Waited My Whole Life For This
Reflections on the Knicks as World Champs
When I was a child, my mom and I had a ritual. We would walk over to the library, get a grip of books that covered a variety of subjects and, as a reward for being a voracious reader, I would get to bring home VHS tapes that covered NBA history. I learned about Bill Russell, Wilt Chamberlain, Kareem, Elgin Baylor, Jerry West, Moses Malone, Red Auerbach, Dr. J, Isiah Thomas, Bird, Magic, and the whole history of the league converted me into a lifelong basketball fan. I would grow to love other sports with considerable passion, but basketball was my first love.
I went to elementary school in Do or Die, Bed-Stuy, in the 90s. Playing basketball before school, during recess, and after school was our ritual. We would emulate our favorite players of that era and everybody wanted to be like Mike. We would run 3s and the kids on the better team would get to call themselves the Bulls. My love for the game was growing but my skill and athleticism lagged behind. Often on the receiving end of losses, I often found myself on the Knicks. This caste soon became a source of pride as we castoffs bonded around being Ewing, Starks, and Oakley. Occasionally we won, and every season our Knicks would push the Bulls to the limit.
I would rush home after church on Sunday, turn on the NBA on NBC as Marv Albert and Bob Costas waxed poetic about the great Michael Jordan. And as awe inspiring as he was, my basketball heart was captured by the Big Fella from Georgetown, PAT.RICK. EWING. He was Jamaican like me, had a flattop like I did, and because I was one of the taller kids, I tried to play the way I saw him play. Ewing never gave up. Sometimes his body betrayed him but never his will. I wanted him to win more than anything.
And we would always get so close! A finger roll away in 95. We were one of only ten teams to beat the Bulls in their historic 95-96 season. An absurd suspension that gutted our team before we could put paws on Chicago in ‘97. In arms reach but too short to box with the gods.
Finally MJ retired (again!) and the league was ripe for the taking. The Knicks had a bizarre season riddled with losses in a shortened lockout season. We limped into the playoffs as an eighth seed after a decade of having homecourt advantage in the first round. In that first round, we got our lick back against the hated Miami Heat with a classic Allan Houston runner in the lane. In the conference Finals, Larry Johnson completes an improbable four point play against our Reverse Flash, the Indiana Pacers. For the first time in 5 years, my Knicks are back in the Finals!
I’m in Brooklyn Heights now, still adhering to my ritual of basketball several times a day, where a new but still small group of friends pull for our beloved Knicks. Everyone with rational eyes knows that my Knicks are toast against the San Antonio Spurs and their Twin Towers, David Robinson and Tim Duncan. But I am not trying to hear that! Even with Ewing’s injury, I still believe. My Knicks, led by Latrell Sprewell and Allan Houston, give it all they’ve got but are dismissed by the Spurs in 5 games. We would be back in the conference Finals in 2000 but had no clue the dark age that awaited our team.
The Knicks would go on to stink for the entire 2000s. Players like Marbury, Nate Robinson, David Lee, and Jamal Crawford gave us hope but the good days-–though difficult—were over. The Knicks would embarrass themselves on the court and off of it. When all seemed lost, the 2010 offseason loomed and the chance at signing LeBron James filled the fanbase with anticipation. His signing with our hated rivals in Miami rubbed salt in an untreated wound. Amar’e and Melo’s arrival was a revival but ultimately no match. Linsanity gave us a belief in the impossible but is remembered for its cultural significance far more than its on-court impact. By 2019, I would have people calling me and trying to convince me to become a Nets fan. Even if Kevin Durant and Kyrie did not want us, I was not going anywhere. As a matter of fact, I told my wife if Spike and Yolanda Solomon ain’t leaving, then neither am I!
How could I have known that better days were coming? That signing Jalen Brunson—son of Knicks Alumni Rick Brunson—would forever change the story of my beloved team. As every champion, he took his licks. Losing to the Pacers twice, being told he was too small and not enough to be a champion. But what do they know? Brunson has rendered his critics into a bunch of Samuels looking at the sons of Jesse perplexed when they hear there is another.
My wife will tell you that I believe every year is the Knicks’ year. My heart always sees a path for this team. So when I declared it last fall, she was not blown away. The season with its hill and gully, made my prophecy look suspect. Even more, being down 2-1 to the Atlanta Hawks, showed all the ingredients for disaster. And still, these Knicks rattled off thirteen straight wins.
Nothing could stop us, we were all the way up! And much like Sammie singing in the juke joint, the Knicks’ excellence attracted a sinister presence. Even worse, he was invited by the Knicks’ governor (because “owner” in 2026? Are you kidding me?!). Anyone with a little bit of sense could tell you bringing a whole president to the Garden would be a nightmare for those trying to get into the game and those trying to get to their destination through Penn Station, on street traffic, and the subways. The game did not feel right and the win streak came to an end.
Prior to game 4, my fellow New Yorkers performed an ecumenical exorcism. You saw nuns bless MSG with holy water, cats burning sage and palo santo on 34th street. No matter your spiritual journey, if you were rooting for the Knicks, you were determined to get those bad vibes off the premises before tip-off.
By the end of the first half, it did not seem like the blessings worked. The Spurs looked confident, dominant, and truly were in our heads. Hip-Hop heroes from Shaolin performed at halftime with Meth declaring, “Knicks in 5, what y’all talkin’ bout?” The Knicks would rally and go on to vanquish future face of the league, Victor Wembanyama and the San Antonio Spurs with an OG Anunoby tip-in that will be a part of Finals montage videos for the foreseeable future.
It had to be the Spurs. It had to be in 5 games. When we came back from a 29 point deficit, I wept. My tears flowed for so much more than game 4. For a lifetime of being told my Knicks would never be enough. For my late grandmother who would watch MSG with me in her room. For my mother, fighting illness. For my sons, whose fandom arrived right on time. So many of us experienced decades’ worth of catharsis. Last Saturday’s win was an outbreak of healing that this fanbase and this oft envied and maligned city needed. Many words have been spent on the beauty that the Knicks have released in New York. I found myself like the dog who yipped and chased after the car but once catching it, had no clue what to do with it. So I determined myself that I would go to the parade. I combed over logistics, called friends, and made my way to lower Manhattan before sunrise.
It was beautiful to see the sea of blue and orange on the train. I arrived to Nassau and Ann greeted by thousands of pilgrims on the same type of time. The joy was a balm making us forget about aching feet, grumbling bellies, and filling bladders. As the gate opened, we inched closer and closer to the promise. The view of Broadway getting clearer with each step. As our anticipation grew, one sister declared that we weren’t going to make it but I had seen too much this season to give into any negativity, no matter how rational.
I can think of no better way to capture my passion for the Knicks than by getting ten feet within the parade gate before hearing the announcement “this gate is closed!” Crushing defeat supplanted by the joy of being around fellow fans and realizing we can’t all be dreaming. This really happened, the Knicks are World Champs!