New York Knicks

There’s something different about stepping into Madison Square Garden when the Knicks are playing. It’s not just the lights, or the echoes of sneakers on hardwood. It’s not even the roar of the crowd, although that’s its own kind of thunder. It’s something older—like history humming beneath the floorboards.

Tommy Franco felt it every time he walked through those wide concourses. He wasn’t a celebrity. Not a former player. Just a guy who grew up on 116th and Lenox, wearing a John Starks jersey until the numbers peeled off. The Knicks were more than a team to him. They were a symbol. Of loyalty. Of grit. Of that New York stubbornness that makes you believe—despite the heartbreak—that this year could be the year.

It wasn’t easy being a Knicks fan. Twenty years of almosts, rebuilds, and shattered dreams could wear down the most loyal soul. But not Tommy. Every fall, he renewed his League Pass. Every spring, he’d talk himself into improbable playoff runs. He knew the names—Ewing, Houston, Sprewell, Melo, even Linsanity. And now: Brunson, Randle, Hart. A new crew. A new story.

Tonight, the Garden buzzed. The Knicks were in the second round of the playoffs. Game 5 against Miami. Series tied 2-2. Tommy had spent his last paycheck on a resale ticket in the 200s. “Worth it,” he’d muttered, scanning it at the gate.

He was there alone, but he didn’t feel alone. That’s the thing about Knicks fans—there’s a shared suffering, sure, but also a shared hope. The guy next to him, mid-40s, blue cap low over his brow, nodded.

“First time?”

Tommy laughed. “Nah. First time in a while. Last one I saw in person, Melo dropped 45.”

The guy smiled. “That was a night.”

Tip-off. Garden went dark, then exploded in light and noise. From the moment Brunson hit his first step-back three, you could feel the crowd leaning forward, believing. For a while, it felt easy. Knicks by ten at the half. Tommy found himself screaming like he was ten again, jumping with strangers, high-fiving a woman in a Mitchell & Ness Oakley jersey.

But it was never easy. Never is.

Fourth quarter. Miami chipped away. Butler doing Butler things. Knicks got sloppy. A turnover here, a missed rotation there. With 48 seconds left, it was tied.

Tommy couldn’t sit. No one could.

Brunson brought it up. Clock ticking. He danced at the top of the key. Randle set a screen, slipped. Brunson drove, stopped, spun—a move straight from the old-school textbook—and floated one up.

Banked in. Garden shook.

Miami missed. Knicks rebound. Fouled. Free throws. Game over.

Tommy stood, hands on his head, eyes wide, soaking it in. He didn’t even cheer at first. He just smiled. One of those deep, tired smiles—the kind you only get when something you’ve waited for finally happens.

As the crowd spilled out onto Seventh Avenue, chanting, laughing, buzzing, Tommy took the long walk to the subway. The streets smelled like hot dogs and hope. He passed a kid with a giant foam finger and a man selling knockoff tees that read “Knicks in 6.”

Back underground, leaning against a support beam in the 1 train station, Tommy pulled out his phone. Group chat lit up.

“Did you SEE that spin??”

“I swear I almost cried.”

“Game 6, baby. We’re doing this.”

He typed out a simple reply:

“Knicks tape forever.”

The train rolled in, screeching, tired, loud—just like the city it served. Tommy got on. He didn’t know if they’d win the series. He didn’t know if the heartbreak was waiting just around the corner. But for tonight, that didn’t matter.

Tonight, the Garden was magic.