It begins with a silence.
Not the satisfying kind, the hush that falls after a game-winning buzzer-beater, the collective exhale of a grateful crowd. No, this is a thick silence. A creeping, fungal silence that grows in the dark corners of Madison Square Garden after the final horn blows and the season—another promising, scrappy, blood-smeared season—bleeds out on the hardwood.
The Knicks are done. Again.
And somewhere under the weight of banners not lifted and promises not kept, something stirs. The ghosts are restless.
See, the Knicks aren’t just a basketball team. Not anymore. Not really. They’re something else now—something haunted. A patchwork collection of dreams, talent, and trauma stitched together each October, only to unravel by spring. A cursed machine powered by hope and running on the fumes of a championship won before disco died.
So now what? What do you do when the music stops again? When the postseason ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper—and a 3-for-17 shooting night?
Well, first you look at Jalen Brunson. The hero. The iron man. The smiling soldier who dragged a leg and a city through May. You thank him. Maybe build him a statue. But you also ask yourself: can one man carry the ghosts alone?
Then you peer toward the sideline. Tom Thibodeau stands in the shadows like a character from Pet Sematary—a man who brought something back from the dead (a culture, a work ethic, pride) but may not understand what it’s become. His rotations are etched in stone like the Ten Commandments, but etched, too, is fatigue in the faces of his starters. Could he change? Will he? Or must he go?
And finally, there’s the dark tower: Leon Rose and James Dolan, the two figures up top, obscured behind tinted glass and long silences. Dolan’s there, humming blues songs while the team burns. Rose is the gunslinger, or maybe just another shadow in the alley. Do they roll the dice for Giannis? Do they trade the soul of the team for a shot at the crown? Or do they hold… and wait for the right prophecy?
In this world, waiting has a cost. Each offseason is a new chapter of the same damned book. The Garden is loud, the fans are loyal, but the ghosts—they remember. They’ve seen Marbury’s tears, Carmelo’s exile, and Patrick Ewing’s last step off the Garden floor.
And if you listen close—late at night, when the echo of basketballs has died down and the arena is empty—you might hear it. The wind, howling through the rafters.
“Next year.”
But how many next years do you get before the Garden finally swallows you whole?
Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s this:
Curses don’t die easy. And the Knicks? They’re not just playing basketball anymore.
They’re trying to survive something far more terrifying:
Expectation.
And maybe—just maybe—themselves.
