Broken Open

“Jim broke the family remote in ‘94 when they lost in the Finals to the Rockets. For reference.”

A pertinent reference, to be sure.

Dave and I had just been added to a group thread for our imminent brother-in-law’s bachelor party, to be held on Cape Cod the weekend of June 12. Kehl, the groom’s best friend and operational point man, had made dinner reservations for Saturday—the night of Game 5.

I explained, very politely, that I wouldn’t be able to attend said dinner if the Finals were still in play, on account of my loyalties to the New York Knickerbockers Basketball Club (est. 1946)—but was down for all activities otherwise!

Kehl, bless the young man’s heart, suggested the reservation was early enough that I’d “likely not miss much of the game,” and that no one would judge me for “streaming at the table.”

“Oh, people will definitely judge me when I start throwing the fine china around,” I replied. “The flip side of this coin: If they win in 5, you *will* see me cry. A lot.”

That’s when Dave, two years my junior and present for some of the most heart-gouging sports moments I’ve ever endured, resurrected the touchiest of them all.

“Jim broke the family remote…”

It’s true. I destroyed that fucking thing.

Then I wept. Harder and longer than I ever had before.

 

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I wanted to watch it alone. Dave—Bulls fan, Jordan stan, still basking in the afterglow of three straight titles, two at the en-route expense of Patrick and The Pummel Boys—insisted on being there. The absolute last thing I needed was his very specific (and very effective!) brand of nine-year-old trolling.

He behaved himself that night. Even said sorry afterwards. I, like the black Magnavox remote, completely shattered—only into far more shards, and what I assumed was beyond repair.

By the time the ’95 ‘yoffs rolled around I’d taped myself together, albeit with a fifth-grader’s care, convinced anew that This is the year.

When Patrick’s calf-hampered finger-roll pinged impossibly out, the adhesive failed, and I broke again. Dave did his best to comfort and console this time. A handful of assholes at recess? More hurtful than any stick or stone.

So I used some superglue instead.

The Knicks, aging and limited, managed to make it back—and promptly got their dicks kicked off by MJ and the juggernaut Bulls. Pretty sure Dave and I watched that one on separate TVs. He wisely said nothing. I didn’t lose much sleep that year. The glue mostly held.

Ninety-seven. Holy shit what a team. Talk about being back, baby! Those Bulls were gettable. Formidable, but gettable.

The suits at 645 Fifth Avenue had other ideas—and a worse eye for justice than a pilgrim jury. I was livid. Apoplectic. Conspiracy-pilled. So hot with rage it melted the glue. I broke anew.

I needed a stronger substance. One that could cover me. Harden me. Protect me from the next brutal shattering. Cement, I suppose. If the Knicks wouldn’t demand their own statues, I’d become one myself. Stable. Stoic. Vulnerable mainly to the occasional bird shit.

The ’99 Finals made a crack or two. But the kiln-like reinforcement of the four-point miracle—coupled with the obvious futility those Spurs presented—left the statue no worse for wear.

The metaphor is more than purely emotional. The first 20 years of my fandom were nothing if not a lonely endeavor: a Michigan kid who initially rooted for the Pistons before falling for the 7-foot knee-padded behemoth and the weird allure of orange and blue to such a maniacal degree that being the one kid in school with such bizarre loyalties became my single biggest point of pride.

I assumed it would be this way forever. And I was fine with it. Misery may love company, but it’s certainly not required.

Besides, they couldn’t break me again. Not like that. Not like before.

Nothing could.

 

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I can’t remember how I found KnickerBlogger. I do remember the bizarre breeze that fanned my fandom back to life: The Netherlands National Football Team.

I’ll try to explain this in a sentence: After nearly a decade of witnessing the Knicks flail and flounder largely from a far (the Clooney gif where he’s leering over the dune, basically), attending college and settling in New Hampshire and looking for a foothold as a writer then meeting Deana and buying a house and marrying and nesting for the boy and girl we were certain we’d have and catching a game when convenient and (way worse!) drafting them onto my fantasy teams, my fandom still a wholly hermetic thing, I got really into the 2010 World Cup—the Dutch side specifically.

