While I fully intend for this piece to be about Jeremy Lin – being written it is on this first, rather mournful anniversary of the Linsanity phenomenon – there seems no way to talk about Jeremy Lin (or in my case to keep talking about Jeremy Lin, for I have been talking about Jeremy Lin, as people will tell you, for quite some time now) that does not involve talking about myself first. Namely that part of myself, that acrid, apparently bottomless reservoir of choked-back bile, of humiliations swallowed and casual injustices endured, that is either unable or unwilling to stop talking about Jeremy Lin. There’s no need to rehash the old arguments. Why relitigate the trials of last summer, who said what to whom and the luxury tax implications that followed? We know. We know the PERs, the PPGs, the turnovers, the $139 million rise in MSG stock values, the astounding, defibrillating jolt to a comatose franchise. We remember what it felt like, that giddy mid-winter helium hit, for a fan base mired in yet another season in hell, in all likelihood the eighth circle. That’s the one shaped like an amphitheater, by the way, full of seducers and pimps, where the lamentations of the sinners make you put your hands over your ears and furiously scratch your skin off with your nails … Anyway, enough. The parade has left town, the thrill of newness is gone, and as we pause to sweep up the yellowed confetti we can be forgiven for wondering if we really did make too much of this thing after all. Or as my wife said just after midnight on July 14, just after James Dolan declined to match Houston’s offer and just before our divorce: "Wait, you’re not really upset about this, are you?"