Long enough afterward, it’s perfect that we were talking to a Pacers fan. I’d completely missed the place I was supposed to meet with Steve, walking a clear two blocks past it before I realized the Google Maps button did not match the side of the street where this joint exists. Walking in and, for the second time in thirty seconds, completely missing my target, Steve waved me down to an open seat he’d been saving. An hour before tip-off and three blocks from the Garden, our eventual destination for Game 2, I sat down.

As an introduction was about to inform me, an affable gentleman named Paul, ex-military and parked on a laptop, was along for this particular pregame ride. He told a few sort of boilerplate stories about what bravery means before he took the first of a few left turns, this one into the values of nationalized healthcare and unionization, because if we don’t have us, we don’t have anything: this is what the military is supposed to teach you. Paul was verbose, but, sure, he was alright[1].

Being in a sea of actually-excited Knicks fans is addictive: that’s been New York City this season. With the Rangers doing similar work in the same building on off-nights, the city buzzes. It sounds any number of self-referentially disparaging adjectives, but the streets feel alive with the sound of #knickstape.