I WAS wrong. I retract, I apologize.
I am now a born-again Knick fan. I have found the old religion of hit the open man and never give up.
I have overcome my disappointment over the trading away of Oakley and Starks.
I have set aside my antagonism toward Dave Checketts for lying and plotting in the corporate suite.
I have learned to manage my disgust over the way GM Ernie Grunfeld was evicted before he was vindicated.
During the Miami series, I found myself rooting for these new Knicks who run the fast break, block shots, play a team game, keep their composure in the last minute, and seem to have fun while doing it.
During the Indiana series, I was riveted to the TV set. I canceled dinner plans to adjust to the playoff schedule.
I was in love with a team again, no less than in 1973 – the championship Knick team of Willis, Clyde, Bradley and Phil Jackson, whose picture hangs on the wall of my living room.
These 1999 Knicks suddenly seemed like hip-hop Rockys with dreads and tattoos – underdogs with courage, rebels with soul.
Today I share the intoxication of the city over a conference crown, and a chance to upset the Spurs in the Finals.
The main thing that has brought me back to the Knicks has been the team’s character, their ability to convert trouble into motivation.
On April 7, this team was in 10th place with 15 games to play.
The snarling voices calling WFAN said this was a squad of quitters.
Today, this team is the first one in the entire history of the NBA to finish eighth in its conference – and then reach the finals.
This bunch plays better when they’re losing. They play better under pressure. They play better when the writers say they are finished.
They almost seem to play better when they are hurt and shot full of painkillers, and needing an hour of ice after the game.
You have to admire Latrell Sprewell’s redemption from demonization and exile.
You have to marvel at Marcus Camby’s comeback from the coach’s doghouse to playoff go-to hero.
You have to be in awe of Larry Johnson’s courage to play through chronic back and knee pain, to score his miracle four-point play and a bunch of clutch three-pointers.
You have to respect Chris Childs’ comeback from alcohol rehab.
You have to love Allan Houston, the coach’s son, overcoming his diffident personality to shoot more and slash to the basket with passion.
And you have to cheer for Jeff Van Gundy’s comeback from the brink of getting fired, and getting lied to by the corporate suits.
Somehow all this external adversity created internal cohesion and community.
The guys on this team came to believe in each other and in their coach, who communicates without screaming.
It has become impossible for me not to identify with this team. Born in diverse and distant places, they have come to personify the strengths of New York – resilience, underdogism, togetherness, never-say-die determination.
There is Sprewell running laps around the Garden floor Friday night, slapping high-fives with delirious fans, his smile as big as Camby’s reach.
There is Larry Johnson arriving at the Purchase practice facility at 6:30 Sunday morning, to get an early start on the ultrasound treatments for his wounded knee.
There is the underfed Camby flying above the rim for blocks and dunks.
There is Childs stealing the ball and triggering the fast break.
There is Houston scoring 32, and punching the air with emotion.
I am not too proud to eat my words and feel part of the fan frenzy of New York nationalism. Grunfeld and Van Gundy knew more than I did.
Bathe the Empire State Building in the Knicks’ colors.
Give a high-five to strangers wearing a Knick jersey.
The other day, Larry Johnson said it best: “I feel like I’ve been part of a story that is bigger than all of us.”
It’s the saga of Rocky, the fable of Cinderella.
This collection of rejects, bad boys, castoffs and rehab grads has come through hell to capture the heart of a tough and fickle city.