I Need the Knicks to Win

A bus driver the other day stopped me before I could chase after my children who were acting the specific brand of feral beast that is unleashed at 5:45 pm: over-stimulated and hungry and have to pee, but refuse to pee, and we still have a ten-minute walk home after the bus that we just waited fifteen minutes to get on. I turned to him, prepared for a comment about their behavior, but instead, this angel of a civil servant pointed to my Knicks hat and said, “Miss. That’s the best one I’ve seen yet. Exclusive.”

There are few things that unite New Yorkers, even during rush hour. We come together for blackouts and heatwaves to have block parties where we cook all the food in the fridge on bootleg grills to avoid waste. We share solidarity in the hell that can be our winters, looking the other way when our fellow straphangers bust their ass on some black ice. And we reach across the boroughs to hold one another close with a deep love that verges on mental illness for the New York Knickerbockers.

Right now, we are in a specific moment where the near taste of victory means the subsect of people who claim to be New Yorkers and also Nets fans transition from being our ignored, left-off-the-group-chat cousin, into ‘at-risk of being heavily sonned in public’. We’re smiling at strangers and dapping over vintage Knicks gear. Those of us who understand, simply know that if we pull this off, the universe will self-correct. The decades-long wrongs will be righted. We will bask in the confirmation that holding on for so long wasn’t foolish or clown behavior as outsiders liked to claim, because we knew, one day, this joy would be ours. I also know that while New Yorkers may not be nice, we are kind. And after the city awakens from the brownout of the parade, that remaining joy will ricochet through the rest of the lands, except Boston. Because, fuck Boston.

Now, I am not trying to front like I have historically been such a sports fanatic. If there is any American sports league I was raised to pay any attention to, it would be the MLB. But aside from a nostalgic love of the chaos that can only be found at The Dugout before a Yankees game, the attachment to the sport and team does not run deep. I need the Knicks to win because I have been fully indoctrinated into the cult. Also, my 10-year wedding anniversary is coming up, I am terrible at gift giving, and this is truly the only thing that my husband wants.

Matthew is one of those Knicks fans who lives and breathes for this team. He can recount entire games, play by play, from fifteen years ago. He doesn’t care about being in a box or some lavish experience when he goes to The Garden. He is happiest when he has enough time in advance, so he can stop by one of his favorite pizza shops in the city, NY Pizza Suprema¹ , for a couple cheese slices first. A calm settles over him when he takes his seat, often attending games alone because being in your late thirties means it is hard to socialize and he would rather be among strangers of his own ilk than with a friend who hasn’t yet drank the orange and blue kool aid. Matthew is, for all intents and purposes, one of those straight men for whom this franchise may have been his greatest love. But then he met me.

Our story started our junior year of college when we were dating people who happened to be best friends and they decided it was time for us all to go on a double date. Our not-yet-exes were both a grade above us, but Matthew and I had never met before. That night, his girlfriend picked us both up from the high rises, one of the two main junior housing options on campus, to drive us over to my future ex-boyfriend’s house before going to eat at a fire station themed restaurant on Main Street.

Matthew got into the backseat beside me rather than sitting up in the front with his girlfriend. Knowing him, that was probably because he didn’t want to make me feel like I was a third wheel for the the five minute sojourn across campus. I can’t recall exactly what he said, I’m sure he introduced himself or asked how I was doing, but I did neither of those things. Instead, I looked up and scoffed before I asked him, “Is that product in your hair?” We were sitting close enough that he could taste my judgement, but Matthew didn’t seem hurt or offended, he smiled and shrugged, “Yea.”

Our Pisces/Aries combo means for every similarity we share, a difference pops up between us that cancels it out. Matthew has over 100 pounds and a foot on me, but at a fraction of his size, I am louder (and scarier) than he will ever be. We both grew up in Manhattan and can’t drive, but he’s east side and I’m west side. Our families were both shattered when we were young, but not the same way. Neither of us grew up with much money, but we were privileged to have access to this city. He’s a researcher by nature and profession, I write books but refuse to use an outline. Matthew only functions in reservations, meanwhile I stay walking on in. A core pillar of Matthew’s spirit is to avoid chaos, but one day I was rude to him on a date with other people and he chose me and still does.

Recently, I brought up the double date, specifically my opening line, and asked what he thought of me in that moment. Matthew smiled. He took my hand and lovingly explained that double date hadn’t been the first time we met. The semester before that fateful night, at the end of our sophomore year, Matthew said that he and I had both ended up at a party at my boyfriend’s house despite the fact that the aforementioned boyfriend was at an abroad program in Scotland. In keeping with my usual behavior in college, I got too drunk. He said as the night moved to early morning and only a few of us remained, it was clear I was not going to be able to get back to my dorm on my own, especially because it was pouring outside. He said he couldn’t leave me there, even though my boyfriend’s roommates said it was ok for me to crash in his empty room. He got me home by holding me up with one arm while we walked, then carried me when I couldn’t move my feet anymore. He watched from the entrance of my building as I went inside and up the stairs to my room before he went to his own. Matthew said when he got into the car half a year later, he was just happy to see I was still ok.

When someone new meets my husband, they will often remark at the way he looks at me. The tender way his eyes find me from across the room where I am telling an inappropriate story or dancing despite the fact that there is no dance floor because it is not that type of party. Matthew is the guy who sees a drunk girl and helps her home in the rain. He is the father who stares at our children with tears in his eyes, so grateful to know he made them. So mystified he gets the chance to be theirs. Matthew has remained by my side through rings of hell I had never dreamt of reaching for eighteen years. He’s done the same for the Knicks since 1994. Matthew is pure. A rare breed. A gentle giant. So, it should be no surprise to you that Matthew is also very good at giving gifts. For starters, he’s the one who picked out my ‘exclusive’ hat.

My lacking in gift giving abilities is not lost on Matthew. We have been together for long enough that the gap in time between life before us vs life after is not too far from leveling out. The gifts I buy for him get stuffed into the closet where things you don’t think you should throw away despite having no use for them, go. When we were childless and reached a certain level of financial stability, I realized I could just get him Knicks tickets, so I did. Now, we have two children and he goes when he can, which is why the Knicks need to win. Because when they do, I am stating now, prophetically, in honor of my husband, that at least one ounce of that win was built off of him.

Matt has been in the trenches, drenched in sweat, suffering the defeats, enduring the ‘overrated’ taunts. He soaked up their despair and shot unadulterated love back out as a salve for their broken hearts. I think sometimes the individuals get lost inside the greater fandom, but if I am being honest, that’s where Matthew loves to be most. Entirely saturated and camouflaged. In so deep, he might as well be on the court alongside the team.

So, Jalen, OG, Josh, KAT, Mitchell, Mikal, I don’t care if it’s in 4 or in 7, this is for New York. This is for the past thirty three years of Knicks players. Y’all need to win for us, but mostly, I need you to win because that is what Matthew Gabriel Díaz deserves. I should know, I spend most days wondering what I did in this life to be worthy of his love. If you knew him, you’d be doing the same.

See you at the parade, LET’S GO!

Until next time, stay real,

Natasha

1. If you find yourself by Penn station or Madison square garden, grab a slice. You are welcome.