I live it, write it down & watch it blow up...

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