It’s a Great Time To Be a Lesbian Knicks Fan

When I’m meeting a new lesbian, I always fear the moment they’ll ask me if I’m into sports. Because then I have to tell the truth: Yes, I love basketball! And then they’ll congratulate me on the New York Liberty and I’ll have to shamefully clarify I am, in fact, talking about the MNBA.

My dad has been a Golden State Warriors fan since his family immigrated to San Francisco from Mexico in 1968, just in time to watch Rick Barry and Nate Thurmond deliver the team their first NBA Championship. Basketball changed his life. The Chinatown courts were a safe haven from the poverty and gang violence that defined his new world. He went on to become the first-ever Chinese player on his high school’s varsity team, despite only being 5’8”. When my mom moved to the west coast to live with him, he quickly converted her as well. I was born in San Francisco in the late 90s, right between the team’s Run TMC and “We Believe” eras. Even after we moved to New York and the games were broadcast at the punishing hours of 10:30 p.m.-1:30 a.m., in my whole life, I’ve never seen him miss a single game.

When the Warriors “Dynasty” era began in 2015, I parked myself right beside him and listened as he taught me everything he knew about basketball. It brought us closer than we’d ever been before and ignited a passion for sports I didn’t know I could access. I was a sensitive, bookish child who balked at the concept of physical exertion. Aside from a brief YMCA skills camp at age four, I’ve never actually played the game in any serious way. But I can absorb information like nobody’s business. By age 16, I could easily tell a flagrant from a common foul and identify a goaltend just before the whistle. I could recognize the plays Coach Kerr regularly ran. I knew the backstories of every single player on the roster.

This is my favorite part about basketball: the narratives. The drama. The lore. Who has beef with who. Who got traded and is bitter about it. Who’s trying to form a superteam. The deepest rivalries and strongest friendships. I eat it all up.

***

Despite my Bay Area roots, I am ultimately a New Yorker through and through. My mom immigrated here in 1976, and I spent most weekends and summers of my childhood with my grandparents in Queens. I’ve lived in the same neighborhood, right around the corner from their building, for the past seven years. I’ll always be loyal to my birth city, but New York is truly the city that made me. So when the Warriors don’t make the playoffs, I root for the Knicks. And if the Knicks don’t make the playoffs, I don’t watch. Simple as that.

More than anything, the Warriors were an underdog story until they weren’t. They went forty years without a championship, and in the years leading up to their second title, they were godawful. And here’s the thing: If you’re a New Yorker who’s into basketball and loves an underdog story, you are a Knicks fan. You don’t get to choose. It just happens to you over time, the same way your bodega guy slowly starts to memorize your order (BLT and an Arizona). City pride merges with ball knowledge and, the next thing you know, you’re guzzling a hard cider with your closest lesbians on the back patio of a Crown Heights sports bar with your phone balanced on your knees playing the YouTube TV livestream of Game 1 of the NBA Finals, rooting for a team that has been so bad for so long, and watching them surprise you again and again and again.

Much has already been written about the magic of this Finals series (and the Knicks’ playoff run in general). Much has already been written about the hope and life it injected into the city, the contagious, unified euphoria that restored the spirit of a beaten-down populace. What moved me the most, though, was the fervor with which the lesbian community rallied around the Knicks during the Finals.

Most of the queer people in my social circle either don’t really care about sports or have recently gotten into hockey after watching Heated Rivalry. If any of my friends are into basketball, it’s the WNBA, and I get why: It’s full of out and proud lesbians with phenomenal ball skills, some of whom are dating each other while playing for opposing teams. Juicy!

Meanwhile, there are currently no active MNBA players who publicly identify as gay. Only three have ever come out in the history of the sport, and all did so either at the very end of their careers or long after they retired. Knicks center Karl-Anthony Towns has been subject to immature, homophobic comments by fans and commentators alike who call him “zesty” (euphemism for “gay”) simply because he’s expressive and emotional both on and off the court. I rarely ever watch basketball live at bars because the atmosphere is so aggressively straight and male in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable at best and unsafe at worst. I can’t talk my shit without some guy condescending to me because he sees a brown femme in an oversized jersey and assumes I’m just somebody’s girlfriend whose job is to sit there, clap, and ask him to explain the game to me. I can’t drink as much as I’d like, knowing I have to stay on guard in case anyone gets the wrong idea. So I usually watch the playoffs from the comfort of my own home and risk the noise complaints. I truly understand why queer fans prefer to steer clear of this league and it also bums me out sometimes that I can’t bond with them in the same way over a passion that’s so close to being shared.

