A week-plus into the whirlwind that is the Jeremy Lin Experience; a moment pushed by novelty, our innate desires to root for the underdog, Lin’s own tremendous work ethic and story, and the cultural implications of an American-born kid of Taiwanese descent (from Harvard!) not only starting, but thoroughly hooping; significantly contributing to a marquee team in need, has touched the pulse of basketball nerds basking in a moment of vicarious escapade and sparked the interest of casual hoop fans nationwide. He emerged, just in time, it seems, as the League limped out of a lockout where millionaires fought for their union interests against billionaires. Finally, something we all could connect with. As the New York Times wrote in “Jeremy Lin’s Emergence Ignites Scramble to Retail His Jersey” about the newfound and unexpected fervor for all-Lin-everything:
The city may be in the early stages of what has been called Linsanity, a mass hysteria especially prevalent among residents who share Lin’s Asian heritage, like the chef David Chang. The owner of the Momofuku restaurants, he said the emergence of Lin as the Knicks’ starting point guard in the past week was “the most important event for Asian-Americans in sports history.” Mr. Chang said that dressing like a superfan was not his style, but that even he might feel compelled to buy a jersey.
Not even a celebrity with the connections of a popular chef could have found one to buy on Thursday. On the eve of the Knicks’ home matchup with Kobe Bryant and the Los Angeles Lakers, shopping therapy was not a treatment option.
At Gerry Cosby & Company, a store near the Garden that supplies the Knicks with their uniforms, the shelves were bereft of Lin gear.
Jim Root, the store’s manager, said it could be two weeks before officially licensed T-shirts arrived. How long it would take to get authentic jerseys with Lin’s name and number embroidered on them — the kind that cost about $300 — was anybody’s guess, Mr. Root said.
He said Lin’s burst into prominence had caught Adidas, the league’s official provider of jerseys, flat-footed. The company could not have seen him coming, he said, because Lin was not even on the Knicks’ roster a few weeks ago and he cracked the starting lineup only this week.
Modell’s, the chain of sporting-good stores in the city and beyond, also had nothing to offer the Lin lover.
Nor did the National Basketball Association’s official store on Fifth Avenue. A clerk there said “a lot of people” had asked for Lin jerseys.
On Thursday morning, the Knicks’ online store started taking orders for $54.95 jerseys and $19.95 “Linsanity” T-shirts that would not be shipped before Feb. 20. But for those who were finding it impossible to wait that long to wear their feelings for Lin on their chests and backs, the Knicks’ promotional staff was working Thursday afternoon on a cure.
In a cramped, windowless room in the Garden, a few employees arranged orange numerals and white letters on blank blue Knicks jerseys, then lowered hot presses onto them. And, voilà: the only legal No. 17 Lin jerseys in the city, other than the ones the Knicks’ player wears, were ready for sale.
Starting Friday morning, as many as 200 of them will be offered for $54 in the stores inside the arena, said Stacey Escudero, a spokeswoman for Madison Square Garden. She said Garden officials hoped that some of the T-shirts would arrive before the 8 p.m. tipoff.
For more than a week, that may be the only outlet to satisfy Lin’s newfound fans, like Ben Chan, who lives and works in Chinatown. “I’m looking all over for a No. 17 jersey,” he said. “I checked on eBay and found one for $150. That’s way too much.”