Orange and blue. That was it. Singing to something within me like a broken muse whose voice never fully betrays her. And I remembered. The heartbreak, yes, but mostly the thrills and chills and fleeting joys. I wanted that again. I needed that again. The awful yells and the rowdy yawps.

I’ve always loved LeBron. He’s the GOAT and IDGAF. I knew the Knicks had a chance. Also: zero chance whatsoever. When he shunned us I hardly flinched. I was happy we signed STAT. He wanted to be here. He chose us. Between the young-superstar signing and the intrigue-laden roster and learning League Pass was a thing that existed and yes, those utterly magnificent colors, I thought the concrete shell could withstand another era of living and dying with the fortunes of this carnival franchise.

They were good! Fun! Young! Fast! Unselfish! Competent! Well-coached! And I needed to discuss it with someone other than my poor confused wife!

I probably just googled “cool knicks blog,” honestly. Clicked on the link, then the latest post. Admired the analysis and nuance. Read the comments and thought “Wow, everyone here has smart and insightful stuff to say!” So I said some stuff. And someone responded. Then someone else chimed in. It became a conversation. About Amare’s blossoming game or Gallo’s ultimate ceiling or why Ray Felton seemed to waddle more than walk or whatever the fuck. Then I wrote a recap and that was all I wanted to do or looked forward to doing for the better part of four years—the Melo trade and the painful gelling of a talented but ill-fitting team and the euphoric delusion of Linsanity and the poison pill and D’Antoni’s ouster and 54 wins and Melo’s evolution and Hibbert’s hand and the Bargs fiasco and Melo’s devolution. A thousand thrills and chills and fleeting joys—and plenty of new cracks in the concrete. Amid that twisted and often comical totality, and for the first time in my life, I found the connection, the community, the camaraderie of fandom from which I’d so long been isolated. Even somehow a career.

Mike. Bobby. Kevin. Brian. Jonathan. Jamie. Seth. Jason. Dan. Jared. Andy. Jeremy. Caleb. Owen. Z-Man. David. So, so many voices and perspectives and quirks and ideas and triggers and one batshit-but-kickass book and man… if that’s not finding your people, IDK what is.

Then the real shattering happened.

 

*               *               *               *               *

 

Everett was perfect. Cancer doesn’t give a fuck about perfect. We did everything we could. I know that now. And through it all—the shock and terror, the hope and fight, his last beautiful breath, the profound sorrow and searching that followed, the futile attempt to become stronger in the broken places—the people I met both in and because of this space, right here, sustained and strengthened me in ways I’ll never, ever, ever forget.

A year later Evie arrived ass-first into the world and hasn’t stopped clowning or smiling or making us smile since. He gifted his perfection to her. Deana, her gorgeous eyes and hair and a fierceness in all the right things. Me, my goofball foibles, love of words, and a fandom that for decades was more performance art than basketball team.

Bonus: The Knicks had KP! The Latviathan! A savior who’d deliver us, with Melo as the platinum Robin! And some other random dudes. So what if we were bad? They were finally doing it the right way: bottom-out for year or two, draft a franchise cornerstone to build around, surround him with the proper pieces, grow, learn, improve, prosper, hang a banner.

D and I were rebuilding, too: channeling our grief into good, moving to Chicago for a fresh start and exciting new role, seeing Evie surpass the milestones her brother never did, but with the same cueball head and beaming smile that made us feel he was with us—and always a part of her.

But life ambushed us again. It was just a job, and I knew I’d find the next. But to happen so soon after losing Rett, having transplanted our lives and only knowing a handful of people and hundreds of miles from the nearest kin, seemed a savage sign even for the universe—penance, perhaps, for abandoning the community that had done so much to uplift us. Being there to see the Cubs win helped. Until Election Night.