This year, though, everybody had Knicks fever, lesbians included. It’s surreal to watch as everyone around me suddenly becomes equally invested in the only sport that has defined my life. I was able to watch the three most consequential games of the series at three queer bars across the city, and every time it felt like coming home.

***

I watched Game Two at Boyfriend co-op, a lesbian café/bar in Bed-Stuy (and my personal favorite lesbian bar in NYC), with my friend Grace. We arrived just after halftime to find the place lively but not packed. There was a screen in both the back and front rooms to mitigate crowding. All the seats were taken, but there was plenty of standing room, so I posted up next to a femme in a Brunson jersey sitting on a stool who knew ball. As the Knicks mounted a comeback from a 14-point deficit, we gained a mutual respect for each other by eavesdropping on each other’s commentary. As the fourth quarter dwindled and the score tightened, we began to high-five each other at every made basket.

With 30 seconds left, the game was tied. The Spurs had possession. And then, in a shocking error, Victor Wembanayama turned the ball over and immediately fouled Jalen Brunson, giving him two free throws, giving the Knicks the one-point lead that would win them the game. The lesbians around me erupted in cheers. I hugged the femme beside me as we screamed at the top of our lungs.

“WE DID IT!” she yelled, shaking my shoulders with a grin on her face, as if she and I had been the ones running down the court. “WE DID IT!”

I watched Game Three, the Knicks’ sole series loss, at a non-gay bar, which I choose to believe is why they lost. That one’s not worth talking about. But Cubbyhole, one of only two lesbian bars left in Manhattan, was having a Game Four watch party with $5 beers, so my gay girl group chat locked in. Even Olya, my friend who hates both sports and loud noises, refused to miss out.

That morning, our whimsical mayor declared that Thursday, June 11 was “Wear Orange and Blue Day.” Grace and I got there two hours early to stake a claim on some space and make the most of the last thirty minutes of happy hour. We struck up a conversation with Rhi, a lesbian from Alabama who’d flown in just hours before with nothing but the clothes on her back, all to watch the game at Cubbyhole. Her return flight was at 6 a.m. the next day. When I asked where she was staying, she told us her plan was to spend the entire night awake and “outside” until she had to head for the airport. Before we’d arrived, Rhi had also befriended a trans woman named Sally who told us her ridiculously cool plans to convert the basement of her newly purchased house in New Jersey into a BDSM dungeon. I’d painted my nails orange in honor of the Knicks, and she’d painted hers blue. When she noticed this, she demanded we take a picture of our fingers interlocked.

My friends Amanda and Olya arrived shortly before tip-off and ordered ciders. The Cubbyhole bartenders announced that free pizza had arrived, an occasional perk of visiting Cubby on a weeknight, and I got Olya to pass me two slices that I washed down with whiskey. The six of us crowded together and craned our necks to watch the game on the tiny TV mounted in a corner of the ceiling.

Things rapidly got out of hand. The Knicks were weak on offense, while the Spurs were draining 3-pointers left and right. I complained about the officiating and the lack of three-point closeouts to Olya, unaware that I had an audience: At the quarter break, an Australian butch in her fifties turned to me and said, “Can I just say, I love your commentary. I’m really learning so much from you tonight!”

“Please keep it coming!” her femme companion added, and I blushed with pride.

By halftime, the Knicks were down 27 points. It seemed inevitable that they’d lose, and on their home court, no less. The crowd visibly deflated. The bartenders turned off the TV audio and cranked “Umbrella” by Rihanna, which Grace and I sang along to loudly and off-key. Patrons departed for second locations and trickled onto the sidewalk for an extended smoke break. Sally and Olya decided to tap out and head home. From the leisurely pace of their smoking, it appeared my other friends were losing interest as well, but I’ve always lived by the philosophy that a true fan stays to the end and watches their team lose. A cheer erupted from inside. Brunson had hit a three. I couldn’t take it anymore and insisted we return inside.

