Franchise and fandom

Three and a half seconds. Knicks ball.

My brother -- aka Mookie aka Mini Walt aka The Small Mailman aka “he’s way cooler than you” (I know!) -- and I stood in nervous excitement, along with the other 19,800 fans at the Garden that night. As a native New Yorker, I have suffered through years of lost seasons, confidence-shattering midseason breakdowns and painful, heartbreaking last second collapses.

“But Walt,” you might say, “What about the Yankees and their 27 championships, or the Giants and their Super Bowl victories over the Pats?”

No.

Just as my father before me, I have been passed the torch of New York sports anguish, which I must dutifully bear and pass on to the next generation, just as the late, great Fast Eddie did after his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers left for California in 1957. So here I am, a Knicks, Mets and Jets fan, without a single championship in my 21 years of life. In 2008, I gave up on the Mets. Back-to-back collapses in the final game of the season were simply too much. I haven’t watched a baseball game since. In 2011, Mark Sanchez made me give up on the Jets, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch a game since.

Pablo Prigioni inbounds the ball to J.R. Smith. I clench my fists. Memories of game-winning, fade-away jumpers are muddled by air balls, bricks and pull-up threes from barely half-court.

Melo calls for the ball. “PASS!” I scream. But J.R. cannot hear me. J.R. cannot see me. Madison Square Garden, the Mecca, rocks with excitement. J.R. pulls a crossover, steps back and launches a three. The ball hangs in the air. J.R.’s mind fast-forwards to tonight’s turn-up at 1 Oak. “Man, this party has everything. Snake Juice, DJ Baby Bok Choy and who’s that? It’s PC, the older guy who went to Dwight from NYC Prep. He’s a promoter now.”

The buzzer sounds as the ball smacks off the corner of the backboard. Knicks lose.

So why do I still watch? Why does anyone care? What’s the point?

As the case is with almost everything I discuss in this column, it’s money. Most New York sports franchises, despite their ability to shatter even the lowest of expectations and bring grown men to tears, are worth north of $1 billion each. Sports franchises make money in a myriad of different ways: ticket sales, TV deals and sponsors all contribute to the business. And at their heart, that’s how most teams operate: as businesses. Even the worst franchises can still turn a profit, while the teams with the highest payrolls (*cough* Yankees *cough*) aren’t necessarily bound to do well.

But calling a team a business ignores what it really is. A team is a legacy, and an integral part of a city’s history. Owning a franchise is a source of pride. The Steinbrenner family has been synonymous with the Yankees for decades, while Steve Ballmer’s purchase of the Clippers allowed the life-long basketball fanatic to live out his childhood dream.

And that’s why millions of New York sports fans -- myself included -- will continue to allow their team to twist every last ounce of emotion out of them. Moments like Mike Piazza’s homerun on Sept. 21, 2001, Linsanity and David Tyree’s helmet catch bring value to the franchise, and bring value to fanhood. They make the insane feel possible.

I had a great time with my little brother that night, even if the Knicks lost.

But still, goddamn it, J.R.