I was struck with the singular posture he maintained. Upon each side of the Peqoud’s quarter deck, and pretty close to the mizzen shrouds, there was an auger hole, bored half an inch or so, into the plank. His bone leg steadied in that hole; one arm elevated, and holding by a shroud; Captain Ahab stood erect, looking straight out beyond the ship’s ever-pitching prow. There was an infinity of firmest fortitude, a determinate, unsurrenderable wilfulness, in the fixed and fearless, forward dedication of that glance. Not a word he spoke; nor did his officers say aught to him; though by all their minutest gestures and expressions, they plainly showed the uneasy, if not painful, consciousness of being under a troubled master-eye. And not only that, but moody stricken Ahab stood before them with a crucifixion in his face; in all the nameless regal overbearing dignity of some mighty woe.

Entering this during game 6 of the Knicks and Pacers. Keeping it on mute. Sometimes literature appears.

The Knicks could use a captain Ahab right about now.

Melville, Herman. Moby Dick. District of Columbia: Rock Paper Company, 2014. pg125