We moved back East and in with the in-laws. A temporary solution. The Phil Jackson resurrection. I’d talked myself into it—for roughly seven games. Another lost year. Throw it on the pile. But KP showed increasing flashes. Insert more random dudes. Trust the Process, I guess. The following June we decided to buy a house big enough for the five of us and room besides to host Rett’s Roost retreats, two miles from the ocean and with a wooded yard our little forest sprite could gambol in. It felt right. The Knicks were bad again, but KP made his first All-Star—and immediately shredded his ACL. Naturally. More cracks in the cement. More random dudes. We all know their names.

That ‘18-‘19 campaign. Holy mother of god. I watched dozens of games that year, less for glimmers of hope than sheer gallows humor. This Mitch kid, though. Keep an eye on ‘em. Add a top-5 pick to KP and we really… They got what in return? Are you fucking serious? Sure. Fine. Whatever. Keep playing shitty. Land Zion. Sign KD and Kyrie. This is easy. The ping-pong balls beg to differ. RJ it is. Top recruit out of high school! Julius Randle? Random dudes? Why not!?

Evie was thriving, ditto the Roost, work boring but relaxed enough to allow for writing at night. Okay, Julius! You wanted to be here. Respect. RJ might have it. Inconsistent, yes, but undoubtedly hungry. This Leon Rose hire seems pretty sav… How many people are dying in China? You want us to wash our groceries? Bad. Awful. Horrifying. Far worse than we imagined. Of course they should cancel the rest of the season. We’re all in this together.

This is around the time I joined a group chat with five fellow Knicks sickos and active/recovering sports-media pros. It was exactly the connection I’d been missing: real-time and raunchy and raw and smart and insanely funny and doom-coded in a way that only a clique of ‘90s kids with the same sports traumas could ever match. We were all in this together—and varying degrees of terrified about opening ourselves up to a new wave of heartache. The dudes? Less random!

Thibs? The guy with nine hairs? The Pall-Mall yell? Where is this going? What are we doing? These kids are gonna stone him to death with basketballs. “Fraud,” motherfucker? You lost by 7 million votes! Your incompetence killed a quarter of a million people! Siccing your nazi goons on the Capitol? Hell is too kind a quarters for you. Yo, these guys aren’t bad. Tough. Together. Flawed but fun. Quickley fun af. Playoffs! If I ever see Trey Young on the street, I will absolutely end up in jail.

See! They’re already tired of him. Julius not quite Julius anymore. RJ treading water. Kemba bone-on-bone in both knees. Need something more. A second bucket-getter. Pretty weak FA class, though. Beal? Harden? Anyone?

We signed Jalen Brunson for how much? Wow. Just wow. Classic Knicks. IDK man. I don’t know. I don’t know if I can take this shit anymore.

Please someone find a jackhammer. Free me from my concrete statue forever.

 

*               *               *               *               *

 

This wasn’t where I envisioned watching the potential clincher. Or how. Or with whom. I dreamed of being in the city when it happened. Seeing my favorite Bocker brethren and former colleagues. Reveling among the wildin’ masses. Or maybe home with the girls, the tears easier to surrender. Yet here I was with eight dudes, four total strangers, in a house on the Cape with one TV and not much room and a looming Saturday dinner I already vowed to blow off and still unsure how that came across and fairly certain it would just be me and Dave again in the living room, 32 years later, outcome written in the stars, the lone silver lining that, in the end, I’d actually have a chance to be where and with whom I most wanted to be.

Then I met the guys. Two were Knicks fans—Kehl and Dan. Pat and Roman, general sports nuts. With Dave, my half-brother Scott, step-brother Robbie, and my sister’s fiancé, Dimi, rounding out the crew. Everyone hit it off immediately. Drinks were had. Volleyball was poorly played. Within an hour it was decided Game 5 would be a group affair—and that we’d watch it at the house.

