Willis Reed is gone. Willis Reed will never be gone.
The shoulders of giants stand on his.
The tragedy of life is its glory: it’s temporary. Same with heroes. Whenever they enter a conflict, whether it’s an army on horseback sweeping across Eurasia’s steppes or a power forward pump-faking a closeout and driving the lane, any arrow out of nowhere or awkward landing after a mid-air collision is all it takes to shhh their final roar. This neither stops nor slows them – risk is a given when you aim for the stars. What isn’t is the price it demands of our heroes, and what – if anything – it gives back.
Willis Reed is gone. Willis Reed will never be gone. He’s more myth than man to most who mourn him. In the Knickerbocker cosmos the Captain is an elder god, who smote a bigger, more powerful foe and built the universe from the remains. In the history of the franchise, he is Year Zero, the dividing line between B.C. and A.D., between Eddie Donovan and Red Holzman, Jumping Johnny Green and Walt Clyde Frazier. In the wake of his passing he’s been lionized and eulogized, a halcyon hero over seven of the franchise’s nine decades. Glories spring to mind like dandelions in spring. But wherever glory goes, so must tragedy.
Reed had a shorter playing career than Sandy Koufax, brilliant but short-lived, a baby blue star set to supernova. Holzman himself, announcing Reed’s retirement in 1974, described his captain’s medical history as “heartbreaks”: operations on both knees (Reed retired rather than face another surgery after another torn knee ligament), at least three broken noses, a shoulder sprain, a right thigh injury, bone spurs, linament burns and six weeks with his knee in a cast. And those were just the physical pains.
In Reed’s final season, injuries restricted him to 19 regular-season games; he was a non-factor in limited postseason minutes. After the Knicks were eliminated by Boston in the second round, the players voted Reed a half-share of the playoff bonus money they received, enraging many fans and even media members. Before he’d left the room the door wasn’t just hitting his ass, his co-workers helped give it a push. The new world waits to be born; it doesn’t waste time burying the old one.
One of the hazards of heroism is not being properly appreciated until you’re done, or gone; same thing. Homer sang of Odysseus across light years of time. Mendelssohn brought the genius of Bach to the world years after he’d died. Joni Mitchell warned us of the chutzpah of parking lots. As early as 1976, when Reed became the first Knick to have his number retired, the Times made reference to “their better days.” Usually a Golden Age takes a while to solidify from mist to missed; two years without Willis was all it took at MSG.
Maybe the mythological character whose story most parallels Reed’s is Hercules. The Reed who arrived in New York out of Grambling in 1964 was described as a “gangling frontcourt man”; the Reed who retired had performed superhuman labors few would dare attempt, fewer still pull off. Hercules was born a mortal and rose to divinity. Reed was the first player to make the All-Star team as both a power forward and a center. As above, so below.
Heroes fall. Many blue and orange would-be knights fell victim to the same dragon Reed did – knee injuries. Toby Knight. Bernard King. Doc Rivers. Antonio McDyess. Amar’e Stoudemire. Kristaps Porziņģis. Most heroes don’t make it back. The Captain did, and did again, and again, over and over until he couldn’t. Even in his absence, with all he left us, he’ll never feel gone. The man is temporary; myth, memory and meaning never die.
