Mike Colón Media

(Credit: New York Knicks)

I was at work when the final buzzer sounded. The 94-90 victory that gave my beloved New York Knicks their first title since 1973 was not celebrated by yours truly, a die hard fan since the age of six, in a sports bar or at a friend’s house or even my house, but rather in the room of the busiest 911 call center in Connecticut, headset in ear, mindset of angst.

Coming in for yet another glorious bout of advanced mandated overtime I neither asked for nor wanted but nevertheless was foisted upon me, making my regular at the very least reasonable 4PM-12AM shift instead a 4PM-8AM 16-hour slog, my focus for once was not on the aggravation of that but at least for the time being on instead, the possibility of for the first time since the age of 12, when I watched Eli Manning and the Giants for the second time in five years slay the dynastic dragon that was the New England Patriots, see one of my teams actually win a championship.

A possibility this realistic had not existed for me in quite some time. Yes, the Yankees had reached the World Series not all that long ago in 2024, but I knew deep down there was no chance they were beating the vastly superior Los Angeles Dodgers, and after the way they choked away Game 1 of that series, any hope they had of bringing title 28 back to The Bronx died rather brutally at the hands of both Aaron Boone’s mismanagement and Freddie Freeman’s heroics.

A chance this good, this legitimate, had truly not existed in my world of fandom really since the Rangers had reached the Stanley Cup Final in 2014. Truth be told, at the start of this postseason, I thought the Knicks had a very good chance to make the NBA Finals, I just did not think they had as good of a chance to win the NBA Finals. Quite frankly, why would I? To this point, it had been 14 years since any of my teams had won a championship. If they were not straight up awful and missing the playoffs, they were good enough to get to the playoffs yet fall short.

The Rangers have lost in three Conference Finals since last making it to the Cup Finals in 2014. The Giants have only made the playoffs twice since winning Super Bowl 46. The Yankees have been perennial also-rans since their last title in 2009, and up until the revival of 2020, the Knicks were a dumpster fire. Even after the return to contention, they up until this season were in the modern day version of the Patrick Ewing-era of the 90’s. More than good enough to make the playoffs, good enough even to make a deep run in the playoffs, just not good enough to win it all. A sad reality that plagued Patrick the entirety of that decade that saw him make the Finals twice, and was seemingly was going to plague Jalen Brunson, the new heart and soul of the Knicks, in this decade too.

At 53-29, New York had had a very good regular season, finishing third in the Eastern Conference behind the 56-win Boston Celtics, and 60-win Detroit Pistons. They did not have the regular season record most eventual world champions do. 68-14, 67-15, 65-17, 62-20, 60-22, 57-25, 58-24. Those are just some of the records of the teams whose seasons ended with them hosting the Larry O’Brien Trophy over the years. For these Knicks, they had the least amount of wins by a champion (not counting seasons impacted by lockout or the coronavirus pandemic) since the 2021-22 Golden State Warriors.

Even then, that Warriors team was coming off five Finals appearances, three of which had ended in championship glory, the previous decade. With their nucleus of Draymond Green, Klay Thompson, and the greatest shooter to ever walk the earth in Steph Curry still intact and contributing at a high level, these were made men. They were proven, they had been there. These Knicks, even with the experience of three deep playoff runs prior to this one preceding them, could not say the same. The expectations were high and being as pessimistic a fan as I am from so many years of being let down, and sadly growing accustomed to it, I was prepared for this run to flop in the way many others had before.

Just a year ago, I was watching the Knicks complete a six game series loss to an Indiana Pacers team in the Conference Finals they had been favored to beat. With Detroit having soundly beaten New York three times in the regular season this year, I was already setting myself up for a similar scenario to befall the Knicks again. Yes they would win a playoff series, maybe two, but like Indiana in the two seasons before, Detroit would be the new boogeyman this year, a new hurdle standing in the way that New York could once again just not overcome.

