Saturday May 29, 1993.
Game three Knicks and Bulls in the Eastern Conference Finals. The Knicks were up two games to none on the mighty back-to-back champs. 2-0! Held court at home and didn’t let them steal shit.
It was just about game time and we all had game faces on our section was mob deep with Boo, PJ, Tiny and every other New York cat in full shit-talk mode to the Chicago heads. And then Hugh rolls up in the spot with a Bernard King jersey tucked into his plaid shorts, house shoes, tube socks pulled up mad high and his ever-present Mr. Nice Guy-shit eater smile.
“Talked with your pops the other day, talking about his Knicks of course. That man loves the Knicks.”
Everyone knew Hugh used to be a cop and all the rules still applied so I answered him loud, dismissive and sarcastic. “Yeah, I know, Buddy.”
He picked up on my vibe and was eager to push my buttons in public so he got real close to my face, “He went to games one and two. Did you know that, smart guy?
His public display of aggression caught me off guard and scattered my thoughts, I lost my wind for a second and answered meekly, “No. I didn’t.”
His shit eater grin got wider, “Took your sister too. How about that? ”
“He took Tanieshia?” All those years I witnessed mediocre basketball with my Dad in the Garden and Tanieshia got the playoffs. My Dad knew he owed her for the Mets debacle.
“Yeah, he said he never heard the Garden so loud. The sea of white from the playoff towels, just some high caliber stuff. I’m surprised he didn’t mention it to you.”
Bob Fennimore a friend of my Father worked for WOR-TV back when the Knicks played on Channel 9. It felt like we were season ticket holders we went to so many games at the Garden.
“Nah, he didn’t mention it.” I tried to sound casual but it hurt to miss the games and it hurt more that I had to hear it from Hugh.
“Maybe he didn’t want you to feel left out and here I am blabbing away. Pretty insensitive of me, huh?
“How am I supposed to answer that, Hugh?”
He waved his long, ugly finger in my face, “Carefully. I remember when you used to go to all the games with your Dad. Now you’re here, with me”
We used to have floor seats behind the basket. Back when they were red. They became lavender seats when Dave Checketts and Pat Riley took over. We used to go when it was Red Holzmen before it was Hubie Brown before it was Rick Patino and the Bomb Squad. Holzmen was my Dad’s dude. Ray Williams, Michael Ray Richardson, Truck Robinson, Sly Williams, Rory Sparrow, Marvin Webster, Bill Cartwright. We were was raised on the Classic Roundball Revised logo with the Garden sound system on full blast ‘We are New York and we know basketball, we will win it all, cause we’re the New York Knicks.’
I was also a full-fledged tongue-out-the-mouth-long shorts-black ankle socks-Air Jordan posters all over the wall-kind of dude too. To be a Knick fan and a Jordan lover is pure self-hate. In case you wanted to know the last time the Knicks won the championship I was one. The Yankees and Giants have taken our team/fan relationship to its zenith. The Knicks have continually delivered heartbreak and disillusionment. But in the ‘92-‘93 season we believed in Pat Riley. They were 60-22, the number one seed and on a collision course with the Bulls who had knocked us out the playoffs three of the last four years. And just like Jordan had to go through Bird’s Celtics and Isaiah’s Pistons we knew all roads went through his Bulls. And of course in game three the Knicks shit the bed. The Bulls toyed with them. Just embarrassed and frustrated the Knicks. Of course John Starks got ejected when he went after Jordan. Like he could really even touch the franchise. The Knicks had TWENTY turnovers for the game! The Bulls scored sixty-two in the first half! Outside of Ewing’s twenty-one points nobody stepped up. It was tough to sit through. Most of the New York section had turned on the Knicks before the end of the third quarter.
“They suck ass, yo!” “What! I told you the Knicks suck, kid. Ewing is a dunking dummy, yo.”
I was quick to bring the glass half full perspective, “It’s all good. We’re still up two games to one. All we need to do is steal one on their floor.”
“You hear this nigga? D, you swear you suiting up next game.” “Word. Talking all that ‘we’ shit. You ain’t on the team, nigga.”
I just knew the Knicks would be fine, “Whatever. That’s fan speak. But y’all no team loyalty having niggas don’t know nothing about that.” But then I got all outside of myself, “All I know is I garuentee they’ll win out, wanna bet because you don’t know what the fuck you talking about anyway.”
