KNICKS IN FIVE.
This victory is personal.
The New York Knicks are NBA champions.
I have repeated those words to myself several times since the final buzzer sounded in San Antonio the other night. Each repetition carries the same strange force. The sentence feels familiar because I have imagined it for decades. It also feels almost impossible because imagination was the only place where I had ever experienced it.
The Knicks are NBA champions.
Fifty-three years after Willis Reed, Walt Frazier, Earl Monroe, Dave DeBusschere, Bill Bradley, and their teammates raised the franchise’s second championship trophy, another Knicks team has completed the journey.
Jalen Brunson stood at the center of it, exhausted and tearful after producing one of the greatest closeout performances in NBA Finals history. Karl-Anthony Towns became a champion.
OG Anunoby became a champion again, this time as an indispensable force on the floor. Mikal Bridges, Josh Hart, Mitchell Robinson, José Alvarado, and the entire roster completed a postseason run that now belongs among the finest the league has ever witnessed.
The New York Knicks won the 2026 NBA championship in five games.
Knicks in five.
The phrase sounds like the kind of boast New Yorkers make before a series begins, delivered with absolute certainty and supported by little more than civic faith. This time, the words became history.
The Knicks defeated the San Antonio Spurs in five games, completed their postseason with a 16–3 record, outscored their opponents by 283 points, won nine consecutive road games, and finished four separate series on an opponent’s floor.
They produced ruthless blowouts, record-setting comebacks, defensive masterpieces, and moments of individual brilliance. Their three defeats came by a combined six points. They finished six points away from a perfect postseason.
I watched it all with the accumulated memory of a child from Brooklyn, a teenager in South Florida, a young man learning loyalty through losing, and an adult living in Paris who had long ago accepted that sports rarely honor our emotional investments on our preferred schedule.
Then the Knicks delivered something beyond a championship.
They restored a piece of my childhood.
BROOKLYN BEFORE EVERYTHING
I was born in Brooklyn, New York, raised in Boca Ratón, Florida, and formed in Paris, France—the Latin Quarter, to be exact. Those three places belong to the geography of my life. Brooklyn came first. The Knicks came with it.
Before I understood the machinery of professional sports, the Knicks were already present in my home. My Uncle Alex lived with us during those early years, and he rarely missed a game.
Madison Square Garden entered our living room through the television. The orange and blue became familiar before I possessed the language to explain fandom.
Patrick Ewing was there. John Starks was there. Charles Oakley and Anthony Mason were there. Later came Charlie Ward, Chris Childs, Larry Johnson, Allan Houston, and Latrell Sprewell.
Their names formed my earliest basketball vocabulary. They represented a team built around physicality, pride, confrontation, defense, and the unspoken understanding that nobody entered Madison Square Garden without being forced to earn every inch of the floor.
Those Knicks teams reflected a particular New York sensibility. They carried themselves with the muscular confidence of a city that assumed every contest could become personal.
Opponents encountered hard screens, bruising rebounds, contested layups, and an arena filled with people prepared to treat a February game as a referendum on civic dignity.
The rivalry with the Miami HEAT became one of the defining spectacles of my childhood. From 1997 through 2000, Knicks-HEAT games felt larger than ordinary basketball. Bodies collided. Tempers flared. Every possession carried hostility.
Jeff Van Gundy once clung to Alonzo Mourning’s leg during a fight, creating one of the most absurd and unforgettable images in NBA history. The rivalry produced suspensions, late-game drama, emotional exhaustion, and four consecutive playoff meetings.
I lived in South Florida, surrounded by what would eventually become HEAT culture, and I rooted for the Knicks. They were my hometown team in the deepest sense of that term. Geography had moved me. Origin still exercised its claim.
The 1999 playoff run strengthened that attachment. The Knicks entered the postseason as the eighth seed and fought their way through Miami, Atlanta, and Indiana before meeting San Antonio in the NBA Finals.
Ewing’s body had betrayed him by then. The team kept moving. Larry Johnson’s four-point play against the Pacers became part of New York folklore. Allan Houston’s series-winning shot against Miami lived forever on the front of the rim before finally falling through.
San Antonio won the championship. The official record is clear. Childhood memory possesses its own jurisdiction, and somewhere inside me, those Knicks have always felt like champions.
