Your bag is empty.
New York today looks nothing like the city I grew up in. It’s more expensive, often made in the image of transplants who bear little resemblance to anyone who lived on my block. However, this city has also historically been aided by ambitious out-of-towners who moved here to innovate, to genuinely be part of what makes this city special. That’s part of the rub of the city—the longstanding tension between transplants and natives, always fighting over who gets to call themselves a “real” New Yorker.
But lately, that tension has all but dissolved thanks to a temporary language that we all share: love for the New York Knicks.
For the first time in decades, Manhattan’s NBA team made the finals, and as a result, Knicks fever is all over the city. At Governors Ball over the weekend, I wore an Anthony Mason jersey, a bit of a deep cut by modern Knicks standards, and still got an onslaught of compliments from fellow festivalgoers. I’d get “Knicks in four” or “Knicks in six” shoutouts from everyone. It feels like every fifth person on the subway is wearing a Knicks hat, a Knicks jersey, or the colors orange and blue.
On the way to East Williamsburg to watch the game, I smiled at new playoff converts in fresh knockoff gear, knowing it won’t see the light of day after the playoffs end—but also knowing the Knicks run has inspired them to join a fandom that goes back to my father’s childhood bedroom. That is what has made the Knicks’ playoffs feel like a cocoon, almost, for the beauty of what New York can be at its finest hour.
The New York Knicks are the throughline for the entire city. The Yankees have to share with the lowly but passionate Mets fanbase, and with their impenetrable swagger and ruling-class authority, sometimes the Yankees don’t accurately represent the ups and downs of the city. They represent the imperial status of New York, but the fanbase and team can feel removed from the daily life of being a New Yorker. I love my Yankees, but it’s not quite as emotionally charged as being a Knicks fan. Like a friend of mine once said, “Yankee fandom should be passed down to you like a feudal enterprise.”
The Knicks are unique in that they have the importance of the Yankees, mixed with the unluckiness of the Mets and even a team like the Chicago Cubs. They haven’t won a title since 1973, and even when they made it to the NBA Finals, fans still talk about the 1994 team that couldn’t close against the Rockets, or the 1999 team that ran out of gas against Tim Duncan’s dynastic Spurs. People sometimes joked on Knicks fans because the team was so sad. But that’s what makes the Knicks the real team of the city—the team for the entire working class of New York. They have their rough-and-tumble ‘90s style, the toughness of the current squad, heroes like Patrick Ewing, John Starks, Anthony Mason, and Carmelo Anthony bringing a hip-hop bluster to the court. They have Karl-Anthony Towns’s vibrancy whipping the offense into shape from the top of the key, Jalen Brunson’s professionalism, and they have hope. Young people love that the old heads are starting to believe that a Knick team can prevail; old heads are encouraged by the uptick in young Knicks superfans. The Knicks are New York’s most desired son, a favorite to all of the identity groups.
That’s what made Donald Trump’s attendance at Game 3 feel like such an intrusion. The Knicks help bring the city together, showing the world that despite our differences in identity, in culture, in methods, in language, we can come together to cheer on one semblance of New York monoculture. So far, I have watched games at an East Village dive bar, an Upper West Side sports bar, my Riverdale home, a Fort Greene sports bar that Spike Lee goes to, and an East Williamsburg Italian restaurant. I had lemon pepper wings, burgers, quesadillas, jalapeño pizza, and my mom’s salmon. Trump is far from the epitome of diversity; he’s a right-wing rich guy who has called New York too crime-ridden and too dirty. He might be born and raised in New York, but through his ideology, Trump stopped being a New Yorker a long time ago.
New York functions best when people who live in the city adore it and will do anything to keep it as cool as it is. The Knicks run has fostered that feeling, and the city is firing on all cylinders as a result. There are men watching the game on the curb in their neighborhoods, cigar smoke filling the air while they open picnic chairs and watch from the trunks of their SUVs. It’s like time stops and nothing else matters but a man’s love for the Knicks and the grittiness it takes to watch on the sidewalk. It is hard for me to think that any other city matters when I see New Yorkers like that. New York, despite its issues, is the only city in the world.
The Knicks lost a tough one in Game 3. I went to Carmine’s with some childhood friends, and friends of friends, a group full of natives and transplants who genuinely love New York. Brothers and sisters in arms, a rainbow coalition of New York psychos ready to cheer on the Knicks. The game ended in heartbreak: the Spurs played their tails off, especially Wemby, who would look like a New Yorker if he wasn’t wearing that black and silver uniform, and the Knicks couldn’t buy a clutch shot. But we left with our heads up, still nursing a 2–1 series lead.
As I went to my girlfriend’s place downtown, two fans stopped me on the corner outside the bodega: a Black man and a Puerto Rican man who wanted to know what I thought of the game. I talked about Karl-Anthony Towns’s lack of touches, Brunson’s offensive instincts, and Mikal Bridges’s struggles. “They played one of their worst games and only lost by four,” I said. For three minutes, under a streetlamp, we were just Knicks fans trying to talk ourselves out of heartbreak.