No Rules in Love of Basketball

For people in a massive city like New York, and indeed, an affluent region like the Northeast, it’s sometimes hard to imagine life without a professional sports team to cheer for (and against). All my life before coming to New York, however, that was exactly the world of sports I knew.

There was one team, and everyone I knew was a fan. I still remember a July day in 1995, when, as a 9-year-old boy, I stood on the hood of my family’s ’85 Oldsmobile, cleaning my glasses to prevent a light drizzle from blurring my view of the Boeing 787 just barely visible in the distance. “Here they come, baptized by an afternoon shower like children in the grace of God,” an announcer cried over the radio. “The heroes of the Fatherland ... the boys of hope ... the national treasure that is the Puerto Rican Olympic basketball team.”

The entire country would come to a standstill, it seemed, to watch five men carry on their Nikes what, I was told, was the nation’s pride.

I still remember the first time I ever thought of myself as a fan of another team. It was September 2003, and I had just stepped off the tarmac at John F. Kennedy International Airport, feeling completely foreign, trying to figure out what the man sitting next to me had told me on the airplane. Two suitcases trailed behind me, carrying everything I owned in the world.

I stepped out onto the curb and remembered something. Opening the front pocket of my suitcase, I pulled out a black cap with a distinctive insignia and wiped the dust off the visor. I put it on, and for a brief second, felt a bit less foreign. I might have just gotten here, I thought, but what better way to fit in than by showing my allegiance to the New York Mets?

To be perfectly honest, I still have trouble explaining to people why I specifically became a Mets fan. The obnoxious pomp with which some Yankee fans billed their team as the “greatest franchise in the history of sport” might have something to do with it, but, as I later realized, I really fell in love, even before coming to New York, with the “idea” of the Mets. The notion of rooting for the underdog in a dog-eat-dog city enticed me. As New York Times columnist David Brooks later wrote, in what I personally considered a vindication of my choice, the Mets are a team that shows that God smiles upon his darlings, that miracles happen, that the universe can be a happy place.

Later that year, my love for the team was solidified as I joined the throngs of Dominicans chanting victoriously from the cheap seats during Bachata Night. The year after that, I commiserated with Long Islander floormates after particularly embarrassing defeats. And for the past two years, I screamed at the tube as miserable late-season collapses kept us from the World Series.

This year, however, when an early exit by my team meant that I finally had time to get some work done, a deep void gripped me. I sadly realized my afternoons would no longer be filled with poring over stats on ESPN. Nachos and beer would no longer cut it if I wanted to skip dinner. Whenever I took a long taxi ride, I asked myself, what I could I possibly talk to the cabbie about on my way home?

A deep, primal urge that takes hold of all God-fearing men finally kicked in. Now that the baseball season was done, the urge commanded, who would I be a fan of?

I knew, of course, that it would make sense to choose a team in close vicinity.

Following that logic, for a couple of days I thought about catching a hockey game at the Garden. As I thought about it more, though, it didn’t take me much to figure out that I’d probably never become a bona fide Rangers/Devils/Islanders fan. One, I don’t even know the rules of the game. Two, I’m not white.

Having put hockey on ice, the interesting antics of Jets fans held some allure, and, again for several days, I seriously considered bringing out the green face paint. I went online, took out my credit card, and was totally psyched to buy my first ticket to East Rutherford, N.J. Then I realized how much the ticket would cost. The best gridiron action, I’ve since decided, takes place on Saturdays.

Two sports down, I began considering football (you know, the type that you play with your feet). Unfortunately, by the time I realized how moronic I would sound cheering for an energy drink, the season was over.

It would take me a while, but it finally hit me. Having discarded three different sports, I realized the obvious answer was basketball. But could I really do it?
For four years, memories of home had precluded me from even thinking of cheering for another basketball team, yet now, here I was.

I closed my eyes and thought back to that first day in New York City almost five years ago. Just a few hours before landing at Kennedy, I’d engaged in a lively discussion with the man next to me. Realizing that his Spanish accent betrayed a lifetime in the United States, I asked him, almost as a throw-away, “Where are you from?”

Surprised, he shot back, “From Puerto Rico,” to which I asked, “Really, which part?”

“South Bronx,” he replied. It took nearly five years, but I finally understand.

And that’s how I became a Knicks fan.

Eleazar David Meléndez can be reached at
eleazar.david.melendez@columbiaspectator.com.