Great Seats in Hell.

High five, ya fuckin' idiots.

“So what are you gonna wear?” I text.

There are many things I love about my friend Zach but right now, my favorite is that he invited me to see the Knicks with him Friday night.

His reply informs me that he too, is putting an outfit together and wonders if a black Kith Knicks shirt is stupid. I say it isn’t and bemoan the fact that my Ewing jersey is too long and too tight.

We go back and forth like 7th graders getting ready for a dance. I met Zach 12 years ago when we worked together at Ogilvy. He was an intern and I was (at least technically) his boss. He was wearing a Bob Dylan t-shirt the day we met and when I wondered aloud if he truly liked Dylan or was wearing the shirt as a fashion statement, it horrified him.

“Oh my God. I don’t like Dylan, I love him,” he answered so earnestly, it moved me. Then he added, “Anyone who’d wear this just to be cool is an asshole.”

Instant friendship.

I go to Paragon on Thursday, and come home with a Medium Boy’s Brunson t-shirt (he’s the team captain, in case you don’t know, but if that’s the case, you’ve probably stopped reading by now.)

I pair it with my favorite pants (lightweight, barrel-shaped and oddly flattering, except, as it turns out, with this t-shirt.) The shirt is unattractively snug and with a sigh, I realize that I’m not a Medium Boy after all.

Remembering one more Knicks shirt I own, I assemble another look. I imagine it - an oversized tee with skinny jeans - as an homage to Patti Smith in her younger days. I study the effect in the mirror and with a sigh, admit that Patti Smith wouldn’t be caught dead in this getup. The shirt, which is many sizes too big, comes to my knees and that’s just part of the problem.

I end up opting for a black shirt and pants, gold jewelry and my Knicks cap. As I dress, I ask my husband if he thinks there will be lots of 76ers fans there tonight - after all, Philadelphia is pretty close. He says if there are, it’s unlikely they’ll be sitting near us, since it’s hard to get VIP tickets, especially if you’re from out of town. I’m glad because Philly fans have a reputation for rioting after games - especially when their team wins.

Zach comes over for a pre-game rum & coke and a quick bite. My glamorous neighbor pops in and we let her fabulousness wash over us as we shove mushroom and onion pizza into our mouths.

Before we leave, we light the menorah. It’s been a horrific week - one where a Hanukah massacre in Sydney was sandwiched between a college campus shooting and the tragic murder of Rob Reiner and his wife.

No one needs to say that lighting candles - igniting flickers of child-like hope and joy - matters more this year.

Zach’s tickets, which have been given to him by an editor he works with, get us to the (as I bragged earlier) VIP entrance, so there’s almost no line and we join the throngs of blue and orange-clad fans headed to their seats.

I want to say that the rush of the Garden flutters over me like fistfuls of confetti, but it doesn’t. It fills me - like a giant mouthful of french fries. It’s salty and beautiful and good and bad and I can’t get enough of it.

I haven’t been to a Knicks game since I was dating my husband. We used to meet at a restaurant near the Garden, me in short dresses with black tights and boots, Philip in Hugo Boss suits and Armani ties. I’d never dated a Wall Street guy before and the way he hugged me into the fine wool of his lapel made me feel grown up and cared for. Philip’s company had seats on the floor - just a few rows behind Woody Allen’s bald spot. Sometimes we saw JFK Jr, his big head of beautiful hair and magic smile unmissable, even in a crowd.

Zach leads me to our seats, which indeed, are incredible. We’re on the aisle (yay!) and our view is perfect. Jaylen Brunson warms up with the quiet determination of the nicest, hardest-working kid in gym class. Karl Anthony Towns waves at someone and I wish it was me. The team has just returned from the NBA Cup games - a tournament within a season - or something like that. I don’t understand it, but it doesn’t matter - the Knicks won.

Tonight marks their return to the Garden and we are here to celebrate.

Zach chats with the two women to his right and I look over and smile. Zach is usually a very open, friendly guy. But something is weird about the way he shifts his eyes toward me. That’s when I notice the hats.

There they were. Side by side. But not on our side.

“Oh.” I pause and give the two Philadelphia fans a saucy smile. “Do I have to put my dukes up?”

Who am I kidding? If I put my dukes up against these two, I’d be creamed.

The woman closest to Zach smiles back and we learn that they’re teachers who coach middle-school girls’ basketball.

“Well, I don’t like your team, but I like you two!” I say.

A few minutes later, I’ll want to take this statement back.

But before that feeling hits me, I’m overcome with emotion for another of our neighbors. As the Star Spangled Banner is announced, the guy in front of us leaps to his feet. I don’t know when I’ve seen such joy for our country’s anthem before it even begins. He turns to the guy next to him, who’s clearly brought him as a guest, and says “Thanks, man.” He sings along, and by the twilight’s last gleaming, he’s swaying and has his arm around his tall friend’s waist. So proudly he hails!