They carried the improbable run as far as exhausted bodies and an injured roster could take it. They reached the Finals through defiance.
I was too young to understand every tactical detail. I understood courage.
WHEN THE KNICKS DISAPPEARED
The Knicks gradually faded from the national basketball landscape after Patrick Ewing’s departure. Their decline happened during an era when access depended heavily upon television scheduling.
NBA League Pass had no place in our household. NBC carried the league’s premier national games until ABC assumed the package. A team that stopped contending also stopped appearing regularly before a national audience.
For a child living in South Florida, that meant the Knicks slowly became harder to see.
My last vivid memory from that closing period was Latrell Sprewell exploding for 48 points against the Milwaukee Bucks in 2002. Sprewell played with the kind of ferocity that made every possession feel urgent. His performance offered one final flash from a Knicks era that was already slipping away.
My basketball consumption naturally became centered on the Miami HEAT. Dwyane Wade arrived. Shaquille O’Neal followed. The franchise became nationally relevant and locally unavoidable. The HEAT were everywhere around me, and they gave South Florida a championship in 2006.
The Knicks entered the wilderness.
I would not be born for another seventeen years when New York last won the title in 1973. I was roughly three years old during the seven-game battle with Houston in the 1994 Finals. The 1999 run became the closest thing my generation of Knicks fans had to a championship memory.
After that came years defined by expensive rosters, poor decisions, unstable leadership, and a franchise reputation that turned Madison Square Garden from basketball’s grandest stage into the league’s most visible cautionary tale.
From approximately 2004 through 2010, the Knicks existed in a fog of mediocrity and dysfunction. Stephon Marbury provided intermittent electricity.
I remember the brief thrill of watching him win it for the Knicks against the Utah Jazz. Moments like that functioned as temporary relief. The larger story remained bleak.
The Knicks became a team people invoked as a punchline. Their history made the decline more conspicuous. Their market made every mistake louder. Their arena gave failure the brightest possible lighting.
Whenever they appeared on national television, I still felt something warm and immediate. The uniforms triggered recognition. The Garden triggered memory. Even a bad Knicks team remained connected to something foundational in me.
Loyalty often survives through small sensations long before it announces itself through grand declarations.
HOPE, MELO, AND THE RETURN OF RELEVANCE
The arrival of Amar’e Stoudemire marked the beginning of a new emotional era. His declaration that “the Knicks are back” carried the force of prophecy for a fan base desperate to believe.
The team became entertaining again. Madison Square Garden regained its energy. Amar’e attacked the rim with violence and played with the pride of someone determined to make New York basketball matter.
Then came Carmelo Anthony.
Melo belonged in New York aesthetically, culturally, and emotionally. He was a Brooklyn-born superstar with a game built for the Garden’s appetite for drama. His scoring exhibitions became events. His presence made the Knicks relevant across the league.
Linsanity arrived in the middle of it all and briefly transformed the regular season into mythology. Jeremy Lin emerged from the end of the bench and captivated the world. The Knicks became appointment television. The Garden sounded alive again. Basketball felt spontaneous and joyous.
The 2012–13 team brought the most substantial hope the franchise had experienced since the 1990s. Carmelo Anthony, Amar’e Stoudemire, Jason Kidd, J.R. Smith, Iman Shumpert, Tyson Chandler, Raymond Felton, Steve Novak, and head coach Mike Woodson produced 54 wins. Melo won the scoring title. The Knicks claimed the Atlantic Division and entered the postseason carrying legitimate expectations.
Fifty-four wins mattered. The Knicks were great again.
The season ended in the second round against Indiana. The promise dissipated quickly afterward. Age, injuries, poor roster management, and organizational instability dragged the franchise back toward the bottom of the Eastern Conference.
By then, my relationship with the Knicks had changed. I was old enough to choose my commitments deliberately. League Pass gave me access that childhood television schedules had denied me. The Knicks became a regular part of my basketball life again, including during seasons that offered little reward.
I watched the 19-win teams. I watched Derek Fisher coach the Knicks. I watched David Fizdale coach the Knicks. I watched the abbreviated Kristaps Porziņģis era, the flashes of promise, the devastating injury, and the eventual separation.
I watched lottery nights become major events. I participated in the prayers for Zion Williamson. I considered the possibilities of Kevin Durant and Kyrie Irving. I watched those possibilities migrate across the East River.
