Editor’s Note: This essay was originally posted in 2012 and reflects on a moment in time when Twitter was still a relatively new phenomenon for public figures.
My relationship with John Starks is a one-way street paved with nostalgia. If I were to bump into the New York Knicks legend today, I’d be hauling a truckload of memories, while Starks would likely stroll by, pockets light, perhaps not even registering my face. The odds of a street encounter are slim, but the internet, and specifically Twitter, felt like a shared space where suddenly, proximity seemed possible.
Last weekend, or so I believed, John Starks, the epitome of Knicks grit and the streakiest shooter to ever wear the orange and blue, joined Twitter under the handle @johnstarksNBA. My NBA-centric Twitter feed buzzed, and my routine Google search for “John Starks” news confirmed it (or so I thought). Naturally, a follow was immediate, accompanied by a hopeful, perhaps slightly desperate, tweet pleading for a follow back.
Silence from @johnstarksNBA.
The beauty, and sometimes the absurdity, of Twitter lies in its perceived two-way nature. In the early days of the platform, there was an unspoken rule, a social grace period where you could reach out to a public figure, a hero, with a follow request. It felt like a digital hall pass, a chance to bridge the gap. If John Starks followed me, my random thoughts, my Knicks-related ramblings, would theoretically populate his feed. The 11-year-old in me did a backflip. This wasn’t about chasing every celebrity for validation; this was about connecting with someone whose story felt interwoven with my own formative years. It wasn’t like shouting Starks’ name down a Manhattan street (though, let’s be honest, the temptation might be there). Twitter offered a polite, concise digital shout.
And so, three minutes after the supposed arrival of @johnstarksNBA, I tweeted, with feigned coolness masking pure fan-girl enthusiasm: “Trying to be as cool as I can about this, but I’m really gonna need @johnstarksNBA to follow me.”
This whole Twitter-shrinking-the-world dynamic is both exhilarating and a little unsettling.
John Starks was perfectly imperfect. He’s etched in Knicks’ lore not just for the highs, but also for the agonizing low of Game 7 of the 1994 NBA Finals – a brutal 2-for-18 shooting performance against the Houston Rockets. He had quirks, like that predictable entry pass to Patrick Ewing, looping the ball around the defender. Sure, there were other flaws, but in the eyes of a devoted fan, they were invisible. Loving Starks wasn’t always easy – the air balls, the streaky shooting – but it was always rewarding. He embodied heart and hustle, never leaving you questioning his passion for the game, a stark contrast to the sometimes-detached feel of today’s NBA. Jordan fans? They seemed to gravitate towards the expected, the Yankees of basketball. Give me the underdog, the fiery competitor, every time.
The prospect of getting a glimpse into the mind of the then 46-year-old Starks, even in 140-character bursts, was genuinely exciting. Starks wasn’t just a player; he was a living instruction manual for my childhood driveway basketball dreams. I’d watch him effortlessly execute a behind-the-back dribble, rise for a jump shot, and then spend hours outside, mimicking the moves, the ball constantly clanging off my clumsy heels. Starks, like Sue Bird, Abby Wambach, or Serena Williams for others, occupied a special place, a sports-hero shaped space in my heart.
Then came the tweet from @johnstarksNBA that made me pause: “Good morning y’all! So what’s good should I eat bacon or sausage with my eggs?”
This… concerned me. Not because of any misplaced notion of Starks as a health-food guru.
My mental image of John Starks is forever frozen in time: sweat-drenched, practicing three-pointers in an empty gym, or snarling face-to-face with Scottie Pippen on grainy ESPN Classic game footage. This Twitter version of Starks was contemplating breakfast meat on a Sunday morning.
This was a new kind of fan dilemma, one that didn’t exist in the pre-social media era. Suddenly, the mundane musings of a childhood icon were popping up in real-time. Some tweets felt… off-brand, lacking the intensity of “The Dunk,” that iconic left-handed throwdown over Horace Grant in the 1993 playoffs. But others were… okay. A Saturday night tweet: “All in all 2012 gonna be a great year. Much love.” Decent enough.
I could mourn the vanishing mystique of sports heroes, or I could lean into the novelty of knowing “Starks” was just like any other fan, glued to the AFC divisional game on Sunday, tweeting in disbelief at the Broncos’ overtime win: “just went up and go did that!”
I was equally incredulous!
All I wanted was for this Twitter version of John Starks to be at least half as captivating as the Starks I emulated on my driveway court. Hence, the hopeful follow request. I hadn’t envisioned a “Tweep” relationship with John Starks, so patience wasn’t an issue. Then, late Sunday night, scrolling through the Twitterverse, I saw it: @johnstarksNBA had morphed into @notjohnstarks. The NBA Twitter community erupted with warnings: Fake John Starks alert! This imposter had amassed nearly a thousand followers in just two days. It was all a hoax. My John Starks had never joined Twitter, never pondered bacon versus sausage, never butchered verb tenses while reacting to Broncos games.
Leaning back on the couch, a wave of relief mixed with a tinge of disappointment washed over me. The real John Starks is likely oblivious to this entire cyber charade. And perhaps, that’s for the best. The true John Starks remains perfectly preserved in my 11-year-old mind: fist-pumping, high-fiving Spike Lee after draining back-to-back three-pointers, an untouchable icon of 90s Knicks basketball, safely beyond the trivialities of “John U Bacon Twitter” and the fleeting nature of online personas.
