The Knicks Manifesto — 1990 to Now
A Gospel of Loyalty, Pain, and What It Means to Still Believe
By Don Hilario
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It’s almost midnight and I’m still basking in it—the New York Knicks have advanced to the Eastern Conference Finals for the first time in over two decades. We dethroned the defending champs. And yes, for the casual fans keeping score—we were already leading before their best player went down.
I tip my hat to Jayson Tatum. He’s a good man. A worthy opponent.
But the king of New York is Jalen Brunson—a point guard with no flash, just facts.
He chose the heaviest jersey in the league and wore it like armor. No whining. No antics. Just work.
I’ve earned the right to write this.
I’ve been bleeding orange and blue for over 75% of my adult life.
Through the drought. Through the dysfunction. Through the decades of almosts.
This manifesto isn’t just for me.
It’s for all of us who stayed.
And it’s for you too, Dave.
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You don’t choose to be a Knicks fan. The fire chooses you.
If you’ve been in this since 1990, then you’ve already been baptized in heartbreak—
Starks’ 2-for-18. Sprewell’s open hand. Amar’e’s glass-punch.
The silence after Ewing. The ghost of Marbury.
Charles Smith, Game 5, 1993—four chances at the rim and all of them stuffed.
That play still haunts us like a photograph that never fades.
We’ve had the wins ripped from our fingers and the pride ripped from our payroll.
We’ve had false dawns and cursed lottery nights.
And we’ve had coaches—the worst ones.
Mike. Derek. And Fizzdale—SUS from day one.
“Take that for data”? Nah. Take that outta here.
We weren’t just losing. We were getting gaslit by whiteboards.
But still—we stayed.
That’s not fandom. That’s a covenant.
You learn to hear the Garden even on a cold Tuesday when we’re down 20.
You understand it’s not a building—it’s sacred ground.
You don’t beg for wins. You brace for them.
Because loyalty, when tested over decades, doesn’t harden. It sharpens.
We are the soul of basketball’s most misunderstood market.
We don’t chase hype. We endure drought.
We lose with our heads up and wait—not to scream “told you so,”
but to nod. Because belief this deep doesn’t need noise. It just waits for its time.
Game 6 tonight was proof. Knicks 119. Celtics 81.
Eastern Conference Finals. No luck. No fluke.
Just steel, scars, and a system.
And if you want to know what a dawg really looks like?
Two words: Josh Hart.
Triple-double. In the playoffs.
The first since Clyde in ’72—
after getting elbowed in the face by Luke Kornet and bleeding on the garden floor, the other garden - act like you know.
Did he flinch? Not once. He stitched it up in spirit and kept swinging.
He played like a man who doesn’t care about highlights—only heart.
He’s what a Knick is supposed to be.
And let’s not get it twisted—this ain’t soft.
This team has DNA that barks.
Not like your modern “Draymond” kind of barking—flailing arms and podcasts.
No.
Our enforcers made guys like Draymond cry in their sleep.
Oak. Mase. X-Man.
You didn’t flop against them—you just hoped you’d get back up.
This was bully ball before it had a name.
You felt it in your chest.
And now? It’s back.
And it’s even sweeter because it wasn’t LeBron.
It wasn’t KD.
It wasn’t some pretty superstar with a publicist and a side hustle.
It was Brunson.
The undersized killer with Brooklyn roots and Villanova guts.
The one who bet on himself and on us.
He didn’t need New York to fix his brand.
He came to restore the foundation.
And now he’s dragging the city—brick by brick—back to its rightful place.
This moment?
It’s not for the casuals.
It’s for the ones who loved David Lee—picked 30th in the draft,
put up double-doubles on losing teams long before he got a ring with the Warriors.
We’re OG like that.
We knew what he was before the world cared.
It’s for the ones who watched Nate dunk over Dwight and knew it meant nothing.
Who lived through Isiah. Through Bargnani. Eddy Curry. UGH! Through silence.
The ones who sat in Section 221 on a cold Wednesday and clapped anyway.
Being a Knicks fan since 1990 isn’t a trend.
It’s a training ground for life.
It teaches you patience when the world says quit.
It teaches you grit when the culture says switch sides.
It teaches you presence—because when your heart’s been broken by Game 5s and ghosted by draft nights, you stop dreaming and start showing up.
And now? We’re showing up loud.
This isn’t revenge.
This is the reckoning.
We don’t know how this series ends.
But we know what it means.
Being a Knicks fan since 1990 means you were built for this.
Not to gloat. Not to jump.
But to stand still—in total calm—and say:
“Yeah. We’re back. And we never left.”
—Don Hilario
Knicks fan. Truth teller. Soul carrier.