(Author's Note: I initially wrote this about a month ago as a sample for a content farm. Hopefully, they'll keep taking my stuff. I'll let you know how it goes!
But for now, enjoy this. This is pure id, the praise from a maniacal Knicks fan for his team.)
I love the New York Knicks. But I am in love with this Knicks squad.
This year, I’ve decided to jump in head first. Maybe a nice swan dive into maniacal praise will erase the pain of losing LINSANITY to the guys who beat Ewing and the boys in ‘94. I mean, look at Ray Felton! He’s lost almost all of the baby fat! Knicks rule!
Cautious optimism is for the birds.
I love Rasheed Wallace and his helipad birthmark. I love when Carmelo Anthony flashes that all-knowing grin, as if he’s the only one in the building who knows the answer to a riddle. I love Ray Felton and his Yoplait yogurt cumberbun stomach. I SWEAR. And I love Clyde’s rhythmic pairings even though I know he uses “Shift + F7” on his keyboard.
Look at us! We haven’t lost a game since July! The Nets logo was drawn in 2-D! 82-0! Best team ever!
Even the Knicks are all smiles. No one’s bringing up the fact that my man Shump still has 3 months to go on his ACL rehab, or that Amare will undoubtedly want to start when he gets back, or that Jorts plays for the Heat now. We’re 5-0, the toast of the town, and would be the back page story if Tebow wasn’t getting snaps with the first team. When you love this hard this fast, you are impervious to reality.
I get it! I get it! This love is kind of dangerous. Carmelo Anthony will miss a shot. Mike Woodson will diagram a bad play. Spike will accidentally wear his Landry Fields jersey on Christmas Day. Our owner will make a rash decision and force me back to Spaghetti O’s and All That reruns for a week. Excessive enthusiasm can be great, but it might just kill me.
This magnificent state of “being in love” clues me in to the beauty not only inherent in my Knicks team, but in all teams. I can appreciate the skip pass all the more now that Carmelo Anthony has learned how to pass out of the double team. I can appreciate a Steve Nash deep bomb because Earl Smith II is leading the league in three-point percentage. And I can appreciate a good play with high screen-and-roll action, if only because the Knicks are somehow setting four screens on one possession to get a layup.
Am I dreaming? Does being in love have to be a bad thing?
I don’t think so. Being in love heightens my senses. Being in love makes me braver, smarter, and happier. Love takes you home on time after work, but “being in love” brings pogonias. It is just glorious.
Am I being too carefree about all this? Will Miami be stuck in hurricane traffic for hours again, causing their superstar guard (Dwayne Wade) to advocate canceling the game? Won’t Philadelphia have Andrew Bynum for their stretch playoff run? For the love of God, can we play a Dwight Howard-less Orlando Magic team every night? Who knows. Maybe I sound too much like a clingy girlfriend.
At least my love tank is full. And nobody can take that away. Le sigh.
But now that I’ve filled it, what am I going to do with it? Can I stash it away for when we suffer defeat? Or will it crust and sugar over like a syrupy sweet? Was this love made to last forever? It just feels that at any moment, someone can steal this love from me. Get away! I love Pablo! I love lamp! AHHH!
Breathe. Stretch. Shake. Let it go. The Knicks still haven’t lost a game. There’s room to relax and let the good times roll, even if it means finding creative ways to steer clear of oblivion. Maybe someone can get Mike Breen to vociferously praise the 1993 team to ward off any attempts at a reverse jinx.
Or maybe, all I need is love. Because as a Knicks fan, love is all I’ve really got.
- M.B., II