Why do some of us love sports? Why do we invest far too much emotional energy into an activity that is essentially, regardless of how loud we cheer, a passive one? (Jerry Seinfeld famously described sports fandom as “rooting for laundry,” although it should be noted: he pulls hard for Knick and Met jerseys.) Despite the neurotic handwringing, the insane superstitions, the mad pacing—just three of many tics I acquired during the New York Knicks’ miraculous NBA championship run—the outcome was never life or death. 

And yet, at an advanced age, when I should be acquiring other more compelling interests, I persist. I’m a huge sports fan: I know far too much about the NBA salary cap, the first and second aprons, where Giannis Antetokounmpo might end up. (Miami, as it turns out.) So, of course, as a lifelong Knicks fan, I was thrilled with the past few weeks.

But what was even better than the outcome—which was pretty damn good—was the buoyant, giddy mood of the city. I had been around for other championship runs by local teams, but this felt entirely different. The massive, jubilant watch parties were as beautiful as the basketball. And unlike 9/11 and the pandemic—other events where the entire city shared a collective mindset—this one wasn’t triggered by grief or fear. It was a pure eruption of common joy. Even the rest of the country seemed to be enjoying the spectacle and pulling for us. (Us? The Knicks.) 

One of the many highlights of last week’s Knicks delirium was Mayor Zohran Mamdani’s speech at City Hall honoring the team. I thought it was the best speech saluting a winning team that I’d ever seen a politician give, but then immediately thought: Of course I would love it! I mean, he referenced Charles Oakley! (Take that James Dolan!)

But soon I got confirmation from several posts on social media by non-fans. “I’d been feeling grumpy about all this sports madness in the middle of all the tragedies we are witnessing, wondering if sports were not the ‘opiate of the masses,’” wrote the writer and educator Claudia Dreifus on Facebook. “Everyone in New York seems to be going mad with inchoate joy about the Knicks when this is, at best, a second hand accomplishment. I mean, the guy in the elevator this morning with a Knicks tee-shirt, he didn’t play the game; he merely watched it. Anyway, I know I’m just a grump about these things; I think people should derive joy from things that they do themselves, not things that they watch others do. But Mandami gave this amazing speech and showed why Knicks-pride mattered.” 

Agreed. 

So, kudos to the mayor—and his obviously talented speechwriting staff—for crafting and delivering a terse, poetic 1,109-word speech that perfectly captured the moment and helped me, at least, understand why all this felt like more than just a game. It’s 8.5 minutes long, or, if you’re a fan of political rhetoric and great speechwriting, a quick and inspiring read:

My fellow New Yorkers—for 53 long years, we have watched and we have waited. We have watched from nosebleeds and through gritted teeth, on televisions in the windows of electronics stores and from projectors balanced on fire escapes. 

We have watched alone in our apartments with our heads in our hands, shoulder-to-shoulder at bars where the signal flickers, alongside friends and family who we wish more than anything could be here today, sharing this moment. 

For 53 long years, we have watched the Knicks—and we have waited. We waited as the memory of Willis Reed winning the championship on one leg grew fainter and fainter. We waited as Clyde came up clutch again and again … as John Starks dunked on Jordan and Patrick Ewing dunked on the Pacers … as Bernard King scored 60 … as Charles Oakley pulled every rebound within reach … as Spike got in Reggie Miller’s face … as Allan Houston put up a shot against Miami that hung in the air for an eternity … as Larry Johnson gave us the four-point play heard around New York … as Marbury traded threes with Kobe and then sold sneakers every kid could afford … as Nate Robinson stuffed Yao Ming … as the city came alive watching Linsanity … and as Melo lived every Brooklyn kid’s dream when he came home and made Madison Square Garden feel like the center of the universe once again. 