“We missed you!” the Australian butch said as I slipped back into position. Rhi had moved from her stool near the window to stand on my left, and the remaining four of us crowded close together. OG Anunoby hit a dunk, then a three. Brunson hit a three. Clark hit a three. By the end of the third, the Spurs lead was only 15.

The lesbians around me began to buzz. We could barely believe what we were watching. Our cheers grew louder. We started to chant for DEFENSE, DEFENSE! Alvarado hit a ridiculous three that circled the rim precariously before deciding, Fuck it, I’m going in! The Spurs lead narrowed and narrowed until finally, Brunson scored to give the Knicks their first lead of the night by one single point. Now, the game turned into the extended agony of foul tag, and as the gameplay stuttered and started, the bartenders played “Umbrella” twice in a row. Both times, the entire bar sang along.

And then, there were 5.7 seconds remaining.

Knicks down one.

The entire bar held its breath.

Anunoby inbounded to Brunson.

Brunson shot a three.

It bounced off the rim, into the air — a miss.

Anunoby was already in flight.

His fingertips were already outstretched.

And with the gentlest push, he tipped the ball right into the basket to give the Knicks a one-point lead, winning them the game.

For a moment, the room was stunned. Then, we erupted.

At least fifty lesbians, holding each other, screaming, crying, kissing. The bartender lined up at least forty plastic shot glasses and started filling them with limoncello. I leapt into Rhi’s arms. “I told you they were gonna win by one,” she laughed. It was the largest comeback in NBA history, and we watched it happen right before our eyes.

On our triumphant walk to the subway, our queer crew kept passing hordes of straight men who didn’t hesitate to scream “KNICKS IN FIVE!” and offer hands for high fives, both of which we always returned. One guy was just yelling the names of different historical landmarks in New York. When he saw me, he lifted me right off the ground and spun me around while screaming “STATUE OF LIBERTY!!!!!” at the top of his lungs. And I, a notorious hater of both straight men and being nonconsensually lifted, felt like Baby in goddamn Dirty Dancing.

***

The wait between Wednesday and Saturday felt torturous. Game Five was all I could think about. I stayed home both nights beforehand, preserving my body in case they clinched it and I’d need to be IN THE STREETS. By this point, I’d fully immersed myself in both Knicks Twitter and Knicks Reddit. I was a sponge. I absorbed every crumb of information that came my way, including the yaoi allegations between Jalen Brunson and Josh Hart (google it…). I watched the Anunoby tip-in upwards of 100 times. By the time I pulled up to Ray’s Hometown Bar in Greenpoint, my entire body was vibrating with anticipation.

Game Five happened to coincide with Amanda’s birthday, and she’d reserved a table at Ray’s (which had taped a large G over the R on the wall outside, to make it read Gay’s for pride month). It was on the opposite side of the bar from the giant screen they were projecting the game onto, and within twenty minutes the crowd was impenetrable. Olya and I sought a better view outside, where the game was also being projected, albeit on a much smaller screen. It didn’t matter. The night was balmy, the crowd was far more manageable, and it wasn’t hard to find a good angle. We parked ourselves next to a table of obvious lesbians.

I noticed immediately that the masc in pinstriped overalls leaning against the parking divider right next to me had a ginkgo leaf tattoo on their right bicep; I have one on my left shoulder. I wanted to say something, but their green eyes and shaggy bangs made me nervous. Throughout the game, we kept accidentally locking eyes. I felt the thrum of an incipient crush rattling inside my rib cage, but I resolved not to do anything about it until after the game. I needed to lock in.

At halftime, we did “cake” for Amanda inside, which was really just 25 candles stuck inside a bunch of donuts.

“What are seven things you want to do before 26?” a friend asked her.

Amanda thought for a moment, then listed off six other noble endeavors. “And finally,” she concluded, “I want to watch the Knicks win the NBA FINALS!!!!!!”

