The Knicks Title Opened The Floodgates

The Knickerbockers delivered an entire city, bred and masted at the maw of hell, to a single ecstatic reality: no hope is too silly. No dream will flourish unwritten. With 12 minute stretches of basketball, a game where the turns of a literal sphere dictate your pulse, the New York Knicks purged an entire city’s trauma.

Your world can exist in a bounce.

Then they won the championship. I was with my boys, from post-college, from the smoke-filled rooms, from the days where some left their dreams hanging just as thick as the weed in the air. We hugged and we cried and we FaceTimed. One of my best friends has two sons who now love basketball because they watch their dad break down the game and all the life to be learned from it. The thought alone tightens my rib cage around my swelling heart and produces the flood.

This year’s been really hard. My father died and — because of our difficult relationship— I refused to ID his body. The brutal mist of funeral home formaldehyde almost sucked my pupils out of their sockets as I signed his death certificate. Then I was laid off from my job for no reason. I had to accept my reality, but not lose my spirit in the agonies of a professional game.

I wrote. I wept. I exercised. In private.

But sometimes neither life nor fantasy is enough. My love for the Knicks occupies that indefinable space between improbable imaginary wins and heavy, cold stuck-ness.

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