window, which was inexplicably wide-open, then up and out into the night sky.

“Wait!” Thibs cried out.

Van Gundy’s distant voice was audible, but barely. “What?”

“If P.J. Brown didn’t toss Charlie Ward, do we get past Chicago in the next round?”

He couldn’t make out Van Gundy’s response.

His phone’s alarm sounded with a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy bell. Lights flashed, brightening up his room, and then the curtains of his bed were drawn aside, I tell you, by a hand. Not the curtains at his feet, nor the curtains at his back, but those to which his face was addressed. The curtains of his bed were drawn aside, and Thibs, starting up into a half-recumbent attitude, found himself face to face with a strange figure – like a child, yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium. 

Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. The arms were very long and muscular; the hands the same, as if its hold were of uncommon strength. Its legs and feet, most delicately formed, were, like those upper members, bare. It wore a tunic of the purest white; and round its waist was bound a lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. It held a branch of fresh green holly in its hand; and, in singular contradiction of that wintry emblem, had its dress trimmed with summer flowers. But the strangest thing about it was, that from the crown of its head there sprung a bright clear jet of light, by which all this was visible. 

“Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?” asked Thibodeau. 

“I am!” The voice was soft and gentle. No way. Couldn’t be.

“Is that – Derrick?”

Rose smiled. “Hey, Coach.” 

“What are you doing here? Are you mixed up with Van Gundy in all this . . . what is this?”

“Well, with Deuce getting the minutes I used to, I’ve started thinking more about my post-playing days. Andre Iguodala turned me on to this start-up outta Silicon Valley. They use A.I. to create a three-dimensional simulacra of whatever parts of your past you want to re-visit. It’s like literally taking a vacation through your memories.”

Thibs laughed, his first true moment of joy since beating Golden State. “That’s great. That’s really great; I’m so happy for you, Derrick. Proud of you.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“So, I guess we – what? Hop in a DeLorean? Take the red pill?” 

“Not exactly red, no. They had blush. Cherry. Mahogany. Crimson. Scarlet. Blood. Ruby.”

“Well, okay.” Thibs clapped his hands. “Show me what you got.”

Rose’s face fell a little. “Oh, jeez. Sorry, Coach. No can do. There’s an injunction against the company. Their self-driving cars ran over some kids.”

“Oh.”

“Twelve. Twelve kids.”

“Oh! Still got some kinks to work out?”

Rose whistled. “Truth be told, the tech worked the way it’s supposed to. Thing is, programmers have no understanding of humans, so they just assumed all kids have fentanyl on them. These didn’t, so they’re gonna be in litigation a minute.”

Thibs dropped his eyebrows while scrunching his forehead. “But Van Gundy told me were gonna show me how to avoid some mistake.”

“I already did, Coach. You missed it.” Rose smiled, then began to fade; like the Cheshire Cat, the grin was the last part of him that remained after the rest was gone. “Jeff’s been on the sideline since before Obama,” he chuckled. “He’s been gone too long to remember what he used to know he doesn’t know.” As Rose’s voice grew softer, Thibodeau couldn’t keep his eyes open, and soon he was again asleep.

When next he woke Thibodeau noticed light under his bedroom’s door frame, suggesting someone or something was out in the hall. Tired of being caught unawares by ghosts, Thibs slipped on his black Crocs and shuffled to the door. The moment his hand was on the lock, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. He obeyed. It was his own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove; from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there, and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney. In easy state upon this couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see, who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty’s horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Thibodeau as he came peeping round the door. 

“Come in!” exclaimed the Ghost. “Come in! and know me better, man!” 

Thibs blinked with surprise. “Wally Szczerbiak?”

“That’s right, brother. Come on in. Lemme show you what’s up.”

Szczerbiak explained he’d been demoted from studio analyst to Ghost of Christmas Present after an unprovoked, undeserved verbal assault on a kid less than half his age. This presented him with both limitation and a certain amount of license. For instance, he could remote view into the lives of others without them ever knowing. His limitation in life, and it always will be, is the fact that he is, in fact, Wally Szczerbiak.

“So if I wanted to know what my players are up to today? Christmas Day? You could show me?”

“Give me a name. Go on. Anyone on your team.”