I remember the dog days.
I stayed.
My support became quieter during those years because futility offers few occasions for public celebration. I watched as many games as my schedule allowed.
I followed roster moves, draft prospects, coaching changes, and each new theory of reconstruction. The Knicks frequently rewarded attention with frustration. I kept giving it.
Fandom rooted in childhood has a way of surviving rational review. The bond forms before cost-benefit analysis enters the picture.
By adulthood, the team has already become woven into memory, family, place, and identity. Walking away would require a person to sever connections extending far beyond the standings.
I had no intention of walking away.
THE TURN
The 2020s changed the emotional climate around the franchise.
Julius Randle arrived and produced an All-NBA season. His regular-season excellence returned the Knicks to the playoffs and made Madison Square Garden thunder again.
His postseason struggles remain deeply frustrating to remember. The team’s broader revival still deserves recognition, and Randle played a central role in beginning it.
Tom Thibodeau imposed structure. The Knicks defended. They competed. They developed an identity. Young players grew. Veterans embraced roles. The franchise began behaving like a serious basketball organization.
Then Jalen Brunson came to New York.
Brunson’s arrival altered the trajectory of the Knicks. He brought composure, precision, leadership, footwork, courage, and an astonishing ability to create offense against larger defenders. He entered the organization carrying external doubts that now appear ridiculous. Questions surrounded his size, his ceiling, his contract, and his capacity to function as a primary star.
He answered every question through work.
Brunson became the captain. He became the face of the franchise. He became one of the best players in basketball. He carried himself with the understated confidence of someone who knew exactly what he could become and saw no need to announce the destination before arriving.
The Knicks kept building around him. Josh Hart brought relentless energy and the appetite of a player who seems personally offended whenever someone else possesses the basketball.
Donte DiVincenzo brought shooting and Villanova familiarity before his eventual departure. OG Anunoby transformed the defense. Mikal Bridges completed the Villanova core. Mitchell Robinson provided rebounding, rim protection, and physical force.
Then Karl-Anthony Towns arrived.
Towns brought a rare offensive dimension to the frontcourt. His shooting expanded the floor. His scoring gave the Knicks another star. His connection to the region and his Dominican heritage added cultural resonance.
His arrival also intensified expectations. The Knicks had assembled a team capable of pursuing the championship.
The pursuit produced joy, stress, anxiety, heartbreak, and an endless stream of emotional negotiations. I won’t pretend I wasn’t critical of his play from time to time. The stupid fouls and bad defensive rotations drove me up a wall.
Recent playoff defeats had sharpened the hunger. Injuries had ruined promising runs. The HEAT had eliminated New York and supplied local HEAT fans with fresh material once my Knicks allegiance became impossible to overlook. Indiana later brought another painful ending.
The Knicks kept progressing, and that progression reached its summit in 2026.
A POSTSEASON FOR THE AGES
The final record tells part of the story: 16 wins and three losses.
The deeper story lives in the nature of those victories.
The Knicks began their postseason against Atlanta and encountered immediate danger. The Hawks took a 2–1 series lead and hosted Game 4. New York responded with a 16-point victory and never truly looked back. The Knicks closed the postseason on a 15–1 surge.
They won 13 consecutive games, one shy of the second-longest single-postseason winning streak in league history and two shy of the 2017 Warriors’ record. They won nine consecutive road games. They clinched every series away from Madison Square Garden. Their postseason point differential reached plus-283, the largest ever recorded.
Their statistical profile bordered on absurdity. New York posted a 119.9 offensive rating, a 104.5 defensive rating, and a plus-15.4 net rating. Each figure led the postseason. No champion in the play-by-play era produced a superior net rating.
The Knicks delivered a 51-point victory, four wins by at least 30 points, and 12 victories by double digits. Their three losses came by one point, one point, and four points. Their margin from perfection amounted to six total points.
The dominance carried no single form. Some nights became executions. Other nights became escapes. The Knicks could overwhelm an opponent early, grind through a defensive struggle, erase a massive deficit, or place the ball in Brunson’s hands and trust him to solve the closing minutes.
That flexibility defined championship basketball. It also reflected emotional maturity. Great teams encounter disruption and preserve their internal order. They remain connected to their habits. They find the next possession.
The 2026 Knicks repeatedly found the next possession.
