I always laugh when people find out I’m a Knicks fan from San Antonio.
Like somehow I betrayed the city basketball code.
Everybody here grew up on Spurs basketball. Tim Duncan bank shots. Gregg Popovich interviews that felt like lectures from a retired general. Precision. Fundamentals. Quiet greatness.
Meanwhile I attached my entire emotional well-being to 90s Knicks basketball.
Pure chaos. Toughness. Nastiness
My love for the game really started with John Starks.
Which honestly explains a lot.
Not Mark Jackson.
Not Ron Harper.
Not even the logical choice. Charlie Ward
John Starks.
A 6’4 shooting guard with supreme confidence, questionable shot selection, violent dunks, and enough emotional volatility to make every Knicks fan age seven years per playoff series.
And somehow as a 6’0 guard with regular athleticism and absolutely none of Starks’ bounce… I convinced myself THAT was my game.
That’s who I studied.
That’s who I copied.
That’s who I ran outside pretending to be.
I spent years trying to play like a scoring two guard when I should’ve been learning how to actually run a team. Now I did end up playing college basketball on the JUCO, DII & DI level, with a run semi – pro overseas, but was no where as good as players now.
Funny enough… I see that same thing everywhere in youth basketball now.
Kids copying players that don’t fit who they are.
Everybody wants to be the scorer.
Everybody wants the mixtape.
Everybody wants the clips.
Parents screaming for buckets every possession like basketball only exists on Instagram reels.
Meanwhile the actual skill that translates at every level?
Being a real point guard.
Controlling pace.
Making reads.
Getting people organized.
Defending.
Passing with either hand.
Understanding time and score.
Knowing how to impact a game without forcing it.
That’s why watching Jalen Brunson feels different for me.
He plays like the version of basketball I wish I understood when I was younger.
Not because he scores 30.
Because of HOW he scores.
Footwork.
Angles.
Patience.
Efficiency.
Change of pace.
Playing off two feet.
Reading defenders.
Getting to spots instead of rushing to them.
That’s grown-man point guard basketball.
That’s basketball IQ disguised as toughness.
And now here we are…
The Knicks are in the Conference Finals.
Honestly, after all the heartbreak over the years, it still feels weird saying that out loud.
Because being a Knicks fan has mostly meant surviving emotional damage.
Jordan ripping hearts out.
Reggie Miller becoming public enemy number one.
Every playoff run ending with me sitting too close to the TV questioning life decisions.
90s Knicks basketball wasn’t basketball.
It was emotional warfare.
Those games looked like fights disguised as sporting events.
Charles Oakley looked like he changed truck tires during halftime.
Anthony Mason looked like he did security at a nightclub before tipoff.
Pat Riley always looked one missed rotation away from flipping the scorer’s table over.
And somehow I loved every second of it.
That era made basketball feel personal.
The rivalries felt real.
The games felt heavy.
The Garden felt like church.
So now?
Don’t text me during Knicks games.
Don’t call me during Knicks games.
If you send me “you watching this?” in the fourth quarter, understand I may not respond until the series is over.
I’m locked in.
Probably yelling at the TV like I’m 12 years old again wearing oversized shorts pretending I’m John Starks in the driveway.
Only difference now is I finally understand basketball a little better than I did back then.
Still love the scorers.
But now I appreciate the ones who can actually lead.
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