There are moments in life you never think you’ll see.

For some people, it’s seeing a unicorn.

For some people, it’s winning the lottery.

For me?

It was watching the New York Knicks win an NBA Championship before I qualified for Social Security.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Knicks are NBA Champions.

Read that again.

THE. KNICKS. ARE. NBA. CHAMPIONS.

Somebody check on Spike Lee. Somebody check on Ben Stiller. Somebody check on every New Yorker over the age of 40 because half of us are crying and the other half are running through traffic screaming like we just discovered pizza for the first time.

As a 44-year-old Knicks fan, I honestly didn’t know if this day would ever come.

I’ve lived through the pain.

I’ve lived through the heartbreak.

I’ve lived through the 1994 Finals when Hakeem Olajuwon haunted my dreams.

I’ve lived through 1999 when Tim Duncan and David Robinson turned our championship hopes into a group therapy session.

I’ve lived through Charles Smith getting blocked 47 times in six seconds.

I’ve lived through Reggie Miller turning Madison Square Garden into his personal comedy club.

I’ve lived through Isiah Thomas.

Actually, let’s stop right there.

Surviving the Isiah Thomas era should qualify every Knicks fan for free therapy, free health insurance and a complimentary stress ball.

And don’t even get me started on the years when our biggest offseason acquisition was hope.

Hope was our franchise player.

Hope averaged 30 points a game.

Hope got injured every February.

Hope left in free agency every summer.

Yet somehow, after decades of misery, disappointment, bad contracts, questionable draft picks and enough coaching changes to fill a Manhattan phone book, the Knicks climbed to the top of the mountain.

And they did it the most Knicks way possible.

By giving every fan a heart attack first.

The Spurs jumped out to another double-digit lead.

New York couldn’t hit water if they fell out of a boat.

Victor Wembanyama was blocking everything except toll booths on the Long Island Expressway.

At one point, Wemby had more blocked shots than the Knicks had made baskets.

I was already pricing emotional support pizza and preparing to yell at my television.

Then Jalen Brunson happened.

Again.

The Captain.

The King of New York.

The man who somehow gets bigger the bigger the moment becomes.

Brunson dropped 45 points and carried New York to basketball immortality.

When the fourth quarter arrived, he stopped playing basketball and started performing miracles.

He scored 13 straight points and ripped the soul right out of San Antonio.

Every possession felt like destiny.

Every basket felt like redemption.

Every second brought Knicks fans closer to something they had waited 53 years to experience.

A championship.

The final buzzer sounded.

The drought ended.

The suffering ended.

The curse ended.

And somewhere, every Knicks fan over the age of 40 immediately burst into tears.

Not little tears either.

I’m talking ugly crying.

The kind of crying where your wife asks what’s wrong and you can’t explain it because you’ve spent three decades defending this franchise to friends, family and random strangers.

Back home, New York exploded.

Fireworks.

Car horns.

People hugging complete strangers.

Fans climbing on anything that wasn’t nailed down.

The city turned into one giant celebration.

And honestly?

We earned it.

We’ve suffered enough.

We’ve watched lottery disasters.

We’ve watched bad trades.

We’ve watched coaches come and go faster than New Yorkers changing subway cars.

We’ve watched championship dreams die over and over again.

But not this time.

This team was different.

Jalen Brunson was different.

Mikal Bridges, Josh Hart, OG Anunoby and Karl-Anthony Towns were different.

Every time somebody counted them out, they came back.

Every time they fell behind, they fought back.

Every time the basketball world doubted them, they punched back.

And now they’re champions.

Real champions.

Not “next year” champions.

Not “maybe someday” champions.

Champions.

For the first time since 1973, the Larry O’Brien Trophy belongs to New York.

As for me?

At 44 years old, I finally got to witness something I wasn’t sure I’d ever see.

The New York Knicks are NBA Champions.

I survived Charles Smith.

I survived Reggie Miller.

I survived the Isiah Thomas years.

I survived James Dolan concerts.

I survived decades of bad basketball.

And somehow, against all odds, I lived long enough to see the Knicks win it all.

Ladies and gentlemen, this isn’t a dream.

This isn’t NBA 2K.

This isn’t a fantasy.

This is real.

The New York Knicks are champions.

And for one glorious night, New York is the center of the basketball universe again.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to spend the next six months reminding every Celtics fan, every Heat fan and every Knicks hater that Banner No. 3 is finally hanging in Madison Square Garden.

After 53 years, New York is back on top.

And this Loud Mouth couldn’t be happier.