The city that never sleeps has become a city that never shuts up. New York, that great metropolis of hubris and hot dogs, exploded into a symphony of shattered glass and righteous jubilation as the Knicks, bless their bumbling souls, actually won something. This is not a drill. This is not a fever dream induced by budget bourbon. The Knicks, that perennial piñata of the NBA, have done the unthinkable: they have won a championship. And Manhattan, predictably, has responded by burning itself down in a magnificent display of civic pride.
Eyewitnesses report scenes of primal chaos. Grown men in Patrick Ewing jerseys, their faces streaked with beer and tears, danced on the roofs of taxicabs. Women in expensive heels used their purses as weapons against innocent bollards. A man named Gary, who sells pretzels outside Madison Square Garden, was seen crying into a vat of mustard. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he sobbed. ‘I haven’t seen this much destruction since the last blizzard.’
The riots, for that is what they are, began spontaneously at the final buzzer. A wave of unadulterated joy turned into a tsunami of window-smashing. Magazines of every political persuasion will tell you this is about basketball, but any sane observer knows the truth. This is about decades of disappointment. The Knicks winning is not a sports event. It is a psychological release valve for a city that has been collectively holding its breath since 1973.
But wait. The ripples are crossing the Atlantic. Whitehall, in a move that can only be described as breathtakingly British, has issued a warning about copycat violence. That’s right. The government is worried that if a London basketball team, say the London Lions of the British Basketball League, were to somehow accidentally win a trophy, the capital might imitate New York’s joyous destruction. The Home Office has already deployed additional bins to be used as makeshift barricades. ‘We must remain vigilant,’ said a spokesperson, who refused to be named for fear of being quoted by me. ‘Any sudden success by a London sports team could trigger a wave of uncharacteristic exuberance. We are not prepared for that kind of emotion.’
The irony, of course, is exquisite. London, the city that invented restraint, the city that queues for fun, is now panicking about the prospect of too much happiness. Ministers are reportedly considering a pre-emptive ban on all future London sports victories. The plan, codenamed Operation Damp Squib, would involve replacing all trophy presentations with a solemn reading of the latest inflation figures.
Meanwhile, in New York, the fires are still burning. The Knicks’ victory has unlocked something primal in the American soul. Strangers embrace. Taxis honk in rhythm. A man on the Brooklyn Bridge is challenging anyone to a game of ‘one-on-one’ with a traffic cone. The mayor has declared a state of emergency, but only so he can join the celebrations without being arrested.
Back in London, the warning stands. The Metropolitan Police have set up a special task force to monitor any signs of ‘unlicensed glee.’ Spontaneous gatherings will be dispersed with damp towels and polite requests. The British way.
So here we are. A nation on alert because a basketball team in New York did something unexpected. This is the world we live in. A world where joy is a threat and success is a security risk. But for one glorious night, Manhattan is reminding us what it feels like to be alive. Even if it means setting fire to a dumpster. Even if Downing Street is having a collective aneurysm.
As for me, I’ll be in the pub. Gin is required. The absurdity is too much to bear sober.