For a New York Minute, it looked like the Knicks would not even get that far to begin with. Down 2-1 in the opening series to an Atlanta Hawks team they were superior to in every conceivable way, here we were again. Per usual, disappointment was on the doorstep, waiting to make its grand unwelcome entrance as it had year after year before. I was ready, you could even say I was defeated. Little did I know however after that Game 3 109-108 loss, that this was the beginning of something magical.

I have dissected the playoff run that allowed the Knicks to reach their first Finals since 1999 in a column prior to this one, you saw the run, you know what happened, there’s nothing I can say about how amazing and historic it was that has not already been written or said. However, I have had yet until now to say anything about what occurred once the Knicks actually played in their first Finals since 1999 mainly because even in the week and change that has passed since they won it all, I have had such a hard time finding the words. I will attempt to start by talking first of the team they vanquished.

The pedigree of the San Antonio Spurs speaks for itself. With six NBA Finals appearances and five championships to their name preceding this season, they are rightfully regarded as one of the great dynasties in the history of the sport. The stars they possessed throughout those runs in Tony Parker, Manu Ginobli, and incomparable icons like David Robinson and Tim Duncan, led by a one of a kind coach in Gregg Popovich, never had the same pizazz or personalities other dynasties before them like the Bulls of the 90’s led by the likes of Pippen, Rodman, and Jordan did or the Lakers led by O’Neal and Bryant did, in both cases coached by another one of a kind icon in Phil Jackson. But they were successful all the same, capturing titles in 1999, 2003, 2005, 2007, and 2014.

Popovich, at 77 years old, no longer leads the Spurs from the sidelines. The recent victim of a stroke, he is instead these days the franchise’s President of Basketball Operations. His fingerprints however, are still all over the franchise he has led in some form or another since 1996. The Spurs sideline general these days is Mitch Johnson, a Popovich protege. Their new franchise centerpiece is one of Popovich’s final draft picks in his former dual role as head coach and team president in Victor Wembanyama, a 7’5 basketball wunderkind, who with his tall borderline extraterrestrial frame, defies belief with the things he can do on the court.

At 62-20, the record they ironically possessed when they last won it all in 2014, this Spurs squad seemed to possess all the intangibles and intensity of the title teams before them, qualities that made them a trademark of everything Popovich would preach. Defensive prowess, timely shooting, and methodical passing and floor spacing that made watching them a thing of beauty. So potent were those trademarks this season, it led them to a Western Conference Finals upset in seven games over the defending champion Oklahoma City Thunder, a year ago winners of 68 games en route to their first championship, this season in their title defense, winners of 64.

It is that pedigree in large part that made me greet conversations about the legitimate chances the Knicks had of winning a championship as the dominance of their playoff run increased with each game, three blowouts of the Hawks to take that series 4-2 followed by resounding sweeps in the semifinals and conference finals of first the Philadelphia 76ers and then Cleveland Cavaliers, who the round before knocked off the same Pistons team many had knocking off the Knicks, with the utmost caution. Yes, the Knicks were playing well, very well. And that is just it. Things were going too well. This is the Knicks after all, this traumatized writer thought, the other shoe inevitably always finds a way to drop.

Midway through Game 4 of the NBA Finals, it seemed that shoe was going to drop after all. They had already lost Game 3 115-111 to cut their series lead to 2-1, and now two nights later, were down by 27 points at the half. This, this, would be the back breaking choke job that would presumably crush me and my fandom in such a way that I would probably never recover, I rationed. This was not going to just be the other shoe dropping, this was going to the equivalent of crushing a fly with a combat boot. At one point, the score was 81-52 in the Spurs favor. After taking the first two games in thrilling fashion in San Antonio, here were the Knicks, about to lose both games at home and head back with the series tied at two games apiece to what was bound to be a raucous environment in Texas, without a shred of momentum to carry with them.

The mark of a great team however, a championship team, especially one carrying the weight of ending a long painful drought as this one, is looking at the unfavorable history before it and collectively saying, ‘Yeah? So what?’. In that moment, when many a fan, myself included, had turned the game off and by extension, written the team off, the Knicks made all of us, the faithful albeit the scarred, never happier to be wrong.

