But give him credit for this much: He has seen the horror that is his Knicks organization in 2013-14 and tossed down gobs of money to import the Zen master. And the Buddha willing, if Dolan can leave him alone, this deeply competitive import could give the Knicks their best shot at somehow, someday playing meaningful June basketball.

Or Dolan could kick him to the Seventh Avenue curb in a couple of years, leaving him to count his gold while he waits for a cab to the airport. This is the curse of Knicks fandom. Any sprout of optimism takes root in the mulch of deep pessimism.

Dolan adores going long on Hall of Famers. Lenny Wilkens, Larry Brown, Isiah Thomas — all coached here before tumbling down the backstairs of the Garden. Donnie Walsh landed at La Guardia as one of the most respected hoops hands in the N.B.A.; he lasted a few years before he returned to Indiana, where, in peace and quiet, he quickly helped fashion a championship contender.

Still, who could complain at having Phil Jackson back in the fold?

On a most sentimental level, he’s a reminder of a more accessible Knicks team and time. When I could see Jackson loping up Broadway looking like a particularly tall and shaggy member of the Band; when I sat on the crosstown bus chatting with the backup center John Gianelli; and when the sainted Earl the Pearl strolled into the New Yorker Bookshop accompanied by a woman so unutterably foxy as to render me, the clerk, mute.

Whatever.

I understand many sensible sorts view Dolan as a reverse alchemist, with an unfailing ability to convert gold to dross. But there’s a lot of silliness in the commentary of the last few days, the writers and talk-radio yammerers who portray Jackson as the Slacker Coach, the beach hermit of Playa del Rey. He won’t put in the time. He can’t name half the players in the N.B.A.