(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
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