Even still, this comeback almost did not happen. After such a furious rally, that at one point saw New York take a one point lead with less than a minute and a half to go in the fourth quarter, New York still trailed by one. A series of Josh Hart blunders, and clutch free throw shooting by the Spurs’ Stephon Castle, a former UConn standout, being the catalyst for this latest deficit with 5.7 seconds remaining.

Of course, I thought to myself, of course they would lose like this. Of course they would mount a comeback that could have been one for the ages but instead falls just short, teasing us in the cruelest way imaginable, only to rip our heart out anyway in the end. For that, I curmudgeonly mused, it would have been better for them to lose by 30, as they seemed well on their way to doing midway through the third quarter. As Jalen Brunson’s would be game winning three pointer clanked off the front rim, so my inner monologue of despair continued, until of course, a literal hand of fate in the form of one OG Anunoby intervened.

You know you have been through too much suffering as a fan when your first thought is not the incredible go ahead bucket you just witnessed but rather, ‘there’s way too much time left on the clock’. There was still even after this epic moment that sent Madison Square Garden into sheer bedlam, 1.2 seconds on the clock. 1.2 seconds might as well be an eternity in the NBA. More than enough time for the other team to get a shot off. More than enough time to get your heart broken.

As the inbounds play unfolded, I braced for impact, braced for the inevitable soul crushing loss, no way was this comeback going to be completed, it was much too implausible to be true. Too implausible to believe of course, until the clock hit triple zeros and Stephon Castle, the same Stephon Castle who moments before had calmly sunk the biggest free throws of his life to put his team ahead, could not even get the ball out of his hands to put up a potential game winning shot. It was true after all. This was indeed the greatest comeback in NBA history.

You would think I would be jumping up and down with glee or running through the house hands in the air in triumph at what I just saw, yet there I sat in front of my television for the next ten minutes, mouth agape, in pure, utter shock. I could not even process what I just witnessed, mainly because if the improbable is going to happen at Madison Square Garden, it is usually going to happen against the Knicks, not for them. Yet, there it was on the screen, a final score of 107-106 in favor of New York. A delirious sellout crowd singing Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ in unison, an emotional home team basking in its unprecedented glory, a shell shocked road team meanwhile trying to process its new role as holders of the biggest collapse in the history of their sport.

That brings me back to the Saturday night they won it. In the ever weird schedule I have as a public safety dispatcher for the City of New Haven, a job that is a stepping stone as I work towards what I really want to do with my life and that is being a career firefighter, Saturday is my Wednesday if you will. With a current schedule of Thursday through Monday, 4PM-12AM, with Tuesdays and Wednesdays off, I do not exactly keep bankers hours. I am working virtually all the time without much time for anything else, combine that with getting held over to compensate for manpower issues, and my eight hour days can very quickly turn into 16 hour days.

It’s not the best of schedules nor circumstances but hey, at least I have a means to pay my bills and gain experience, better that than the unemployment line. Plus, I do get to work with some very solid individuals which makes the shift fly by somewhat easier. Walking into work that day for a 16, yet again getting advance mandated, I was mentally preparing myself for the long haul of working not just one shift but two, I do not like the midnight hours, the people on that shift are just fine I have no issue with them, but good lord do those hours absolutely stink.

In any event, I was at least working in a position that was close to the television we have in the office, meaning in between answering both callers needing assistance and police officers over the radio requesting I run information for them in accordance with the various emergencies they were responding to, I could watch the game for those quiet moments when those calls for service or requests from officers over the radio, both of which obviously take priority over anything else, even my team trying to win a championship, were not coming in. “Maikol, I hope your team wins tonight”, Nikki Britton, one of my favorite supervisors, who I affectionately call Miss Nikki, told me as I walked in for my shift and she was leaving. “And I better not hear you acted like a damn fool if they win”, she added. “I won’t Miss Nikki I promise”, I said in reply. (I may have partially acted like a fool Miss Nikki, my bad).