TWENTY-NINE POINTS
Game 4 of the NBA Finals deserves its own permanent chamber in Knicks history.
The Spurs entered Madison Square Garden and detonated in the first half. San Antonio made 14 three-pointers before halftime, setting a Finals record. The Knicks trailed 76–49 at the break. The deficit reached 29 early in the third quarter.
A 29-point deficit in the NBA Finals usually becomes an autopsy. The broadcast begins discussing adjustments for the next game. Fans calculate whether leaving early will save them from traffic. Coaches search for useful minutes from the end of the bench.
The Knicks began climbing.
They won the third quarter 26–14. Their defense tightened. Their three-point shooting returned. San Antonio’s movement slowed. The Garden sensed possibility long before the scoreboard fully confirmed it.
The Spurs still led by 20 with 9:33 remaining in the fourth quarter. New York answered with a 20–4 run. OG Anunoby capped the surge with a three-pointer. The lead fell to four.
San Antonio pushed it back to seven.
José Alvarado hit a three.
Brunson hit another.
Hart stole the ball and raced toward an uncontested layup. He missed it. In another universe, that miss follows him forever.
Victor Wembanyama, my favorite player in the NBA, went to the free-throw line and missed twice.
Brunson floated the Knicks into their first lead with 1:22 remaining.
The Spurs recovered. Stephon Castle made two free throws and placed San Antonio ahead 106–105 with 30.3 seconds left.
Then De’Aaron Fox made the mistake that opened the door. He pursued a layup after collecting a loose rebound deep in Knicks territory. Anunoby blocked the attempt. New York had possession and one final chance.
Brunson launched a deep three-pointer. The shot missed.
Anunoby crashed the glass, extended his right hand, and redirected the ball through the rim with 1.2 seconds remaining.
The Knicks won 107–106.
The largest comeback in NBA Finals history belonged to New York.
Anunoby’s reaction afterward remained perfectly characteristic. He described the moment with the emotional temperature of someone explaining that he had successfully located a parking space.
His restraint made the achievement even more memorable. He had authored one of the most consequential plays in franchise history and responded as though the next assignment already occupied his mind.
The play embodied his entire value to the team. Anunoby saw the opening, attacked the glass, adjusted in the air, and completed the task.
History often arrives through a player doing exactly what he has been coached to do.
FORTY-FIVE
The Knicks entered Game 5 one victory away from the championship.
San Antonio built another early lead. The Spurs led by 16. New York scored 13 points in the first quarter and made four of 22 shots.
Wembanyama protected the rim with terrifying reach. Towns encountered foul trouble. Anunoby struggled offensively. The rest of the Knicks shot 17-for-60 during the game.
Brunson carried them.
He scored 45 points, the most ever by a Knick in an NBA Finals game. He made 14 of 27 shots, four of seven three-pointers, and 13 of 15 free throws. He scored 15 points in the fourth quarter. He produced or assisted on 17 of New York’s 31 field goals.
Brunson scored almost as much in the final period as the entire Spurs roster. San Antonio managed 18 points in the fourth quarter. New York’s captain scored 15.
His performance tied Michael Jordan for the third-most points in a Finals closeout game. Only Giannis Antetokounmpo and Bob Pettit scored more. Brunson also joined Jordan as the only players to score at least 45 points in a road championship-clinching victory.
Those statistical associations matter because they locate the performance within basketball history. The emotional meaning reaches further.
Brunson had spent the early part of the Finals fighting through San Antonio’s size and physicality. His efficiency suffered. His turnovers climbed. He continued searching for solutions. The breakthrough began during the Game 4 comeback. In Game 5, he took complete command.
The Knicks trailed by 10 with eight minutes remaining.
Brunson kept scoring.
Towns fouled out after contributing two points. Anunoby spent critical minutes on the bench with five fouls. The championship hung in the balance, and Brunson accepted the full weight of the moment.
His floater with 1:05 remaining gave New York the lead.
The defense finished the work.
The final horn sounded with the Knicks ahead 94–90.
Brunson had delivered the franchise’s first championship since 1973. He had delivered a Finals scoring record. He had delivered the defining performance of his career.
He was named Finals MVP, joining Willis Reed as the only Knicks to receive the honor.
Tears filled his eyes during the postgame interview. Words failed him.
In that moment, words failed me too.