The table whooped in agreement, and the entire party hustled back outside. Luckily, the spot Olya and I had claimed earlier was still open. I resumed my position next to the masc in pinstripes, solely for the angle, and continued regaling my friends with my commentary. Once again, the Knicks had fallen behind early and were now chipping away at the Spurs’ double-digit lead. By the start of the fourth quarter, their lead was holding steady at 12. The bench players weren’t delivering the same way they had on Wednesday night. I could feel my blood pressure skyrocketing.

All of a sudden, it was like someone flipped a physical switch in Jalen Brunson’s body. The man went full sicko mode, draining three after three after layup after bank shot like he was born to do it. The Knicks went on a 10-0 run to tie up the score with five minutes left in the fourth quarter. Pedestrians who had intended to just walk by slowed, then stopped altogether to gather with the gays. The crowd swelled around us as the seconds ticked down, down, down. People sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, on parking dividers, on each other. The Spurs committed an obvious goaltend, which I called out.

The masc turned to me. “What does that mean?” they asked.

I was born for this, I thought. “If the ball is already on a downward arc towards the rim, above the rim, or resting on it, you can’t knock it off course. If you do, they count the basket anyway.” I hoped I wasn’t blushing. “I know way too much about this game.”

“I know!” they said with a smile. “I’ve been paying attention. It’s been helpful.”

Well, there was no way I wasn’t blushing now.

The end of Game Five was starting to feel eerily similar to Game Four. Through a truly superhuman performance by Brunson, who scored 41 points alone, the Knicks managed to gain a tiny two-point lead. Then three. A fire truck pulled up next to us, blaring their horns in support, and lowered their windows so the firemen inside could watch with us.

Grace screamed, “SOMEBODY PLAY UMBRELLA, NOW!!!”

7.7 seconds on the clock. Spurs ball. Knicks up 4. Everyone leaned forward, eyes wide, fists clenched…

AND OUR STREAM CUT OUT.

I swear, I thought the crowd around me was going to commit murder. The number of swears I heard in those excruciating three minutes while we waited for the connection to return cannot be overstated.

Through the front windows of Ray’s, we saw everyone inside go ballistic. Behind us in McCarren Park, we heard fireworks explode. We knew it was over. We knew we were champions. But for those three minutes, all of us gathered outside agreed not to know and see it through together.

The stream sputtered back to life. It all happened so fast. Fox to Wemby to a three off the backboard and right down to the ground and that was it, the Knicks had won, and you could hear the entire city scream.

Grace kissed everybody, me included. One of the bartenders came outside with a handle of Mezcal and started pouring it into the mouths of anyone who asked. Amanda’s friend Maggie, who was visiting New York for the very first time, returned to us with her tank top soaked with tequila and a brilliant smile on her face. The Ray’s cooks brought out trays of free hot dogs for everyone. Every car that passed us was blasting “Empire State of Mind” and had lowered their sunroofs so the passengers could stick their torsos out and shout KNICKS IN FIVE! KNICKS IN FIVE! I lost track of the masc somewhere in the rush, but it didn’t even matter. I was physically incapable of feeling disappointed about anything.

We wandered aimlessly down Nassau Avenue, filled with wonder, hugging strangers, gay and straight alike. People streamed out of every building to fill the roads to bursting. A man ripped off his shirt and started vogueing in the middle of the street. Everyone cheered for him. I’ve never experienced anything close to that euphoria before in my life, and I doubt I’ll ever experience anything like it again. But I don’t feel grief for that. No, I only feel supremely grateful that I got to be alive just in time to live through this moment.

Now more than ever, I’m so thankful for the lesbian and queer bars that have managed to endure in our city and continue to provide us with places to collectively and safely groan at turnovers and scream for jump shots. It still feels like a dream that I got to watch the New York Knicks ascend to NBA Champions for the first time in 53 years in the city that shaped me, with the queer women I’m so lucky to call my closest friends by my side, and we got to celebrate time and time again among our community.

As bald ann dowd on Twitter once said: “sometimes it’s like wait the knicks won and i’m gay thank god.”