Because I gave up my TV in 2016 (when I moved from Massachusetts to California), I’ve barely watched sports since. Certainly not the Knicks, twice removed after growing up in the Bronx, then spending most of my adult life in Boston (learning to at least appreciate the hated Celtics).

I calculated, when making that no-TV decision, that I had spent 8 years of my life — running clock — watching sports. Letting other people, as Dylan put it, get my kicks for me. And, as for streaming, I’ve been way too much of a Luddite to figure out how to do that.

So it was with some amazement that — having discovered that Comcast, for our extortionate $198/month, includes a few network broadcasts, like ABC, out of the kindness of their little corporate heart — I found myself hitting the “Watch Now” button for Game 3 of the NBA Finals. 

And then, relapsing addict that I was, sweating out every minute of Games 3, 4, and 5. 

(I confess that my main motivation for tuning in to Game 3 was a morbid, gleeful fascination at just how loudly Donald Trump would get booed. Turns out ABC, predictably, turned down the boo volume; to get the full effect required the YouTube bootleg recordings. And of course the poobahs flashed Trump up on the jumbotron in the middle of the national anthem, apparently assuming that would quell the decorous fans. Not exactly. My heart goes out to anthem singer Avery Wilson — not an easy tune, a cappella, even without the 19,000-strong “chorus.”)

And then even more amazed to find myself crying buckets at the buzzer Saturday night, after a fandom hiatus of 40 years (I last sat in the Garden in 1986). 

I felt my dad by my side, alive again, and shaking his head in disbelief — he was such a pessimist when it came to sports that the Mets could be up 14–2 with two down in the bottom of the ninth and, if the other team drew a base on balls, my dad would slap his head and mutter, “Ach, the beginning of the end!”

I had spent 8 years of my life — running clock — watching sports. Letting other people, as Dylan put it, get my kicks for me.

I guess it’s a generational thing. My last homeboy taste of Knick success dates to the 70s, Willis and Clyde, and Marv (Yes! And it counts!). I was a teen, I had no identity — no self, really — outside the vicarious heroic. 

So in a way Saturday night’s game felt like it framed my life — alpha, omega. It also brought back to me, with a stunning jolt, just how NYC I will always be — though I haven’t set foot there in over 15 years and have vanishingly few friends or connections left from the old days in the Bronx and on Riverside Drive.

And it brought home something to me about roots, and about how people will fight and die for their land, their city, their memories, the place from which they came. 

It made me feel, for the first time since I’ve lived out in the beautiful, bountiful Santa Cruz mountains, like a refugee.

And a refugee, too, in time. Today it’s back to 2026 and the real world, to cage fights under the bright lights on the White House lawn for our Caligula and his hi-testosterone bootlickers. Back to our degraded present, with a degrading ever-presence haunting our dreadful waking dream.

Last night my soul was on the D Train, hanging from a strap, jouncing along, peering out the dirty, graffitied window at some local station rushing by. Part of me is still there right now.

Okay, snap out of it, Jon. Take that glorious W. Apply its lessons. 

It’s game on — and, deee-fence and offense, there’s all kinds of work to be done. 

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Hoop Dreams on the D Train: A Night of Roots and Tears originally appeared on WhoWhatWhy

Source link whowhatwhy.org
After abandoning TV in 2016, I hardly followed sports, particularly the Knicks, having lived far from my Bronx roots. However, upon discovering my expensive Comcast package included some network broadcasts, I succumbed to watching Game 3 of the NBA Finals. I found myself emotionally invested, recalling my father’s pessimistic demeanor about sports and experiencing a long-lost connection to New York. The game reminded me of my deep roots and feelings of nostalgia while living in California. This moment reignited my spirit, highlighting that despite my current circumstances, I still carry a piece of the Bronx within me.