I was seven years old when my dad first sat me down to watch the Knicks.
“This is our team,” he said, like he was passing down sacred knowledge. And in a way, he was. He told me about 1973 — Willis Reed limping onto the court, the Garden erupting, a city believing in something bigger than basketball. He told me about his father taking him to games at the old Garden. About championship parades down the Canyon of Heroes.
I didn’t understand all of it then. But I understood this: being a Knicks fan meant something. It was inherited. It was ours.
The Waiting
What followed was… well, you know. If you’re reading this, you probably know.
Decades of “maybe next year.” Of Ewing’s finger roll rimming out. Of watching other cities celebrate while we convinced ourselves that this draft pick, this trade, this coach would finally be the one.
I watched through college. Through my twenties. Through meeting Amanda. Through becoming a dad myself.
And somewhere along the way, I started doing the same thing my father did. I sat Kayden down — he’s only three, he barely knows what’s happening — and I said the words:
“This is our team.”
Last Night
When the final buzzer sounded, I didn’t jump up. I didn’t scream. I just… sat there. Frozen. Staring at the TV like I was waiting for someone to tell me it was a dream.
Then the tears came.
Not just happy tears. Release tears. Fifty-three years of “wait till next year” finally becoming “this is the year.” All those nights staying up too late, all those heartbreaking losses, all those moments of wondering why I even cared so much about a sports team — they all rushed through me at once.
Amanda squeezed my hand. She’s not a sports person, but she understood. She’s watched me watch this team for our entire relationship. She knows what this means.
And Kayden? He saw Daddy crying and did what any three-year-old does — he climbed into my lap and asked if I was sad.
“No, buddy,” I said, hugging him tight. “Daddy is so, so happy.”
The Phone Call
I called my dad. He picked up before the first ring finished.
Neither of us said anything for a few seconds. Just breathing. Just existing in this moment together, 3,000 miles apart but closer than we’ve ever been.
“We did it,” he finally said, his voice cracking.
“We did it, Dad.”
He told me he wished his father was still here to see it. I told him I was glad he was here to see it. More tears. The good kind.
What It Means
People who don’t follow sports don’t get it. “It’s just a game,” they say. And technically, sure. It’s people throwing a ball through a hoop.
But it’s not really about the game, is it?
It’s about my grandfather taking my dad to the Garden in 1970. It’s about my dad passing that love to me. It’s about me sitting with Kayden, building something that will outlast all of us.
It’s about having something that’s ours — a shared language, a common heartbeat, a reason to call your dad at 11pm on a random Tuesday night just to say “Can you believe that shot?”
The Knicks winning isn’t just about basketball. It’s about time. It’s about generations. It’s about the people we watch with and the people we wish were still here to watch with us.
Will It Be Another 53 Years?
I don’t know. Probably not — this team is young, this core is special. But honestly? Even if it is, I’ll be okay.
Because now I have this moment. Now I have the memory of my son in my lap, my wife holding my hand, my dad’s voice breaking on the phone.
Now I have proof that the waiting was worth it.
And someday, when Kayden is sitting with his own kids, watching the Knicks chase another championship, he’ll tell them about the night in 2025 when his dad cried happy tears on the couch.
“This is our team,” he’ll say.
And the tradition continues.
To my dad: Thank you for making me a Knicks fan. I know it brought me decades of heartache. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
To Kayden: You probably won’t remember last night. But I’ll remember it for both of us. And when you’re old enough, I’ll tell you the story. Over and over. Until you’re sick of hearing it.
Let’s go Knicks. Forever. 🧡💙