All the draftees had been interviewed, all the thank-yous issued and clichés uttered, except for one. Kris Dunn. His emotions, honest and earnest, finally got him the way few on the court can. Dunn cried, right there on national television last week, moments after he made it. Finally. The dream.

It’s not so easy when the day arrives, the day when the Holy Grail is on the doorstep, and somebody sticks a microphone in your face. It’s as if the day itself is saying, “Well, here I am so sum me up in a few tidy words.”

And yet the most striking part about Kris Dunn’s brief interview with ESPN last week, moments after he became a Timberwolf, was this: Amid a lifetime of emotions, amid thoughts running like currents through his mind, Dunn made it a point to mention his high school. His city. Lisa Salters asked him about his snazzy suit, sewn into which was “Whalers.”

It was more than Dunn honoring the concept of remembering where he came from. It’s another example of New London’s mystical charm. Put it this way: Did you hear any of the other draftees mention their high schools, their cities?

Or this one: Alum Troy McKelvin texted a few of Dunn’s friends who were at the Barclays Center to see if they could get a “Whaaaa-lerrrrs” chant going when Dunn heard his name called.

That’s the power of New London, Connecticut. Hard to explain. The loyalty of the 06320 makes it feel like no other place in America sometimes.

So if we use the aforementioned as prologue, let’s ask the question: Why is a place that elicits such boundless allegiance kill itself with so many alarming bouts of dysfunction?

No, really. Why can’t the city — its people, its leaders — ever use the passion and reverence the inhabitants have for New London in more substantial ways?

If they all love their city — and they do — why isn’t there more common ground, rather than obstruction over compromise?

Think about what New London offers. In no particular order: The views of Pequot Ave., Ocean Beach, great places to eat, a downtown with mostly local merchants. Sailfest brings the region together better than no other event. Tall ships, Coast Guard, food strolls. On the band plays.

And really: Who cares what a few dim bulbs from suburbia think about the place? Who cares if a few of them think you need Kevlar to walk around Bank St.? They don’t get it. Never will.

Besides, they’re irrelevant. They can’t affect change. This is about New Londoners, who are quick to tell us they know what’s best for their city.

Fine. They have a wonderful place. The only high school in Connecticut with alumni playing in the NFL, NBA and Major League Baseball. And again: unyielding loyalty. Isn’t it about time we rallied around that?

Maybe they can follow Kris Dunn’s lead. He didn’t have to mention the New London Whalers on national television the other night. But he did. Because it means something. I’d cringe, though, if some enterprising national reporter wanted to pursue more details about the city, perhaps wondering the genesis of Dunn’s loyalty, and discovering a place whose wheels spin furiously but with little traction.

Well celebrate Dunn and his story. We appreciate his willingness to call out his high school and his city. But can we learn something from it, too?

So maybe the next time there’s bickering at some meeting, there’s disagreement over this and that, and there’s obstruction over compromise, we remember Kris Dunn. We try to understand the rhythms behind all the passion for the 06320. Maybe it defies explanation. But the feelings sure don’t.

This is the opinion of Day sports columnist Mike DiMauro.