I’m a sucker for the Star Spangled Banner and can’t help but be moved by his earnestness. So when he turns, with his hand in the air, I’m all in. Boom. He high-fives me. Boom. He high fives Zach. He puts his hand up to high five the Philly Girls and then yanks it away while their hands are mid-air. He laughs and ribs them about their team.

I love our fun section! I love the Knicks. And I love Zach for making this happen.

Five minutes in, when the guy in front of us turns to razz the Philly gals, I glance at Zach.

“Is he….” I say.

“Drunk?” says Zach.

We squint, listening to his promise that the Sixers are going down. His jeers blend into each other - a gobbledy-gook of syllables that don’t exactly form words. The Philly gals - particularly the one next to Zach, beg to differ. She waves the NBA Cup towel we VIP’s were given when we walked in, and says “We’re gonna use this to mop the floor with you.” The drunk guy puts his towel on his head and miraculously, keeps it balanced there for the rest of the game

The Knicks score.

The drunk guy turns.

We high five.

The Sixers run the ball down the court.

The Knicks steal it.

“Idiots!” the Philly fan shrieks.

The Sixers get the ball back.

“Run, ya idiot!” she yells. “You only make a million a year… do something.” I glance at Zach.

“Is she calling our guys idiots or hers?”

“Hers,” he says. He shakes his head. It’s way too early to be this mad, but it’s becoming clear that in this world, anger equals love.

Philly scores.

“THANK you,” she yells, spreading her hands apart, palms up, like a very angry parent whose kid has finally put his toys away.

The Knicks look tired and play poorly. Still, the game is fairly tight and we have many an opportunity to high five with our drunk neighbor. We join him in yelling “DEFENSE!” while the angry Philly fan stands, drowning us out with a piercing chorus of her own.

“OFFENSE! OFFENSE! Now move your feet. Do your job. Shoot the ball. That’s what you get paid for.” They score. “THANK you!” she yells, once again, sounding more annoyed than celebratory.

By the third quarter, there’s nothing Zach and I can do but watch.

Our team unravels. The Drunk Guy keeps cheering them on. The Angry Fan keeps shit-talking her team.

These two are a masterclass in how not to love.

He loves so unconditionally and loudly that the guy ahead of him turns around and says “Really?” more than once.

She shrieks so piercingly and meanly that I’d tell her to stop if she weren’t scaring the hell out of me.

Together, they form a fervent, messy chorus.

“Yes!!!” Enthusiastic high fives.

“Idiots!” Angry head shakes.

More high fives.

More “idiots.” Peppered with “fuckin’ idiots,” when it’s warranted, which seems to be often.

Between the third and fourth quarters, I go to the restroom.

When I get back, Zach is slumped down.

“Ok, it’s official. Everyone in this section hates our neighbors. We need to make it clear we’re not with them,” he says.

We start to high five a little lower and sit slightly turned away from the Philly fans. We look across the aisle, at respectful fans concentrating on the game and clapping when we score.

“God, they look so normal,” Zach says with longing.

“I love them,” I say, and we try to meet their eyes to let them know we’re like them, but it’s no use. We’re lumped in - a blight on the VIP name - and no one wants to look in our direction.

“Yaaaaaaahhhh!” our drunk friend wails, slapping our hands with all his wasted might.

“Shuffle your feet, move it, that’s right, you idiot, earn your paycheck.”

We’re no match for these two.

With 40 seconds to go, we gather our jackets. Even our drunk friend knows when to give up. He turns, and for the first time all night, looks sad. But only for a second. He meets the eyes of the Philly fan, and says, “Where you guys heading now?”

Zach and I aren’t the types to leave without good byes, but that’s what we do. Not a word to the drunkest, happiest Knicks fan on earth. Not a word to our scary, angry nemesis.

They don’t need us. They have each other.

We file out.

The official end of a long sad game.

The official end of a long, sad week.

But tonight, for three hours, we thought only about the next basket.

Zach and I step onto the F Train, no longer sandwiched between loopy love and tough love. We look at each other. Zach laughs. I say “what are you laughing at, ya idiot?” in my best high-pitched shriek. He slaps my hand and yells “yaaaaaah.” And we laugh some more, imagining the two of them tearing up a bar near Penn Station.

“I’m sorry that was so weird,” he says.

I say he’s got to be kidding and we keep laughing.

“Those were great seats though,” Zach says.

“Great seats in hell,” I say.

Our eyes meet and our mouths fall open.

“That’s a good title,” we say, almost at the same time.

We get to my stop.

“Thanks, ya idiot,” I shriek. Zach high-fives me.

I’m still smiling when I get inside.

The menorah, its candles long melted, is surrounded by blobs of blue and white wax. I pick a piece off and knead it between my fingers.

The world feels so sad right now.

But I’m a Knicks fan.

And my cheeks hurt from laughing.

And Zach is my friend.

Which I take as a major win.

Because I’m a fuckin’ idiot that way.