For a devoted New York Knicks fan like myself, the name John Starks conjures a flood of memories. My history with John Starks is extensive, woven into the fabric of my childhood and adolescence, while his connection to me is non-existent – a typical dynamic between a fan and a sports hero. If we were to cross paths, my mind would be brimming with moments, plays, and emotions tied to his career, while he would likely walk by without a second glance. The chance of a real-life encounter might be slim, but the internet, particularly social media, creates an illusion of closeness. This is what I experienced recently when I thought John Starks had joined Twitter.
As someone immersed in the NBA world online, I follow numerous basketball-centric accounts and routinely search for “John Starks” updates. So, when I saw buzz about a new Twitter account, @johnstarksNBA, I immediately believed it. Without hesitation, I followed the account and, admittedly, sent a tweet directly to him, a digital shout into the void, requesting a follow back.
Of course, the follow didn’t materialize.
Twitter, in its essence, offers a semblance of two-way communication, a perceived chance to connect, however fleetingly, with figures we admire. In my mind, a follow from John Starks would mean my tweets would, in some infinitesimal way, become part of his digital world. The 11-year-old fan in me, the one who idolized Starks, felt a surge of excitement. This felt like one of those rare “hall passes” in social media, an opportunity to reach out to someone whose impact resonated deeply on a personal level. So, I took my shot, sending that tweet, trying to balance enthusiasm with a modicum of digital coolness. “Trying to be as cool as I can about this,” I tweeted, “but I’m really gonna need @johnstarksNBA to follow me.”
This whole episode highlighted the paradoxical nature of social media – how it shrinks the world, bringing us seemingly closer to our heroes, yet simultaneously raises questions about authenticity and the very nature of fandom.
John Starks was not a flawless player. His infamous 2-for-18 shooting performance in Game 7 of the 1994 NBA Finals against the Houston Rockets, including 0-for-11 from three-point range, is etched in Knicks’ lore. He had tendencies, like those risky entry passes to Patrick Ewing. Yet, these imperfections were part of his appeal. Liking John Starks wasn’t always easy, but loving him was. He embodied a relentless spirit, a fiery passion that resonated deeply with fans. In an era of often-predictable NBA games, Starks always left you knowing he was giving it his all. While some friends gravitated towards the perfection of Michael Jordan, Starks’ rival, it felt too predictable, like supporting the establishment. I was drawn to the restless underdog, the player who fought for every point.
The prospect of glimpsing into the thoughts of the 46-year-old John Starks, even in brief 140-character bursts, was genuinely thrilling. My memories of Starks are vivid, almost instructional. Watching him execute a lightning-fast crossover, rising for a jump shot, inspired countless hours in my driveway, attempting to replicate his moves, often with clumsy results. John Starks, like Sue Bird or Serena Williams for others, occupied a special place in my formative years.
Then came one of @johnstarksNBA’s first tweets: “Good morning y’all! So what’s good should I eat bacon or sausage with my eggs?”
This tweet sparked a moment of dissonance. It wasn’t that I imagined Starks as some ascetic figure, but my mental image was of a different John Starks entirely.
John Starks Game 7 1994 NBA Finals
Alt text: John Starks grimaces during Game 7 of the 1994 NBA Finals, highlighting the intensity and pressure of the moment.
In my mind’s eye, John Starks was forever frozen in time, practicing jump shots in an empty gym, sweat dripping onto the hardwood. He existed in grainy footage from ESPN Classics, diving for loose balls, going toe-to-toe with Scottie Pippen. On Twitter, “Starks” was pondering breakfast meats.
This presented a strange juxtaposition, a collision of my idealized past and the mundane present, something unimaginable two decades prior. Suddenly, trivial musings of a childhood icon were appearing in my Twitter feed. Some tweets felt underwhelming, lacking the dynamism of “The Dunk,” his iconic left-handed slam over Horace Grant in the 1993 NBA Playoffs. Others were innocuous enough, like a Saturday night tweet: “All in all 2012 gonna be a great year. Much love.”
I could lament the erosion of mystique, the potential trivialization of a hero. Or, I could embrace the novelty of knowing “Starks” was watching the same AFC divisional game on Sunday and shared my disbelief at the Broncos’ unexpected play.
“I couldn’t believe it either!” I might have thought, feeling a strange sense of connection.
My desire was simple: for the Twitter persona of John Starks to be even half as captivating as the player I emulated in my driveway. Hence, the hopeful follow request. I hadn’t envisioned John Starks as a “Tweep,” so I waited patiently. Then, late Sunday night, scrolling through Twitter, I saw @johnstarksNBA had transformed into @notjohnstarks. NBA Twitter swiftly erupted with warnings about the fake account, which had amassed nearly a thousand followers in just two days. It was all a fabrication. My John Starks had not joined Twitter, hadn’t tweeted about breakfast or football. This digital imposter had even taken liberties with grammar, a detail the real Starks, in my imagined persona of him, would never commit.
Alt text: John Starks and Spike Lee exchange a high five during a New York Knicks game, showcasing the energy and excitement surrounding the team in the 1990s.
Leaning back, a wave of relief washed over me, mingled with a touch of disappointment. The real John Starks is likely oblivious to this online impersonation. The authentic John Starks remains preserved in the amber of my 11-year-old memories, eternally hi-fiving Spike Lee after sinking back-to-back three-pointers, an untouchable icon of 90s basketball.
