By Phil Jackson

It looks like the rumor-mongers and twitter addicts are out here again complaining about the team and worried about moving players. I’m normally a patient man — you don’t get eleven championships without being able to rise above the media chatter and egos and feuds and ass taste raps — but let me set the record straight for all the panicked mobile tabloids: everything will be clear as day as soon as the glowing, pulsating Triangle emerges from its three-cornered chrysalis and lays waste to the basketball apostates it has tolerated for too long.

For the past several years, we have been preparing for the Triangle to return to its obelisk in the basement of Madison Square Garden where it first appeared to me in a vision. The Triangle speaks to me, a low hum about bounce passes and post positioning and it shrieks about jump shooting and it floats through parquets and t-shirt cannons to take ankles and ligaments from the disbelievers.

As we speak, Kurt Rambis and his international network of those with the Mark of the Triangle are assembling artifacts for the Triangle’s return: first-edition copies of the Tex Winter book anointed with the flat-top haircuts of early acolytes, Will Perdue’s sweat socks, a kidnapped Ron Harper whose birth was prophesied so many years ago by the Triangle on a Continental Basketball Association bus between Sunbury and Hartford.

Soon, the Triangle will reveal itself, shimmering, glowing, catching disbelieving basketball executives on its points and turning the draft into a geyser of gore and extravagant suit linings from players and coaches too obstinate to heed the basic principal of the Triangle, which is to obey all instructions from the Triangle.

As the basketball hoops topple, as stadiums fall, and the courts crumble into triangular divots, the Triangular Ones will gather at the Garden in our triangle shaped garments to wait for the Triangle to compel us one by one to make reads and cuts from the post that is harder than you think because we’re all will be wearing triangular shoes. We all will chant Roundball Rock, lost in the cacophony, the Triangle will fill the entire arena and bestow upon us basketball enlightenment as we reach the interlude part of the song where they would show the overhead blimp shot of the arena and Marv Albert would wonder whether Karl Malone could avoid choking this time.

Until then, I’ll just sit and and wait, knowing how much each one of your tweets enrages the Triangle as it thrums over Mark Madsen’s skull.