Hoops Heaven

I Wanna Be a Part of It ...

When I was a little boy, my father would take me on the subway from Brooklyn to Manhattan to see the Knicks play in Madison Square Garden. Not the present Garden with the packed rafters and courtside celebs, but the old one, on Eighth Avenue and 49^th Street, with easy-to-get tickets and many empty seats. And not the present high-flying game, but the old slow one with earthbound players, almost all of whom were white and few of whom were taller than 6’6”. My father was an ordinary working-class, sports-loving guy, but he had two friends from his younger years who made him seem like a VIP to me: one was an NBA referee and the other operated the 24-second clock, and that meant we could hang around courtside before games when the players—whom I saw as giants—were warming up, until we were made to climb to our cheap seats.

The Knicks had good teams in those days, but never won a championship. When their glory years arrived, I was a young man relocating on what seemed to be a semi-annual basis. I watched them clinch the 1970 title in a Cambridge apartment and the 1973 title in San Francisco. The team was awful after that, except for a few hopeful but frustrating seasons in the nineties, and I adopted the franchises where I happened to be living. I was lucky to be in Philadelphia in the Doctor J era and then in Los Angeles for the Magic/Kareem and Shaq/Kobe years, always tracking the dismal Knicks from a distance.

I moved to Massachusetts shortly before the current Knicks squad was assembled. I live equidistant from Boston and New York City, but as far as hoops are concerned, I might as well be next door to the Garden. It was astonishing how, after so many years, the loyalist’s instinct and the fan’s reflex kicked in, as if I’d never left New York and the team had never fallen from grace.

Therefore, you can imagine my excitement, obsession, elation, and … dare I say it? … ecstasy of the last few of weeks of playoff magic.

But it wasn’t just ordinary fandom. There’s something about this collection of players that won my reverence and elevated my spirit. They have, to use a couple of overused terms, character and chemistry. They played ego-free team ball; they hustled aggressively non-stop; they did the non-glamorous lunch-pail tasks that winning requires; they kept their heads when the pressure was on, and when they fell behind (as they did, by big margins, in all five games of the Finals) they refused to give up. They were alert, aware, and so tuned-in on a subtle level that they seemed to know not only where every other player was but where they will be a split second later.

That’s what made this not just a happy sports experience, but a spiritual one. Watching athletes of that caliber working in harmony is not unlike watching musicians or dancers. It’s elevating to see, and perhaps feel, the coherence among them—something that’s no doubt observable and measurable with brain wave technology and is surely similar to what happens when people pray, chant, or meditate together. There’s also the collective consciousness among fans to consider. Even though I watched every game on TV by myself, I could feel the energy emanating from the arena and all the watch parties around the city (which I’d have gone to if I were 40 years younger).

Then there’s the absolute awe of watching human excellence on spectacular display. Spectator sports are analogous to the arts in the way they can elevate the viewer, sometimes to the level of transcendence. But it’s different from going to an art museum or a ballet or a concert, because no one tries to prevent a painter from getting to an easel, or block a dancer from soaring into the air, or snatch the trumpet from a horn player’s grasp, the way athletes try impede their opponents. That competitive aspect of sports adds a uniquely exhilarating element to the mind-boggling “Did you see that?” and “Can you believe he did that?” experience.

And what was on display in the NBA playoffs was not just athletic prowess. Great hoopsters are not just physically gifted and exceptionally talented. To excel—and win—at that level, they also have to be as conscious, alert, sensitive, and attuned to their surroundings as a highly developed yogi. And watching those qualities unfold is sublime. (OK, maybe more so when your team wins, but that’s another story.)

To see what I mean, watch what will surely go down as the iconic moment of this historic NBA Finals—O.G. Anunoby’s game-winning tip-in in game 4.

Anyone can appreciate the physical skill involved, but watch the play a few times. Watch it from different angles and keep your eye on Number 8. Contemplate the mental, emotional, and spiritual components—the intelligence, the awareness, the anticipation, the timing, the will, the in-the-present calm—that must have been at work. The Himalayan sages who wrote about superior feats of consciousness might have called it a siddhi power.

If you think that’s hyperbole, at least give me this: nine months from now, a lot of newborns in New York will be named some variation of O.G.

And this: Remarkably, the Knicks won 15 of their last 16 playoff games. Their only loss? The game Donald Trump attended (and was roundly booed). Coincidence? Hmm?