Knicks in 4
A temporary tonic for overwhelm
With the Knicks in the NBA finals and me living in New York, I find myself consumed by basketball fandom.
Armed with my definitely-100%-certified-not-fake-and-legit credentials of being a New York native (living here for 2 years makes me a native right?), I erase my streak of not following the NBA since 2020 and shamelessly jump on the bandwagon.
Before games, I scroll through videos of the hooligan fans being interviewed outside MSG. During games I mosh in my living room for every 3 pointer made. After games I tap Reddit for the immediate reactions.
Given my normally monotonous and disciplined schedule, it’s pretty out of the ordinary to diverge from my bread and butter habits.
Never-mind the adherence to bio optimization that makes my days productive.
Rules like no screens 1 hour before bedtime, regular sleep cycles, and uninterrupted deep work have all been sacrificed at the alter of Jalen Brunson.
The hype is too intoxicating. Chants of “Knicks in 4” appear all around the city in random locations at unexpected times.
In the greater scope of productivity, this divergence from my normal routine is one big relieve for the soul.
A regular feeling I’m way too familiar with is the feeling of being overwhelmed.
With my mix of gluttonous non fiction information indulgence, obsessive improvement, and unforced introspection, I have an infinite rolodex of things I know should be doing.
I should be working, working out, reading, writing, seeing friends, calling parents, networking, sleeping, doing chores, cleaning the house, walking outside, meditating, using saunas, drinking water, and eating protein more.
I should be traveling more. I should explore the city more. I should be living more in the moment. I should be more confident in myself. I should be less be anxious. I should proactively reach out more.
I should do this. I should do that.
I have this sinking feeling of being obligated to someone. And that obligation pulls me in all these different directions, even when the directions contradict one another.
I’m not sure who exactly I’m obligated to.
Maybe it’s my present self and my internal crushing expectations.
Maybe it’s the historical greats I read so much about and the duty I bring myself to live up to them.
Maybe it’s my younger self who dreamed unencumbered from surrounding mediocrity.
Maybe it’s my parents and the pride and hope they have for me.
The chaos and hype of the New York Knicks fandom is a welcomed relief (albeit temporary) from all the inner competing voices and the torture sprawling from ambition.
“My mayor Muslim. My bagel Jewish. My Christian’s Dior. Knicks in 4.”
the one guy from that video