KARL-ANTHONY TOWNS AND THE WORK OF BECOMING
Championships rearrange the public meaning of careers.
Karl-Anthony Towns entered this run carrying years of scrutiny. His talent had never been seriously questioned. His playoff résumé invited harsher judgment.
Every difficult series became another argument about his temperament, physicality, decision-making, or capacity to perform under championship pressure.
During this run, Towns raised his level.
He contributed to a team that dominated the postseason. He made critical plays, stretched defenses, fought on the glass, and accepted the pressure surrounding his role.
Game 5 brought foul trouble and an ugly two-point performance. The championship belonged to the entire journey, including the nights when his scoring and spacing created the conditions for New York to advance.
I am happy for him.
I am happy for Brunson, whose ascent now belongs permanently to league history.
I am happy for Anunoby, who owned a championship ring from Toronto’s 2019 run and had been unable to play during that postseason because of an emergency appendectomy.
In 2026, he stood at the center of the decisive moments. His block, his tip-in, his defense, and his composure became essential chapters in New York’s title.
I am happy for Bridges and Hart, Villanova brothers reunited in the NBA and crowned together.
I am happy for Mitch, whose injuries repeatedly interrupted his progress and whose rebounding remained a foundational part of the Knicks’ identity.
I am happy for José Alvarado, a New Yorker in spirit and energy, a disruptive force who played as though every opponent had personally insulted his neighborhood.
I am happy for the entire roster, a diverse collection of men from different places, backgrounds, cultures, and basketball journeys who formed a coherent team.
I am especially happy for Mike Brown.
Brown had already built an extensive coaching career across the league. He had coached superstars, endured dismissals, accepted assistant roles, rebuilt his reputation, and faced the familiar instability that defines the profession. He arrived in New York as a respected coach and an even better man. He inherited enormous expectations and converted them into a championship.
The Knicks got this one right.
THE YEARS INSIDE THE TROPHY
Every championship contains more than the season that produced it.
This one contains Mon Oncle/Tío Alex watching Knicks games in Brooklyn.
It contains Ewing at the center of the Garden.
It contains Starks attacking the rim, Oakley clearing space, Mason bringing the ball up the court, Houston releasing jumpers, and Sprewell playing as though his nervous system operated at a higher voltage than everyone else’s.
It contains the battles with Miami.
It contains the 1994 heartbreak.
It contains the 1999 miracle run.
It contains the years when the Knicks disappeared from national television.
It contains Marbury, Amar’e, Melo, Linsanity, 54 wins, and another collapse.
It contains Porziņģis, lottery dreams, coaching changes, empty promises, and League Pass nights spent watching teams that had no realistic path toward contention.
It contains the 19-win seasons.
It contains every joke made at the franchise’s expense.
It contains the painful playoff eliminations that preceded this breakthrough.
It contains every fan who inherited the team from a parent, uncle, grandparent, sibling, friend, neighborhood, borough, or television set.
The trophy stands at the end of that accumulated history. Its meaning comes from the distance traveled.
The Knicks last won a championship in 1973. New York’s cityscape changed. The league expanded. Generations were born, grew old, and passed away. Madison Square Garden remained. The orange and blue remained. The hope remained, sometimes loudly and sometimes beneath layers of justified cynicism.
Fifty-three years is long enough for hope to become ancestral.
This championship belongs to people who spent their entire lives waiting for it.
WHY THIS ONE FEELS DIFFERENT
I remember weeping tears of joy when the Los Angeles Lakers defeated the Boston Celtics in seven games in 2010. That series carried enormous emotional intensity. The rivalry, the comeback, and the memory of the previous Finals defeat gave the victory tremendous weight.
I remember the relief accompanying the Miami HEAT championships of the Big Three era. Those teams operated under suffocating scrutiny. Every playoff round felt like a public trial. Their victories released pressure that had accumulated across seasons of expectation.
This Knicks championship feels different inside me.
The dominant emotion is joy.
Pure joy.
It reaches back toward the earliest part of my life. It touches something formed before adulthood, before professional responsibility, before political analysis, before academic credentials, before the countless structures through which we learn to discipline our emotions.
This title speaks to the child who learned the Knicks through family and place.
Time took many things from that child. It changed cities, relationships, routines, ambitions, and the texture of daily life. It turned familiar faces into memories. It transformed games once experienced in a Brooklyn home into fragments preserved across decades.
