For this lonely Knicks fan in Alabama, it was still so sweet.

This is an opinion column.

Suddenly, I felt like Jim Valvano. Or perhaps, it had been coming all along.

Last Saturday, I found myself in my hometown of Tulsa, planted firmly in my brother’s living room. As Oklahoma Thunder fans, my brother and sister-in-law offered polite support, delivering the occasional cheer as I paced through the final seconds of Game 5 of the NBA Finals. It was the end of a 53-year drought, broken by a roster of once-unwanteds that relied on savvy trades rather than a massive free-agent payroll.

I couldn't help but pace. I tried to look away from the screen during those agonizing final moments, but I couldn't resist. When the clock finally hit zero, the New York Knicks—spearheaded by a 6-2 guard who defies every traditional superstar archetype—had claimed the title. It was the franchise's third championship and their first since 1973.

My family offered a subdued, cozy-blanket congrats, but I was channeling the late NC State coach looking for someone to hug after the Wolfpack stunned Houston in the 1983 NCAA title game. Being a Knicks fan in Alabama for the last 12 years has been a solitary journey. In a state obsessed with pigskin, finding fellow NBA enthusiasts is a challenge—especially when your local pastor is a die-hard Lakers fan.

The Unlikely Climb

Preseason oddsmakers gave the Knicks only a 9% to 10% chance of hoisting the Larry O’Brien trophy. Yet, they defied the odds, winning 16 of their final 17 games and tying an NBA record with eight straight road victories. Even against the formidable Victor Wembanyama and the San Antonio Spurs, the Knicks turned the improbable into the expected, closing out the series 4-1.

Cutting My Teeth

My connection to the Knicks wasn't born out of childhood loyalty, but through professional baptism. Fresh out of college as a reporter for Sports Illustrated in New York, I lied to a senior editor about my pro basketball knowledge to land the beat. I spent the 1978-79 season learning the game from legends like Red Holzman and Willis Reed. Those days of 31-51 records provided the basketball education that has served me for decades.

By the late 80s, I was a season ticket holder during the Patrick Ewing era. Those seats at Madison Square Garden became the incubator for my obsession. I was there on May 25, 1993, to watch John Starks throw down his famous dunk over Michael Jordan and Horace Grant. I was there on June 17, 1994, when MJ was playing for the Birmingham Barons and NBC infamously cut away from the Knicks-Rockets Finals.

From Larry Johnson’s four-point play against the Pacers in 1999 to the heartbreak of Avery Johnson’s game-winner for the Spurs, I’ve endured it all. I raised my children in the Garden, teaching them the ropes while they were more interested in cotton candy than the final score.

Now, they finally have their championship. My daughter texted from Los Angeles and my son checked in from Las Vegas, both celebrating the win. I’m not sure if my son was looking for a hug, but I certainly was. And even without a partner to embrace in that Alabama living room, the feeling was sweeter than I ever imagined.