The Knicks made me a sports fan

Between June 3 and June 13, the New York Knicks made me fall in love with sports.

The experience was surprising for many reasons. My brother has spent years explaining football to me. My dad is a sports journalist. Sports have always been present in every corner of my life, through dinner-table conversations and television broadcasts. I understood intellectually why people cared, but I never connected with the game.

In mid-May, I graduated from New York University (NYU). For four years, being a student defined my relationship with New York. There was always going to be somewhere; something was going to happen; the next milestone was waiting around the corner. Then, suddenly, there was no more. I was no longer a student. There’s a particularly strange feeling that comes with finding yourself unfettered in a city of eight million people, yet surrounded by hustle and bustle, ambition and possibility.

Then, the Knicks made it to the NBA Finals.

The timing couldn’t have been better. The city was waking up from the severe cold. Everyone seemed determined to enjoy every minute of the warm weather. People remained lurking outside after work. Restaurants spilt out onto the footpaths.

The Knicks’ win added another layer to the atmosphere: anticipation. New York had not reached the NBA Finals since 1999 and had not won a championship since 1973. It felt as if history were drawing nearer, and whether or not you cared about basketball, you could sense the buzz.

My roommate and I watched the first game at a crowded sports bar on the Upper West Side. I wore a blue shirt and orange eyeliner because it felt like it was the appropriate amount of commitment for someone taking on the role as a Knicks fan.

The line at the bar wrapped around the block 30 minutes before tip-off. We dramatically overestimated how much New York was going to look like. After a 20-minute wait – which seems to be one of New York’s favorite activities – we were finally let in. ⁣ The place was packed beyond what seemed physically possible. We passed through groups of people standing shoulder to shoulder, necks craned toward the TV mounted above the crowd. A bartender of immense strength walked past carrying a tray loaded with 15 or 20 beers at a time. The drink slipped over shoulders and sleeves.

Nobody cared.

Every move in the game produced a collective reaction – cheers, groans, or dramatic sighs. No expertise is required to participate. I didn’t know every player’s tendencies or their game, but with hundreds of people around you freaking out, it’s impossible not to get involved.

A friend of mine was watching from Toronto, excited by my newfound enthusiasm for basketball, and texting me updates. They explained the things we had forgotten and celebrated the things we didn’t yet understand. The energy of the Nicks spread beyond NYC; people in different cities felt the same emotional ups and downs at the same time. Game 1 taught me that enthusiasm is contagious and that you can connect with people who love a game even if you don’t understand it.

The night of the second game, I had decided that I wanted to spend the evening exploring New York rather than waiting in line at another sports bar, so when tip-off came, I was walking across the Brooklyn Bridge.

Still, the city wouldn’t let me forget that a finals game was taking place there. ⁣ ⁣ From the bridge, I could see orange and blue lights flashing on the horizon. On the bus ride home, I passed every bar, and they all seemed packed. I wasn’t even watching, and yet I found myself repeatedly checking the Knicks scores while chatting with friends on the phone.

At some point, I became invested. Game 2 taught me that fans follow you.

Game 3. The Knicks lost.

Instead of the usual celebration, spectators poured out of the sports bar. It was an unfavourable end to the game. The outcome was especially disappointing since it was a home match.

Game 3 taught me something about New Yorkers. The city quickly bounced back, calling for jubilation and burning sage outside Madison Square Garden to restore energy. The mantra that was everywhere – “My mayor is Muslim; my bagel is Jewish. My Christian Dior, nick in four! – “My bagel chive, nick in five!” developed.

Thirty-three years without a championship clearly taught New Yorkers many things, including how to absorb disappointment without giving up optimism. Confidence remained absolutely intact. It refused to let even a single loss become the story.

I missed the start of Game 4 because I booked a Broadway show. But as soon as I stepped outside into the warm summer air and my data came in, I was already typing ‘Knicks score’ into Google.

They trailed 20-4, and soon, my Toronto friend texted that the Spurs had set a record for the largest lead at halftime in the Finals. Then, they were down 29 points at one point – another record.

We stopped by a restaurant, more for basketball than dinner. We ordered fries and a milkshake, but we could have also been served cucumbers and water. Our eyes were fixed on the screen. The plate had no importance.

The dead silence and occasional moans slowly turned into murmurs, and then into full-blown screams. Basket by basket, the lead shrank. With about a minute left, the Knicks finally took their first lead of the game. People around me were screaming, jumping, grabbing their friends and hugging strangers. We saw OG Anunoby save the Knicks by making a spectacular comeback with the game-winning tip-in.

It didn’t matter where you were in New York – a Broadway theatre, a stage door, or a restaurant at 10:30 pm – delirium surrounded you. As Mayor Mamdani said, the Knicks run turned the country’s largest city into “what feels like the smallest city in the world”.

Game 4 taught me that shared hope is enough to turn strangers into a community.

My Game 5 began at a bar near Madison Square Garden (MSG), where the streets were already surrounded by hundreds of NYPD officers and roadblocks. People were still arriving from everywhere. MSG, home of the NY Knicks, was the centre of all activity and the place to be.

At halftime, we went out in search of an open-air screening. We found a gas station that had a giant screen. Next to it, a smaller screen, set up for a rooftop viewing party, was showing the same game, but on a stream that was slightly further away. We could hear it before we saw it – every time the Knicks scored, cheers from somewhere above us prepared us for the celebration. A second later, the entire street around us would explode.

People were standing on the roofs of cars. Others hanged themselves from streetlights. On a sticky New York summer night, everyone was determined to stay outside. By then, I’d learnt the crucial lesson of finals: it isn’t over until it’s over.

Everyone waited together and then the Knicks won.

Champagne floated around us. Giant number five balloons magically materialised. The shirts came off. Vehicles were jammed as thousands of residents and pedestrians took to the streets. Bars blasted “Empire State of Mind” and “New York, New York”. The buildings were glowing orange and blue. Congratulations appeared on the LinkNYC screen. Strangers high-five each other.

Traffic had become impossible, so we walked 45 minutes home. This was one of the best walks I have ever taken in the Big Apple, the city that never sleeps. That night, it didn’t actually happen.

For two weeks, the finals gave millions of people a shared purpose. They gave strangers a reason to talk. He connected friends spread across different cities. They turned bars, eateries, sidewalks and gas stations into gathering places to watch the game.

The city welcomed my bandwagon fan without question. My genuine enthusiasm was quite high. For two weeks, every conversation ended with “Knicks in five”.

Between June 2 and June 13, the Knicks made me a sports fan. More importantly, they made me feel like a real New Yorker.