We make it back from dinner in time for tipoff, just as Kehl foretold, fine china at The Landing mercifully spared. I wear my usual big-game getup (‘80s-style game shorts, ‘90’s Ewing shirt with the big man throwin’ post-rebound elbows), sit in one of the two available armchairs (“The Unc Seat,” it was quickly christened), my phone close at hand (and thus my beloved blog boys), and against all logic and every precedent, feel oddly, eerily at peace.

Frustration. Doubt. Rage at the refs. A hatred for one player I haven’t harbored since MJ. These sentiments inevitably arise. But beneath the darker thoughts, despite the concrete cracked like a Soviet façade, this undeniable sense that—whether tonight, next Tuesday, or the night of Juneteenth, wherever I am and whoever I’m with—they’ll eventually find a way.

The requisite first-quarter slog. Spurs like pitbulls on a home intruder. Can’t hit a fucking shot to save our lives (more than mere allegory). Another shady whistle.

I sit. I stand. I pace. I sit again. Pull my rapidly graying hair. No panic in the thread.

Here they come. Everyone in the room—Celtics fans include—is pulling for us.

Savaging Wemby. Yelling with the same verve and volume I am.

Here they come.

Just keep it close. Just keep it close. They’re keeping it close.

It’s happening again. It’s gonna happen tonight.

Jalen. My god. What poise. What poetry. What relentless grit and grace. Hang that take on Wemby in the Louvre—where it’ll hurt the most.

It’s happening.

During commercials I step outside alone. “Breathe,” a wise man once wrote. So I breathe. My eyes begin to well. But only a little. It comes in waves.

I go back inside. I’m not alone. Never was. I just couldn’t see it then. I see it now. This is where and with whom I’m supposed to be. These eight guys. Four brothers. Four newfound friends. Mike and Bobby and Jamie and Kevin and Jared and Andy. Jacob and Jason and Seth and Joe. Millions of human beings who may be strangers—but who I know and love anyway.

I was never alone. Not even then. Not even when I was.

When OG launches the ball towards the roof I put my hands on my face and yell, between heaving breaths, “Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!”

This seems appropriate. They were shit. Now they’re holy.

I hug Dan. Then Kehl. Then Dave—the longest and most meaningful embrace of all. My eyes well a little more.

“I love you, man,” I say.

“I love you, too. You deserve this. You deserve this.”

Then I go outside and weep. Hard and heavy—and more happily than I ever have before.

I think of ’94.

Of Rett and the girls.

Of all the lovely souls who’ve joined me on this hard and wild journey.

I think of KnickerBlogger, what it meant and means to me now.

I look at the temporary tattoos of Jalen and Josh that Evie insisted I apply the morning after Game 4. They’re starting to fade. But I can still make out their faces.

Then I weep some more.

The rest of the guys eventually join me outside. The air is perfect. My first cigarette in four years, damn near orgasmic. We drink. Marvel at Jalen’s basketball brilliance. Talk a whole lot of shit about the other guys. Dad calls. He wasn’t in the room, for the heartbreaks of yesteryear or tonight. But he was there. Always there.

“I’m happy for you, bud,” he says. “Enjoy it.”

“Thanks for putting up with my bullshit,” I say.

“Hey. It was worth it.”

The waves keep coming. The old concrete now a pile of dust on the floor.

My belting rendition of “We Are the Champions kicks” off a karaoke session that lasts until 3 a.m. My voice goes hoarse from the singing.

Every few songs I steal away to another room to send some texts (lots of all-caps, lots of I love yous) and watch the endless stream of videos coming in from the streets of New York. The roars. The unfathomable crowds gyrating like massive blue-and-orange amoebas. The buildings forever lighting their way. A collective release. A joy no longer fleeting.

I thought I’d be sad not to be there. But I’m right there. And right here, too. With my people. Exactly where I need to be.

The Knicks tried to break me for decades. In the end, they broke me open.

They set me free.

Altered me on some subatomic level.

Gave me a gift I couldn’t possibly repay.

Save the only way I know how: to always remember this team—and that, in this batshit and beautiful fandom, I’ll never, ever be alone.