In looking to connect with my father, I asked him about the NBA team he loved. The hope that one day the Knicks – and in a way us – would see better days is what kept me alive
When the New York Knicks made history in 1999, becoming the first No 8 seed to reach the NBA finals, I was poolside, playing with Barbies with my female cousins. Even at 14, I was a rebellious punk, always going against the grain of expectations. Back then, I had a vague understanding of gender norms. I knew I should have been inside the pool’s meager employee’s building, where my dad and uncles huddled around a small TV, fidgeting with the antenna to watch the Knicks buck the odds. The moment was special to my dad, a native New Yorker. Following a lockout that lasted until mid-January of that season, the Knicks had needed to win six of their last eight regular-season games just to sneak into the playoffs as the eighth and final seed. It was equally not special to me, who just wanted to be the opposite of everything going on in front of that game.
The Knicks would win that game by eight points and when they did, I remember hearing my Mexican-American father and tios scream at the top of their lungs. It was the loudest I had ever heard my dad’s voice. He was usually a quiet, subtle man. But on that hot evening in June, he stood in damp swim trunks – double–fisting Modelos, his arms around my uncles, screaming, crying, salivating – at his Knicks returning to the finals for the first time since 1994.