Knick fans are junkies. Were numb to losing, starved for affection and sick in the head for riding out these lows for so long. No matter how much we beg, pray or scream, we can’t get a decent fix or find a reliable source to help us consistently score. Yet we brush off these marks of misery and persist in chasing the phantom high we got from the Knick’s when they didn’t offer such weak stuff. I’m a junkie as Tony Montana would say yet I only wish that I can say the same for all those other non addicted Knick fans that became spiritless inside, fanatical about God instead or just morphed into selfish, joyless grown ups that selfishly rejected their first true love, just because they haven’t been able to maintain an extended woody over their team for some time, which will soon be a decade and counting to be exact. Junkies addicted to the Knick’s are in it for the pursuit of that elusive dream high, throwing in our Knick’s Tea Towels isn’t an option; not that junkies are concerned with any Knick fan validating merchandise that has any sort of cleaning connotation attached to it.
In true Junkie fashion I braced for the best as I sat on the edge of my couch for the Garden opener, waiting to hear Michael Buffer announce the new and improved Knick’s which has been marketed as the most potent mix since the reign of Spree and Allan Houston was overmatched and outplayed by the Duncan lead, Robinson piggy backed Spurs in 2001. As Michael Buffer started announcing the new pumped up Knick stash, my over anxious eyes popped open wider than Eddy Curry’s belly after he takes his towel off in front of his new Limo Driver that makes sure Eddy Curry is driven everywhere so he comes to training camp in worst shape than Precious. Eddy Curry is so much of a buzz kill for Knick Junkies, the Garden dealers decided to not even mention his name during the team introducing ceremonies where it’s a tradition to name everyone who is active or not, knowing that his announced association would sap whatever new founded strength that this polished up product had to offer. But I digress. When the legendary Boxing, and now part time actor in Adam Sandler films, Michael Buffer referred to Knick fans as the greatest fans in the world, it sounded forced and off to me. The elitist east coast assertion that New Yorkers are the best at everything is understandable but in this case such self-anointment sounded like a played out tune like when a Hollywood publicist refers to a drug overdose as heat exhaustion or chronic dehydration. How did Knick Fans get to be known as the best fans in the “World“? Assuming Aliens have no interest in damaged goods or rooting for a sluggish, turnover prone, foul shot deficient, non clutch, poorly coordinated, consistently erratic, prospect-less, can never keep a sizeable lead if their life depended on it, basketball team that Isaiah Thomas made slimier than any alien Steven Spielberg could ever imagine. If Knick fans are so great then why can’t I find any New Yorker’s that still get off from talking about them like they would about a first love that they never truly got over? If Knick fans are so great, then why is it that every time I try to talk about the current Knick’s with my fellow New Yorker’s, they tense up and deny any affiliation as if I’m accusing them as being a closeted, commie loving, witchcraft practicing, Taliban sympathizer? But what makes a group of male cheerleaders the best fans in the world? Is it having a high basketball IQ, undiminished passion for rooting despite long droughts of losing or having the most impressive collection of courtside celebrities? If Knick following fans are the greatest, how do they show it besides yelling defense at a higher decibel than other small city fans that aren’t accustomed to raising their voices over roaring midtown traffic or creaky subway cars that sound like their sliding off the rails? Can Knick fans carry on an interesting, intelligent, conversation about Patrick Ewing's lackluster legacy without dropping f bombs, sure, but I don’t see how our commitment to make everyone know how articulate we are about our sports team’s shortcomings makes us any better fans than the yahoos from Oklahoma City who rocked out like hardcore AC/DC fans as they shook their arena all night long against the championship defending Lakers. The only extreme Knick fan behavior that I can say with pride is when my younger brother forked over two hundred and fifty big ones for the Direct TV, Knick season ticket feed, when he was living up in the mountains by the Berkshires which is so remote, he didn't even have a Garbage Man. He essentially blew two hundred and fifty big ones on the Knick satellite feed so he could pick up more trash and watch endless garbage time when the team was dismantled so management could create salary cap room for The King of Schlock Jocks that doesn’t need a Nike commercial audience to tell him that they don't care if he plans to be the second coming of Jordan because he already squandered that chance when he bolted for Miami with Bosh in his pocket like his all loving, play friend that finally gives his entourage an expert on the Toronto strip club scene. In spite of management dismantling our team and reducing our team into a giant junk yard already overflowing with the waste of Eddy Curry, my brother still hung on to the hope for better days and watched another Knick season go to waste, exhibiting no control over his addiction whatsoever. Now that’s a Knick Junkie. I only wish that I can say the same for the greatest fans in the world that no longer exist. At the end of the movie Trainspotting, Ewan McGregor says that instead of heroin he choses life. Well, to me life isn’t worth living without staying loyal to my first true love, that I’ll never get over, the one that still gets me high today, the rumbling, roughhousing, pressure pressed, New York Knicks. Written By, Josh Kornbluth
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