Sports mania is tearing through New York City like norovirus on a cruise ship. As the Knickerbockers stage their heroic run toward an NBA championship, skyscrapers glow in blue and orange each night. In Central Park, strangers congregate around wheeled-in televisions, sharing beer and fellowship like friars in a Trappist monastery. My girlfriend, a Midwestern transplant in Bushwick, has become so Knicks-crazed that I’m afraid she may tattoo Jalen Brunson’s likeness on her torso. And as if basketball fever weren’t enough, the World Cup has begun.
Bandwagoning With the Knicks at an Old-School New York Tavern
My own attitude toward professional athletics mirrors that of the great satirist H.L. Mencken: “I hate all sports as rabidly as a person who likes sports hates common sense.” But I’m no curmudgeon, at least not completely. Though indifferent to the games themselves, I’m enjoying the pageantry, collective euphoria, and festive spirit in my adopted hometown. If nothing else, it’s been a wonderful excuse to drink with my friends.
Which brings me to Yesterday’s, the bar I patronized to watch Game 4 of the NBA Finals. It only opened last April, but it deliberately feels like an old-school New York public house. The banquette seating, penny tile floors, and wood wainscoting make you think the place has been pouring pints since the Knicks last won a title in 1973.
Keeping with the nostalgic theme, the cocktails are firmly rooted in the classics. No esoteric amari, fat washes, or smoke-filled glass contraptions—just rock-solid martinis, Manhattans, and Negronis, alongside a small but thoughtful wine list.
Executive Chef Robert Sieber, whose résumé includes Daniel Boulud’s DB Bistro Moderne and the Michelin-starred Jungsik, cooks luxurious and comforting bar food. Once the game started, we ordered a mess of shareable snacks—fried olives, mozzarella sticks, and chicken wings. The wagyu cheeseburger I wolfed down after my third martini was sheer delight.
A bar that intentionally evokes a bygone New York was a fitting venue to watch the Knicks make history. I still won’t learn the names of the players—except for that Brunson fellow my girlfriend keeps going on about—but I’m tickled to see New York City in such a joyful mood. And thanks to the Knicks, I discovered a terrific new bar in the West Village. Just don’t invite me out for the World Cup. Fútbol remains a bridge too far.
