At John Doe’s bar on 28th and 5th in Manhattan, the crowd was already heaving energetically by early evening, as a multitude of TV screens beamed Vinícius Júnior’s equaliser for Brazil, responding to Ismael Saibari’s opener for Morocco. With competing nations’ flags as bunting and inflatable footballs – the correct, round kind – hanging from the roof, there was no lack of World Cup visibility. Football shirts abounded, with Brazilians here and the odd Moroccan shirt there, as well as a Manchester United and Casemiro fan somewhat aghast at the mobility of his hero.
Yet there could be no doubting the main event in town. Despite the fact that New York’s mayor Zohran Mamdani was at MetLife Stadium for the football – a subdued groan met his appearance on the TV screen, followed by loud, defiant Democrat cheers – this was a mere curtain-raiser for the real show. The New York Knicks were bidding to end a 53-year wait to win the NBA title and were playing the San Antonio Spurs in Texas.
Rather like London at the end of May, where every other person seemed to be sporting Arsenal shirts in preparation for the Champions League final, the city was awash with Knicks memorabilia. From Thai students decked out in Jalen Brunson singlets to elderly New Yorkers in royal blue and orange T-shirts and hotel receptionists sporting baseball caps, no item of clothing was left untouched by Knicks branding in Manhattan on Saturday. Whether a New York native or tourist, all were obliged to sport the costume.
And though John Doe’s seemed busy for the football, it was nothing compared with the crowd that surged in and the anticipation building for the switch of channels to ABC and the NBA Finals once Brazil v Morocco had finished. Not for us detailed analysis on the porous nature of Brazil’s midfield. “Knicks in five! Knicks in five!” came the roar from around the bar as we caught the first sight of Brunson and teammates. It seemed futile to point out we were missing Scotland’s first World Cup game this century.
For the uninitiated, this is a seven-game series; the Knicks were 3-1 up after completing a historic comeback from 29 points down in the previous game. Think Liverpool in Istanbul. If they won on this night, the championship was theirs in five games. And for the US’s most famous city and one of basketball’s most iconic brands to have gone more than half a century without an NBA title makes Manchester United look like a competent, well-run football club.
Yet the ballooning mood of ecstatic expectation was quickly punctured. Excitement levels, which had been ramped up to 11, with the bar a swaying mass of youthful humanity, quickly subsided as the Spurs swept into a commanding lead. The Knicks were 10 points down after the first quarter, the team seemingly extraordinarily nervous and wayward in their shooting. It was like watching England struggle to get over the line in those Euro 2020 and 2024 finals, a team overwhelmed by their historic moment.
Late in the third quarter they were still trailing by 15 points and yet, something began to stir. Specifically Brunson, their star man, hit his stride. Fifteen of Brunson’s 45 points came in the last quarter, each one greeted by growing exhilaration at John Doe’s. Other than the long-forgotten opening salvoes, the Knicks had been behind throughout the contest until, with just over three minutes remaining, Brunson put them a point ahead. From then on, the surges of hope and despair were excruciating with each point scored or conceded. You could only empathise with lifelong Knicks fans as ever-incessant time-outs prolonged the tension, the last 20 seconds of play taking five minutes of real time.
Only when London-born OG Anunoby put the Knicks four points ahead with 7.7 seconds to play could the patrons of John Doe’s finally believe. Even the Knicks couldn’t throw that lead away and the Spurs’ best efforts in the vanishing seconds were futile. Insert your own Tottenham joke here. Cue pandemonium in the bar and wider Manhattan. That moment Nick Hornby described in Fever Pitch, as random passersby embrace strangers and previously sworn enemies dance together played out in New York City.
The streets were suddenly full. The Empire State lit up in Knicks colours. Buses were commandeered at Times Square as youths clambered on top; a communal viewing at Central Park erupted into scenes resembling Wembley’s Boxpark. On Broadway, fans clambered on to lamp-posts and two, precariously navigating a right-angled street lamp, ripped apart a jersey bearing the name of Victor Wembanyama, the Spurs star man, outplayed on the night by Brunson. Below, the celebrating mob roared approval.
One teenager was reportedly shot in the foot in the mayhem and riot police were required as some began vandalising the commandeered school buses. A police car was seen smashed and NYPD officers spoke of unprecedented disorder. The latest figures are that 63 people were arrested, with four stabbings reported and one bus set alight. Yet, low bar that it may be, it still appeared to fall short of the mayhem in Paris after PSG’s Champions League win. No shops seemed to think it necessary to board up windows prior to the game, as is common on the Champs-Élysées, though police blockades were in place beforehand to manage crowds.
The euphoria, though, was infectious and broadly life-affirming. All of football’s special and best moments were mirrored in this extraordinary night, never to be forgotten in New York City. And to aloof European eyes it was a reminder that, while the World Cup is being fully embraced here, there is an entrenched sporting culture that cuts just as deep and means just as much.
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