In game three the Knicks lost by twenty, lost by ten in game four, lost by three in game five, and by eight in game six. Game five by far was the worst! All six-foot-eleven of Charles Smith’s-I can’t-understand-why-he-didn’t-just-dunk-it-ass got his shot blocked repeatedly and lost about nine pints of blood from the fouls committed on each attempt as the refs swallowed their whistles. It still remains in the top five worst sports Moments of my life.
M
Jul 6, 2012
Back in the Day...
“Back in the day, when I was young, I’m not a kid anymore
But some days I sit and wish I was a kid again” – Ahmad
While mostly unsupervised in the City we did some crazy stuff like toss bricks from rooftops so it only made me braver when we moved back to Norwalk. I was sure Jean had wore herself out when she pulled single mother duty because I got beat with the belt just about everyday. I still caught her wrath when we moved back to 18A even though she said she turned me over to my Father.
It’s true I was prone to mischief and proud to have defended my self-proclaimed Slick Man of the Year title seven years straight. We’d break the locks at S&S candy factory behind our complex, shoplifted from Jet Variety at least once a week and stole wooden coffee stirrers from Duchess and Dairy Queen then set them on fire in the woods next to the park.
We did everything in that park.
Dodge ball, basketball, tennis ball, touch football, tag, freeze tag, hide & seek, Mother may I, and red light-green light 123. Name it we played it.
One summer day we had the dodge ball game in full swing and the cutest redbone I had ever seen came over and asked if she could play. She had the Shirley Temple curls and I was in love.
“You can be on my side, I’m Donte you can throw and catch right?”
My hands and face were all sweaty and my shorts stuck to my ass under the summer humidity. We took our dodge ball very seriously actually we took every game of anything very seriously. Like when I got mad at Terry Verno and traded him for Allen Jones in between plays on some George Steinbrenner shit.
She waved her hand in my face, “I can throw and catch thanks but I wanna be on my cousin’s side.”
I felt mad played while I watched her skip over to her cousin and my volatile immaturity exploded.
“That’s all right. I’ll show you muthafuckas who the fuck runs this fucking
park. Go head throw that shit, nigga you throw like a bitch. Ahhhhh! Your ass is out! SIT THE FUCK DOWN!!! I’m a fuck all y’all up!”
“Time out, time out.” She ran towards me with hands up and a nauseas look.
“Hold up! Don’t throw the ball at me, I have time out!”
“What? Why you calling time out? I was fucking y’all up …”
“Can you stop cursing? Why are you playing like that? The game isn’t even fun when you’re talking like that …”
“Bitch! This is my block! If you don’t like the way I’m fucking talking then get the fuck outta my park, bitch!”
Her neck rolled with mad attitude and she sucked her teeth mad loud.
“Your Momma’s a bitch! I’m telling my uncle.”
She was out the park and across the street before I could respond.
“What! Tell your fucking uncle! I don’t care about that nigga, he ain’t my Daddy.”
After she left the park I yelled louder and cursed more with the glow of victory while we played like three more epic dodge ball games. Later that afternoon when I came home from the park, Mr. Robinson, also known as Deacon Robinson and the cute redbone were seated with my mother in our living room. Apparently his niece who was there for the summer went to the park to play and some wild boy cursed her out. My Mother leapt like predator to prey as soon as I walked in the door.
“You like calling young ladies, bitches? Motherfucker? You know what that is, Donte?”
The salty sound each profane word made as it fell out of my Mother’s mouth forced a nervous snort and giggle. Rage and embarrassment grabbed her face.
“Oh, so you think this is funny, you got some jokes, Mr. Nasty-mouth, do you? Well, I’ll give you something to laugh about …”
I tried to dip her reach with a drop step. “No! Mom! It’s just weird to hear you say those words …” But she was too quick and had me by the collar of my shirt.
“EXACXLY! Because you don’t hear that in this house but if you want to act a fool, I’m a beat you like a fool …”
“Mom! No!
‘Take your pants off …”
“Mom! There sitting right there, SHE’S sitting right there.”
I didn’t dare look towards the couch. I was so scared I thought I’d burst into flames.
“Oh! Now you worried about offending the young lady? Take your pants OFF!”
“We’re going to leave now, Sister Baxter …”
Mercifully he didn’t wait for her reply as the door closed on the rest of his sentence.
M
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