Thibs pondered a moment. “Cam. Show me Cam.”

Szczerbiak nodded, twitched his nose a la Elizabeth Montgomery, and then he and Thibs found themselves inside a small and shoddy dwelling. McBride and Immanuel Quickley thumb-wrestled. Isaiah Hartenstein floated grapes into Jericho Sims’ gaping maw. Moments later, in walked Cam, with Tiny Toppin bouncing up on his shoulder in a little walking boot, his limbs supported by an iron frame. 

“Wally,” said Thibs, with an interest he had never felt before, “tell me if Tiny Toppin will play.” 

“I see a mostly-occupied seat on the bench,” replied Szczerbiak. “If these shadows remain unaltered by the future, the child will die.” 

“Holy shit!”

“Whoa, did I say ‘die’? Sorry. I meant his Knick career will die and he’ll spread his wings somewhere else.”

“No, no! Oh, no, kind Spirit! Tell me he’ll get some playing time in New York.”

Wally responded: “¯\_(ツ)_/¯.” Then came a song about an orphan dunking on his birth parents, from Tiny Toppin, who had a plaintive little voice, and sang it very well indeed. There was nothing of high mark in this.

“Wally? There’s time, right? There’s still time to get Obi minutes?” Thibs looked about for Szczerbiak, and saw him not. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he lifted up his eyes and beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards him. The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it came near him, Thibs bent down upon his knee, for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded. 

“I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?” said Thibs. The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand. “You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us,” he persisted. “Is that so, Spirit?” The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head, causing the hood of its garment to fall off, revealing its face. Thibodeau gave a wry smile.

“I should’ve guessed it was you.”

“Mr. Dolan and I are friends and have always felt there’s unfinished business to attend to from my first stint with the New York Knicks organization,” Isiah Thomas answered. “I’m here to lend him the benefit of the expertise I’ve built after over 40 years in the NBA at the level of a Hall of Fame player, successful head coach and exec–”

“I’m not the press; I don’t need your CV. I’m supposed to learn how to avoid some mistake?”

There was a rustling sound then, like the flapping of wings, and then Thibs and Isiah were in a living room. Cam Reddish sat on a dijon-yellow couch, head in his hands, shoulders heaving with grief.  

“My little, little child!” he cried. “My Tiny Toppin! He finally reached free agency and could sign with someone that valued his skills. Instead he signs with Indiana. They’ll bury him the same way they did Chris Copeland and Kyle O’Quinn. O my son Absalom! My son my son Absalom! If only I had signed instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son!” 

He broke down all at once. He couldn’t help it. Isiah stood among the graves, and pointed down to one. Thibs advanced towards it trembling. 

“Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,” said Thibs, “answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only?” Zeke pointed down to the grave by which it stood. “Who is the monster of whom Reddish speaks?” said Thibs. “Who was it kept his minutes so low he felt he had to leave? For Indianapolis, of all places?” Isiah stood immovable as ever. Thibs crept towards him, trembling as he did, and, following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave this name: TOM THIBODEAU. 

“Am I that man who didn’t give Obi a chance?” he cried, upon his knees. The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again. “No, Spirit! Oh no, no!” The finger was still there. “Spirit!” Thibs cried, “hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope?” For the first time, the hand appeared to shake. 

Thibs awoke in his bed. He nearly fell leaping out of it and racing toward the window, where a young boy was walking by.

“You there, boy! What day is it?”

“Why, today? It’s Christmas Day, sir.”

“Huzzah!” Thibs cried out. “Christmas Day. Still time to focus on Philadelphia. Stay focused. Keep your eye on what you can control. There is no Embiid.

Thibs would be true to his word. Slowly Toppin grew to accept that he could play freely without worry that every mistake would result in a benching, just like a real boy. A rejuvenated Obi started playing 24 minutes a night. Cam got more than occasional lump of coal to work with. Soon the young core would help lead the Knicks to a championship and Thibodeau would go down as one of the greatest coaches in franchise history. He would never forget the night of the ghosts, nor the lesson learned: God may not bless us, each and every one, but sometimes godliness is throwing what you can at the wall hoping something sticks – and if something does? Stick with it.