Cool Oz Productions

All weekend long; I’ve been hearing it: “I’ve been a Knicks fan all my life.”

I heard the same thing in ’86 when the Mets won the World Series. Suddenly, everyone wanted in on the hysteria that had taken over the city. And with all the transplants in New York, how many people have really been Knicks fans their whole lives?
Me? I’ve drunk so much Knicks Kool-Aid I should be in a diabetic coma. I grew up in a household that rooted for the Knicks, Mets, Rangers, and Giants. No other fandom was permitted. I don’t remember the ’73 championship, but I do remember the 8-by-10 black-and-white autographed photo of Walt Frazier my mother kept on her dresser.

My earliest Knicks memory is hearing they traded Frazier to Cleveland in ’77. And that’s where my Knicks journey begins; a journey built on promises that never quite materialized. The promise that Ray Williams and Michael Ray Richardson would be the greatest backcourt since Frazier and Monroe. The promise that Patrick Ewing would lead us to the promised land, maybe with a little help from Bernard King. (I still daydream about what it would’ve looked like if Patrick and Bernard had really gotten to run together.)

Then came Rick Pitino and the Bomb Squad. I was there for the height of that two-year dynasty-that-wasn’t. Me and my two best friends, Vinny Iula and Reggie Mitchell, were at Game 2 of the first round when the Knicks came back from 11 down in the final two minutes to beat the Sixers. We swept Philly; then got bounced by the Bulls in the second round. Pitino left for Kentucky, and the Knicks dropped right back into the basement like they had a reserved parking spot there.

Then came the ultimate promise: Pat Riley. Just like with the Lakers, he was supposed to bring a championship to New York. There was just one small problem: Michael Jordan. And even when Jordan took a baseball vacation, we still couldn’t grab the ring. I knew John Starks’ shot in Game 6 against Houston was going in. I knew it. Then Hakeem Olajuwon got just enough of it to ruin the arc, and the ball fell short—along with all of our hopes. Boom. Another heartbreak. Another summer ruined.

Then came the dark years: twenty years of basketball purgatory, with just enough flashes of hope to keep me drinking the Kool-Aid. The Knicks became the punchline of the league. Isiah Thomas helped bury us in salary cap hell, and every front office seemed determined to chase stars who clearly had no interest in playing in New York.

Then finally, there was a little light at the Garden. A man named Leon Rose started building a team the right way; through the draft, smart trades, chemistry, and culture. He found a point guard who actually wanted to be in New York. A point guard all the “experts” doubled. And now? Well, you all know what happened this weekend.

The New York Knicks: World Champions.

That’s my journey as a Knicks fan. So I’ll ask again: are you really a Knicks fan?

I posted this image of my neighborhood movie theater, the Melba from when I was growing up in the Bronx a few weeks ago, and I just noticed that on the left side of the image is Jerry’s Pizza. That was my pizza shop back in the day, and it’s still there! After watching a double feature and 100s of coming attractions, I had just enough money for a slice and a fountain soda, which of course meant a small paper cup.

In New York City, your neighborhood is defined by its pizza shop. For most people, you don’t switch unless you move out of the neighborhood. Jerry’s was my place until I started middle school at I.S. 144. Having to leave my neighborhood to go to school, I discovered Nick’s Pizza on Gun Hill Road, and that became my new spot. If you lived in Baychester in the Bronx, there were two versions of Nick’s: Nick’s before the fire and Nick’s after the fire. The pizza was the same, but for old-school heads like me, we like to think Nick’s before the fire was better. Probably tasted the same, but memory always adds extra cheese.

Nick’s was my spot up until junior year in high school, when I got my driver’s license. Me and one of my best friends, Silas, argued constantly about who had the best pizza shop. Silas swore Three Boys from Italy on Burke Ave was the best. One night, it all came to a head. Because Silas was driving, he chose where we ate, and I ended up with a slice from Three Boys from Italy. I hate to admit it, but Silas was right.

Regardless, the Bronx has the best pizza. I’ve lived in Brooklyn for over 20 years and have yet to find a pizza shop that matches anything in the Bronx. Forget the brick-oven nonsense; I’m talking about a good slice you can get after 2:00 in the morning, coming home from a club or from the last show at the Whitestone Multiplex (the Melba was closed by then). Two slices and a can of orange Sunkist to go. Then I’d watch MTV (back when they actually showed music videos) while I ate. Good memories.

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Our first feature is a neo-noir film about an angel who loses his faith and abandons Heaven for a dive bar in Bushwick. The world is gritty and unforgiving, making noir the ideal lens for the story. Its visual style draws on 1940s and ’50s crime films, updated with a contemporary edge. I plan to preserve the low-key lighting and deep shadows of classic noir while using controlled bursts of color to enhance the surreal atmosphere of a world shared by angels and humans.

Follow our journey as we make a feature film.