On Thursday morning, my son Ben and I joined more than a million Knicks fans in Lower Manhattan to raucously celebrate New York’s NBA championship win last Saturday—its first in 53 years. An hour before the posted start time, the adjoining streets near the parade route on Broadway were mobbed. A sea of blue and orange spread through the city, families decked out in Jalen Brunson jerseys, vendors moving stacks of merch, young fans leading chants while perched atop sanitation trucks—all as the smell of weed drifted through the air, drones buzzed overhead, and confetti fell.
The New York Knicks have bookended my life, with elation on both ends and a deep trough of disappointment and agony in between. Measured by time elapsed, the bad years outweigh the good ones, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Looking back on my life, in this moment of great triumph for my team and my hometown of New York, it’s no exaggeration to say the Knicks helped rescue me.
In 1970, I was 13, an introverted kid, unsettled and frightened by the disorder and random violence of New York at the time. I was intrigued by drugs and spent a lot of time indoors. In other words, I was a mess. The Knicks were my escape.
