The loudest I’ve ever heard Knicks fans at Madison Square Garden was May 16, 1997.

Game 6, Knicks vs. Heat. 48 hours earlier, P.J. Brown lit the match that David Stern’s dumb de jure brain fanned into the fire that torched the ‘90s Knicks last shot at MJ and the Bulls, ergo their last shot at a title. 19,763 New Yorkers cheering their team is one thing. Add a righteous indignation to the mix and you get a sound like none I’ve heard before or since. The sound of bloodlust.

I’m old now. Old enough that day after day I see more and more people I’m older than, and fewer that I’m not. Old enough to recognize the ties that bind me to the New York Knickerbockers differ from those that connect me to my other sports loves. Old enough to feel like I know something too many people have forgotten, or never knew. Old enough to realize how much the world has passed me by, too.

The first year I followed the Mets, they won the World Series. The first time I sat to watch an entire Rangers playoffs, they won the Stanley Cup. The first two times the Giants made the Super Bowl, they won. And the first season Manchester City stood up on both legs to challenge for the league title, they won, thanks to a miracle finish that still makes me tear up whenever I see it. I’m literally crying with joy re-watching it now.

And then there’s the Knicks.

The Knicks are the team I’ve followed the closest. Other than a few games at the end of the Isiah Thomas era, I’ve watched just about every game I could see since 1990. They’re as much a part of my identity as anything else. But my history with them is . . . different.

The Knicks did not win it all the first year I watched them. They finished 39-43, got destroyed in the first round. The next year, they shocked the world going up on the world champion Bulls, took them all the way to Game 7. The Mets would have won that game. The Messier Rangers would have. Man City? Definitely. But not, bless ‘em, my Knicks.

I’m old enough that the young fans are scaring me. For me and for them. The same inherited idiocy that led a generation of Knick playoff virgins to radicalize Trae Young *before* that series even started has loads of nudniks now flying off at the mouth about how the Finals are over, the Knicks are set to sweep, yada yada yada.

Babes. Don’t.

The third year I followed the Knicks, they were up on Chicago 2-0 in the ECF, riding a 27-game home winning streak. This may sound crazy now, but in 1993 everyone I knew (mostly dumb young people) shared the same thought. The Bulls and Knicks are evenly matched. No way they’re beating us four straight, or four outta five! Reader, they did.

The next year, the Knicks led the Bulls 2-0, then lost three of four. The next round, they led the Pacers 2-0, then lost three of four. In ‘97, they led the Heat 3-1, 3-2 when the teams met for that decibel-record Game 6. MSG lifted their severely shorthanded heroes to a 10-point lead after one. Four at the half. Two after three. It wasn’t enough.

Again, I am old. In elementary school, calling someone “commie” might start a fistfight. The first album I ever bought was a tape cassette — “Bad.” I remember when conservatives were upset that there were too many teen pregnancies, whereas today they say there’s too few. The world is not the same.

And neither are the Knicks. The ’90s Knicks were practically a thought experiment: What if an NBA team were the ‘85 Bears on defense with an offense straight outta James Naismith’s nightmares? The few great teams since then had flaws from here to eternity. The 2013 Knicks were eerily similar, as far as roster construction; one true superstar and a bunch of worker bees is never gonna beat a group of murder hornets. The Thibodeau Knicks could score but not defend, defend but not score, and when they could manage both they were still more shallow than Pearl Harbor.

I wrote this months ago and so far it’s held up: this is the best Knicks team I’ve ever seen. Elite offense, elite defense, elite starting five and a progressive bench that’d rather build on what’s good than settle for it. Everything they’ve done this season, to this point, has only strengthened the feeling that this could be, should be the group that does the impossible.

But I’m still bugging.

I will be even if they win tomorrow night. I will be if they’re up 10 at the half in Game 4. Until the final buzzer sounds on the fourth and final win, or Mitch Johnson pulls his starters and waves the white flag before then, I’ll feel ill thinking about the Knicks winning the series. I think a lot of middle-aged fans will.

When Man City were on the cusp of reversing decades of ignominy — if you think the Knicks have been a punchline, study City’s history before 2008 — older fans expressed more hesitance to believe in them than the younger fans I knew. Until City’s very last kick of that 2012 season, the oldheads were right. They looked set to blow it, all the way until they didn’t. Ever since, they’ve been a rocket ship ride always headed up, up, up.

I’m willing to be the last fuddy duddy to believe in what’s happening with these Knicks. There are words I’d like to share about it, feelings I’m feeling I want to shout so the whole world hears me. But until/unless the final buzzer sounds on that fourth and final Finals win, I can’t. I’ve always believed they were capable of such great heights. But there are some moments too intense to imagine, realities that only register once you’re in them. What a time to be a fan. What a twisted nest of joy and anxiousness.

I hope the Garden is the loudest it’s ever been tomorrow night.