The championship returned me to that beginning.
For a few minutes after the final horn, the years folded together. Brooklyn, Boca Ratón, and Paris occupied the same emotional space. The child watching Ewing and Starks stood beside the adult watching Brunson raise the Finals MVP trophy. The distance between them disappeared.
That is the restorative power of sports at its best. A team can reconnect a person to an earlier self without requiring the illusion that time has stood still. The past remains past. Its emotional residue can still be recovered, understood, and held with gratitude.
The Knicks gave me that gift.
SOULS LINKED THROUGH THE SEASON
This team developed an uncanny habit of delivering victories on days when I needed them.
Sports fans often describe these connections in mystical language because ordinary language cannot fully account for the timing. A difficult day ends with Brunson controlling the fourth quarter.
A period of personal strain gives way to a Knicks comeback. Anxiety loosens after the final possession. The team knows nothing about the individual fan’s circumstances, and the victory still arrives with the intimacy of a personal message.
During the Finals, that sensation grew stronger.
Brunson repeatedly found a way through. The Knicks repeatedly survived. The team carried itself with the resilience of people who understood that a deficit described the current score and held no authority over the final outcome.
I felt linked to them.
That bond did not depend upon superstition. It arose from recognition. I saw a team absorbing pressure, refusing fragmentation, and continuing the work in front of it.
I saw professionals accept imperfect circumstances without surrendering their larger purpose. I saw men remain connected through foul trouble, missed shots, injuries, hostile arenas, and staggering deficits.
Their response carried meaning beyond basketball.
Keep going.
Find the next possession.
Remain disciplined.
Trust the work.
The season offered those lessons repeatedly. The Finals gave them permanent form.
NEW YORK, FINALLY
The Knicks’ championship belongs to a city built around movement, memory, collision, ambition, and spectacle.
Orange appeared everywhere after the victory. The city prepared for its first Knicks championship parade, since the 1970 and 1973 teams received no such celebration. Generations of New Yorkers finally gained the public ritual that had been denied to the franchise’s earlier champions.
Madison Square Garden had spent decades waiting for this moment. The arena hosted legends, rivalries, concerts, political gatherings, boxing matches, and countless basketball memories. Its most important tenant had remained outside the championship circle for more than half a century.
That drought has ended.
The championship banner will hang beside 1970 and 1973.
Jalen Brunson’s name will live beside Willis Reed’s.
OG Anunoby’s tip-in will replay beside Allan Houston’s bounce, Larry Johnson’s four-point play, Willis Reed’s entrance, and Clyde Frazier’s Game 7 masterpiece.
The 2026 team has entered the permanent mythology of New York sports.
Their achievement also carries league-wide historical weight. A 16–3 postseason. A plus-283 point differential. Nine consecutive road victories. A record-setting net rating. The largest comeback in Finals history. A 16-point comeback in the championship clincher. Three total defeats separated from perfection by six points.
This was one of the greatest postseason runs basketball has ever seen.
And it belonged to the Knicks.
LONG LIVE THE NEW YORK KNICKS
I have loved this team across eras of access and absence, hope and embarrassment, relevance and obscurity.
I loved them when they fought Miami through the late 1990s.
I loved them when Sprewell scored 48.
I loved them when Amar’e made the Garden roar again.
I loved them during Linsanity.
I loved them when Melo won the scoring title and the Knicks won 54 games.
I loved them through the 19-win seasons.
I loved them through failed free-agency dreams, lottery disappointment, and humiliating basketball.
I loved them when Randle helped rebuild credibility.
I loved them when Brunson arrived and began changing everything.
I loved them through every recent heartbreak.
And now I love them as champions.
The final victory came in San Antonio, the city whose team ended the Knicks’ improbable 1999 run. Twenty-seven years later, the Knicks completed the circle on that same franchise’s floor. Brunson scored 45. The defense held. The clock expired.
New York had its championship.
The tears came because the moment carried decades inside it. They came for the child in Brooklyn. They came for the years in South Florida when Knicks games were difficult to find.
They came for the losses, the jokes, the empty seasons, the almosts, and the enduring belief that one day this franchise would finally give its people the ending they deserved.
That day arrived.
The New York Knicks are NBA champions.
Knicks in five.
We are champions, y’all.
Long live the New York Knicks.