ScotchSquatch

When I was 11 I got a Patrick Ewing jersey for my birthday. And most days when I wasn’t ripping wheelies up and down the block, I had that jersey on and I’d be playing hoops in front of my house doing my best Ewing impression, taking baseline jumpers just like him, like a white Fatrick Ewing. 

The MSG channel or maybe ESPN2, used to play videos Sunday mornings of Allen Houston running different drills. I used to sit in front of the TV in my jersey with a basketball watching, and then I’d go outside and do them incredibly poorly. And while those drills did absolutely nothing to improve my lousey game, it only flamed my love of the mother fucking New York Knicks.

To say I’m excited about tonight’s game would be a gross understatement. 

The last time there was a championship game in the Garden was pre-y2k. And coincidently also against the Spurs. Life was simple back then. Slick Willy was in office, Tony Soprano was feeding his ducks, my Tomagotchi was alive and thriving, and I had just learned which dirty magazines showed it going in. 

So I sit here, watching the clock slowly change, a few hours from watching the Garden absolutely erupt. And I will be home, with my bedazzled Knicks bucket hat on, a much newer Patrick Ewing jersey adorned, a Velo stuffed in my bottom lip, watching the New York fucking Knicks cover the spread. 

In Brunson we trust.