Growing up, whenever I would mention that I am a Knicks fan to someone, I was usually greeted by a couple snickers or a chuckle. Yes, I got it. The Knicks stunk. And they’ve sucked pretty badly for most of my life, as someone who was born after the 1994 Finals.
I grew up arguing why David Lee was one of the best centers in the league, or why Steve Novak is going to 6-9 from three that night. I was proud to be a Knicks fan. Not because of the dysfunction that had marred the franchise since Patrick Ewing left, but because of how they changed my father’s life, for the better.
In 1992, my dad arrived in the U.S. from India. He was an immigrant who was entering a new country, without a job, and an uncertain new life. He was 26, newly married, and left a nice job in his home country to pursue a better life. He settled in New Jersey, living with my mother’s family, and started his journey to pursue the American dream. It was not easy. Life was hard.
He couldn’t find a job. He needed to finance himself to get a degree, and make a name for himself. He was a successful agricultural engineer in India, but in his new country, he was a nobody. No standing. He had to build his résumé from the ground up. That meant working odd jobs, learning how to drive for the first time, and toiling to give himself a future.
It was tough. He was working his butt off. He knew he had to stay focused to achieve his goals, but it was difficult finding inspiration in the cold realities that existed. Nothing was given to him.
But, one day, he started watching basketball on the television with my uncle. And he instantly felt a connection. No, he hadn’t played with anything other than a cricket ball in his life. But, on this day, he saw these men in blue and orange, looking ferocious, and diving for a basketball.
He saw big man Anthony Mason, playing on a minimal contract, putting his body on the line for his team, battling NBA stars for a rebound. He saw Charles Oakley go head to head with Bill Cartwright of the Chicago Bulls, pushing his forearm out in search of two points.
You see, in 1992/1993, the Knicks were the best defensive team in the NBA. They were stingy, only giving up about 95 points per game. This team, led by the legendary coach Pat Riley, harassed their opponents, whether it was the best player in the world Michael Jordan, or the Pacers’ sharp shooter Reggie Miller.
These feisty Knicks, with the scrappiness of John Starks, and the leadership of Patrick Ewing, didn’t seem to give up. The attitude of the early 1990’s Knicks squad reminded Dad of his own determination to be successful. To work against all odds. Sure, he didn’t have the past accomplishments to lead himself to the glory land, but like those Knicks, he didn’t stop working.
The 1990s Knicks represent people like Dad — the small guy, the guy no one else thinks has a chance. And yes, they didn’t win the big one, but they sure as hell didn’t give up. And neither did my dad. His journey to his first permanent job, and eventual graduate degree, coincided with the Knicks own relative success. That is why, even today, as Dad thinks about his acclimation to the U.S., he looks back at the 1990’s Knicks with great reverence and pride.
“That’s a real New York team,” he always says. So this year, when he sees Mitchell Robinson defending five Celtics on one possession, or Josh Hart bloodied going for a layup- he feels that connection again.
So Jalen, KAT, Josh, Mitch, Deuce, Mikal, OG.
These are the Knicks we love. The underdogs. The guys who put it all out there like the blue collar guys of New York City. Playing 48 minutes. Diving for the ball. Boxing out like it’s the last play of the game every play.
For my family, the Knicks pride runs deep, and will continue to. Let’s go Bockers!
Majmudar is a resident physician and writer from Stamford, Conn.
