Knicks in '26: OG in Birdland

It's past my bedtime. I'm sitting at a bar about a mile from my house in southeastern Pennsylvania and about 100 miles The World's Most Famous Arena which is being broadcast on a 10-foot TV screen on the other side of the room. Sitting next to me is another transplanted New Yorker. We promised ourselves we would get together in the wild to watch at least one game of the NBA Finals. As lifelong Knicks fans, we know that these opportunities don't come along very often.

An hour before this moment, our choice of watching this game at a bar seemed unwise. The San Antonio Spurs defense was suffocating the Knicks' backcourt. In the rare instance that they had an open look at the basket, shots that were falling with ease for the last two months were clanking off the rim. On the other end of the court, the Knicks were struggling mightily to close out on Spurs shooters who couldn't miss from deep. New York was losing by 29 points on their home court in the third quarter of a game that could alter the complexion of the series. A win here would give the Spurs a clear path to another Larry O'Brien Trophy and significantly increase the chances of a 53rd straight season without a championship for the Knicks.

A lot changed in that hour. As two bar patrons were talking about their favorite movies to distract them from the abomination on the TV screen, a resilient basketball team started performing a magic act that they've become incredibly familiar with. They chipped away at a seemingly insurmountable lead when they should have been dead and buried.

With every sip of my Fiddlehead IPA, I ruminated about another movie. A mention of The Empire Strikes Back coincided with Jalen Brunson re-discovering the rhythm and physicality that allow him to make difficult shots in traffic like a jedi master. Sticking with the sci-fi genre, Karl-Anthony Towns started to get the upper hand in his match-up with a villainous Alien on both ends of the floor. Switching to Hitchcock movies, I insisted that my pal watch Psycho, arguably his best, while OG Anunoby killed the Spurs momentum with deadly 3-pointers and the outwardly calm demeanor of Norman Bates. Next up was the understated hilarity of The Big Lebowski, which cued a little-used, little guard from New York City name Jose Alvarado to get extended minutes down the stretch and have an outsized impact on the game. That had not occurred to us, Dude. I pontificated on Jackie Brown and Inglourious Basterds as tension on the court continued to mount and Josh Hart had a clear path to the basket to give the Knicks their first lead of the game. Only for him to miss a layup eight inches from the rim in a comically bad mishap that was straight out of a Tarantino movie.

For the next minute or so of game time the Knicks and Spurs traded jabs and I moved on to Scorsese movies, but it was getting harder to concentrate on the movie conversation. (Maybe Gangs of New York was pretty good? Almost entirely due to Daniel Day-Lewis, of course). It was the moment of truth. With 5.7 seconds left in regulation, the Knicks were down by one point and getting ready to inbound the ball on their side of the court. Two Knicks fans in Pennsylvania finally had stopped yapping about movies. Probably because the moment in front of us had reached the tipping point. My mind is a complete blur.

This had nothing to do with the Fiddlehead - which is excellent by the way - and everything to do with the winding road that got us here. Up until about four years ago, it was unfathomable to think that the Knicks would be back in the NBA Finals. Jalen Brunson's arrival in New York was the keystone of a methodical re-build into a cohesive basketball team by Leon Rose. On the road to becoming a legitimate title contender over the past two years the Knicks have consistently turned improbabilities into reality, challenging what Knicks fans thought was possible for their favorite team that spent decades finding creative ways to embarass themselves.

Last year the Knicks struggled in the playoffs against teams they were better than (the Pistons and Pacers), yet stunned the defending champion Boston Celtics by storming back from late 20-point deficits not once but twice. Just two months ago fans doubted the Knicks ability to get out of the first round when the Hawks' C.J. McCollum - a nice player, but no superstar - proved too much to handle down the stretch in back-to-back games. The Knicks responded by reeling off 13 straight wins which included both dominant blowouts and ridiculous comebacks. That streak ended abruptly just two days prior to this game when a listless second half performance during the first Finals game at the Garden in 27 years breathed life into the Spurs.

Given the implausibility of this recent history, I was left to ponder what was possible in this moment as the fate of the 2026 Knicks hung in the balance. The right answer was that anything was possible, ranging from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. So I let my mind wander away from those useless thoughts. As the referee prepares to hand the ball to OG Anunoby standing in front of the scorers table, Birdland starts playing my head. This might seem like an odd thought to have at a time like this, and I would agree, but it makes sense, I promise. See, my dad was an extremely verbose man, but I, decidedly, am not. However, there were two topics that I could always talk endlessly with him about: Sports and Music. All of the greatest moments in Knicks history happened before I was born, but I learned about those great teams at a young age by talking to my dad. During those conversations, it's likely that Buddy Rich was playing in the background. As a result, the intersection of sports and music has always been a very comfortable place in my mind. In this moment I could use a little comfort.

On the screen, OG inbounds the ball to Brunson perilously close to the midcourt line while a driving bass line over Buddy Rich's hi-hat suppresses the tension in my head. Within one second, Brunson decides to launch a pull-up three entirely too far from the basket. A wide open Anunoby seems to share my thought of "what the fuck?", but OG is too sensible to dwell on this. Brunson's shot predictably falls short while OG - as if propelled by the fast-paced horns and woodwinds blaring in my brain - swoops in from the left side of the screen like a condor.

Flying sky-high and towering above three unsuspecting Spurs, he cleanly gets his hand on the ball to alter it's trajectory. Just like Buddy Rich and his band - a bunch of doofuses in mismatched suits being led by a guy looking like he's in hour nine of a ten-hour shift at the DMV - had no right playing music that good while looking the way they did, OG has no right getting his hand on the rebound when he was the inbounder on the play. Despite the looks of things, as the music soars, the ball falls through the hoop. I jump and scream and lose my voice. My buddy does the same, but probably keeps his voice intact. There's still 1.2 seconds on the clock and the Knicks make one last defensive stand to preserve the greatest comeback in NBA Finals history.

I know better than to be confident about anything else that will happen for the rest of this series. Nothing would surprise me. I'll just keep hoping that my head stays in Birdland and that the Knicks keep playing like they can hear the music. Thanks, Dad.