We waited without ever knowing if this day would come—and we waited because we knew, deep down in our sick, suffering hearts, that it would. New York City—this team has done it. The New York Knicks are NBA champions. We are here not just because of this team that will go down in New York City legend. I’m talking about guys like Renaldo Balkman, Mardy Collins, Raymond Felton, Marcus Camby, Kristaps Porzingis, J.R. Smith, Iman Shumpert, and the whole Knickstape era. 

I’m talking about guys like Toney Douglas, who I watched tie the single-game franchise record for threes from the stands in 2011. I’m talking about Amar’e, who got this whole city fired up when he joined. And I’m talking about Jared Jeffries and Lance Thomas and Langston Galloway—players who gave everything every game, even when a 20-win season was all that was in sight.

This championship belongs to them too, because championships aren’t built in one season. It belongs to Emmanuel Quickley. R.J. Barrett. Donte DiVincenzo. Julius Randle. And to a coach who helped lay the groundwork: Tom Thibodeau. Thanks to each of these New Yorkers—and too many others to name—New York City has just had two of the most magical months in as long as any of us can remember. 

Over these past weeks, as the Knicks kept winning, our city has come together as one. 

Neighbors invited neighbors over. Strangers high-fived one another in the street. Subway conductors sang their announcements, and bus drivers danced behind the wheel. So often, when this city comes together, it is because we are forced to by a moment of tragedy or adversity. 

What a gift it is to be brought together by pure, unfiltered joy. For as long as we live, we will remember this feeling of a city together, a city alive, a city overcome by happiness. But let’s not pretend that this was inevitable. If you will allow me, I want to travel back in time eight days. Game 4. Nine minutes and 33 seconds left in the fourth quarter. The Knicks are down 20. The analytics guys, the sports betting companies, the pundits who watch from far away do what they do. They run the numbers. They calculate the odds. They write the Knicks off. 

They give the Spurs a 99.6% chance of winning the game. A 99.6% chance of tying up the series 2-2, of reclaiming the momentum with the next game in San Antonio. A 99.6% chance of silencing the Garden—of another year of watching and waiting. But there is one thing that the pundits just don’t get about this team—that they just don’t get about this city. It’s in that 0.4% that we go to work. It’s in that 0.4% that Jalen Brunson—the same guy that so many said was too small—proves that not only is he good enough; he is the new standard for greatness.

It’s in that 0.4% that O.G. Anunoby watches the ball float from the top of the arc and starts running toward the basket, fingers reaching towards the heavens. It’s in that 0.4% that Karl-Anthony Towns finds the strength to mourn his mother and still pull in rebound after rebound, make block after block. It’s in that 0.4% that Jose Alvarado shows every kid growing up in public housing that a son of Brooklyn and Queens can win for every one of the five boroughs.

It’s in that 0.4% that Mitch breaks his finger before Game 1 and says, Go get the tape. It’s in that 0.4% that Josh Hart gets rebounds that break teams, that Mikal Bridges proves he was worth every single draft pick, that Landry Shamet pulls up from downtown, that every one of these 18 players transforms the franchise, that Mike Brown keeps this team believing.

Most of all, it’s in that 0.4% that the Knicks do what New Yorkers have always done when we are told something is impossible. We find a way. We win.

Standing here before what feels like the entire city, there’s a Jalen Brunson quote I can’t stop thinking about: “You are allowed to think about the worst possible scenario. But you got to go out there and do something about it.” When Jalen Brunson took that pay cut, my friends—that was doing something about it. Time after time, we thought about the worst possible scenario. And time after time, the Knicks went out there and did something about it.
The Knicks did not just win for New York City—they won like New York City. 

What is New York if not your back up against the wall, a dream that feels just out of reach, a rent payment you don’t know how you will ever make? What is New York if not 99.6% of the world stacked against you? And who are New Yorkers if not people who hear those odds and smile? Who look at a 0.4% chance of success and ask, “Why’re you giving me a headstart?” This is our city. This is our team. For 53 years, we watched. For 53 years, we waited. Now, we’ve won. 

One last time, New York, say it with me: Knicks in 5. 

Featured image via NY1.