As Barber holds court at a north Jersey Italian restaurant, it’s easy to see why so many have felt comfortable in his orbit; it’s easy to see why so many have questioned his authenticity. He makes perfect eye contact and works in references ranging from Tony Soprano to Malcolm Gladwell. He also drops f-bombs, tells raunchy stories and dishes NFL dirt. Insisting he’s “in a great place,” Barber points out that he has his health, he has his four kids and he has Traci. And at 36, he has football back in his life.

He has a story, too, one that is instantly familiar—athlete struggles with retirement, tries to reclaim glory—and at the same time unique to Barber. It’s also a distinctly New York fable, one best viewed through the prism of the media, which fueled his rise and feasted on his fall. It has the ring of myth and classic themes of hubris, sibling rivalry, downfall and revival—Narcissus, Romulus and Remus, and Icarus all rolled into one. How did a man who was once the toast of Gotham, the NFL’s Most Likely to Succeed, land on his ass? And how is he going to lift himself back up? “When people are like, ‘What’s up with Tiki?’ ” says former Giants defensive end Michael Strahan, “I don’t even know where to begin.”

Stunning trades, shotgun marriages and a season on the brink of greatness. How a Knicks fan came to recommit after a decade of dysfunction and delusion.

Hero. Cheat. Prodigy. Ingrate. Free spirit. Knucklehead. Hall of Famer. Pariah. Enigma. Manny Ramirez, one of the great right-handed hitters of his generation, who retired from baseball this month after once again testing positive for performance-enhancing drugs, was many things to many people — fans and family and teammates from Santo Domingo to Washington Heights to Cleveland to Boston. Sara Rimer, then a reporter for The New York Times, met Ramirez in 1991 at George Washington High School in Manhattan. Over two decades, she enjoyed a memorable and mystifying acquaintanceship with Ramirez.