Same thing I was doing last Wednesday night. Listening when the Knicks won.
What I was watching was a European police dramatic series, don’t recall which one. Or a Jason Statham film with incessant violence. Lately, I’ve been loving incessant violence in movies, can’t imagine why.
I’d talked to a friend on Wednesay night who said she was about to watch the Knicks. “Uh, oh,” I said, because it was after 8:30, “I’m interrupting your game.”
“No,” she said, “I only watch the second half.” I understood, given that I’d heard about the Knicks’ anxiety-provoking first halfs. And that was why I wasn’t watching at all: anxiety. Game anxiety.
I’m a football lover. Over the course of the decades I’ve been following the Giants, I’ve learned how to manage my emotions, how to cope with score discrepancies and moments of high tension and abyssmal collapse.
But only for football. I don’t have the stamina to cope with the tensions of another wonderful sport — and basketball is a wonderful sport.
But the moment the Knicks won on Wednesday night and last night, I knew it because I heard shouting, screaming, yelling, cheering in the streets, and in the apartment next to mine. Horns honked, fireworks went off.
I heard the ecstasy and smiled.