I was in agony to say the least. Once again, as had been the theme of the series to that point, New York looked sluggish to start, and trailed by a lot, as many as 16 points, as San Antonio took it to them early. Yet, despite one of the worst shooting displays I have ever seen, the Knicks were only down by five points at halftime. They had San Antonio’s best punch, played about as poorly as you can imagine, yet were still in more than reasonable striking distance. By the time the fourth quarter rolled around, my angst was never higher. Never had I been closer to seeing a title than now.

Down by eight, with just over five minutes remaining, Jalen Brunson, like many greats before him, like he has so many times since his arrival to New York in the summer of 2022, took over the game. His heroics, his scoring of 45 points in a performance not seen since Michael Jordan’s 45 points against the Utah Jazz in Game 6 of the 1998 NBA Finals secured the Chicago Bulls their sixth championship and second three-peat of the 90’s, had delivered the Knicks to the brink of glory. 7.7 seconds remained in the game. With the Knicks up by three in the waning seconds, OG Anunoby was at the free throw line. I, meanwhile, out of sheer desperation, was about to collapse.

I could not sit down. With my eyes practically bugging out of my skull as I watched with anticipation, my colleagues were equally enthralled, if not by the game itself, than by my reaction to every occurrence good or bad throughout. “I’m telling you they got this Mike!”, said Eric Foskey, a fellow call taker and die hard Lakers fan who to his credit had said he thought New York would finally win it all from the start of the postseason. With baited breath, I watched as OG’s next free throw would decide if that was to be true. He had missed the first one, and as he prepared to shoot the second one, he carried the weight of a season, a team, a franchise, a city, and a long complicated history behind it. Make it? It’s over. Miss it? For those waning seconds we agonize once more. Hoping, praying even, for one more defensive stand.

He, like the clutch game changer he has been since the moment he arrived to New York via trade in December of 2023, made it. And the same clock, during which time seemed to take forever to tick off from, now moved rapidly as a wait 53 years in the making, like the last bits of sand in an hour glass, was finally coming to an end. Wembanyama pulled up for a three pointer that bounced hopelessly off the side backboard, Anunoby fittingly secured the rebound and the clock hit triple zeros. The Knicks, my Knicks, were at long last NBA Champions.

I always wondered how I would react in that moment if it ever happened. Would I be in utter disbelief as I had been after Game 4? Would I cry tears of joy as many a fan understandably did following the victory? The answer? Joy. Joy that had been waiting 20 years to be released. In that moment, that glorious moment, I hopped up and down in that dispatch room like that six year old little boy used to whenever Nate Robinson or David Lee or Jamal Crawford would do something exciting and for a moment, provide a bright spot in otherwise dark, dreadful years. For that moment in time, as I hopped into Eric Foskey’s arms, hugged Miss Norma Beamon, another one of my favorite supervisors, and sprinted down the hallway yelling “THE KNICKS JUST WON THE FINALS!”, I was that little boy again.

And with that release of joy, came catharsis. All those bad seasons, bad trades, bad draft choices, and painful playoff losses? They do not matter one bit anymore. Like Tylenol for a headache, a championship cures all of that. Those aforementioned occurrences are still a part of the history yes, but that history no longer hurts, the lifting of the Larry O’Brien trophy being the ultimate healing antidote. The main healer? Number 11, Mr. Brunson of course, who like another iconic number 11 who also played in Madison Square Garden and ended a 54-year championship drought in Mark Messier by winning the Rangers a Stanley Cup in 1994, ended this 53-year championship drought for the Knicks and like Messier, forever cemented himself as New York royalty. A king of the City, a king of a fanbase who will never forget him, this team, or this title.

The New York Knicks, my Knicks, your Knicks, our Knicks, 2026 NBA Champions.

Mike Colón is the host of the Mic’d In New Haven Podcast which can be found on all podcast platforms and is simulcast in video form on YouTube