Whether arguing profanely with badly outnumbered Celtics or Bullets fans in the high school cafeteria, or dribbling—back to the basket, like Walt Frazier—on outdoor cement courts or indoors at the Staten Island JCC, my childhood has always seemed bound with the Knicks. From the occasional live game at the Garden, to the hundreds watched on television or brought to life by the mesmeric radio voice of Marv Abert, I suppose it’s no surprise that the Knicks forged many lasting connections for me: the late Isaac Allen, Bob Baer, Emmett Berg, Ira Bistreich, Robert Busan, Tony Carter, the Edlebaum brothers, Mark and Ira, Chet Heald, Dennis Flanagan, Billy Fried, Mitch Gordon, Stephen Jackel, Andy Rothstein, Dave Seidenberg, Lenny Stanley, and my forever friend, Lloyd Stone. To those who might have cared about the Old Knicks on a more casual basis—Sharon Pearl-mutter Grossman and Robbie Hollender Levinson among them—sorry for tuning you out when the game was on the line. I was an addict; it couldn’t be helped.
