How to get courtyard seating at Madison Square Garden

It became very quiet in Madison Square Garden when my face appeared on the giant screen above center court. The silence was noticeable. Seconds earlier, Kenan Thompson’s face had brought the house down.

It wasn’t like anyone gasped or got angry; no one seemed surprised. It’s just that no one knew who I was. And why would they? I’m not famous. I had no right to be up there in the first place.

Still, it was hard not to take it personally. Eighteen thousand people—New Yorkers, no less—had decided to silence their cheers. Eighteen thousand people had agreed as one to reject me.

The chyron under my face on the GardenVision screen read: “Actor.” That hurt, because I no longer consider myself just an actor. It also hurt because the subtitle read: “’The Wolf of Snow Hollow.’” Solid movie – no disrespect intended – but it’s just that I die within the first three minutes.

At 4:45pm that day, my manager, Harry, texted me: “Is friend still there?”

I thought he wanted to hang out with us, which I didn’t want to do, so I considered lying. I let go of my typing bubbles… and I made them disappear. Harry texted again, “I have two extra tickets to the Knicks game.” Honesty is the way, etc.

I’ve done my share of sitting courtside. I know sitting on the court is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I can’t think of a more annoying fact, but I’ll be honest: I’ve been on the court more than 30 times. What can I say? I’m a good guest.

But this time I wouldn’t be a guest. This time, Harry told me, the tickets would be under my name.

My friend and I arrived 10 minutes late. A group of string players were performing a soft version of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” While we waited in the tunnel, a vintage car glared at us because we didn’t sit still while the national anthem played. He had his hand on his heart; I put Mine hand on Mine heart. I wanted to belong. I was worried.

A guide led us to our seats. He said he worked for the Knicks, but when I told him there had been two players on the team college roommates, he couldn’t believe it. He also couldn’t believe the two empty seats next to Kenan Thompson, the beloved star of Saturday Night Live, actually us seats. As the Knicks and Memphis Grizzlies stepped onto the field, the guide disappeared and told us his supervisor would help us solve the problem.

My friend and I stood there like dorks when the game started. I texted the “contact” my manager had given me: “Should we leave?”

The contact texted back, “oh my god no.” In a follow-up, he wrote that the chairs are next to Kenan were indeed ours. So we sat down.

Even though I had a severe case of dry mouth, absolutely parchment, I tried to make small talk with Kenan. I wanted him to know I was there for the love of the game. I’m not one of those girls who are there for the influence.

There was no point in trying to prove this to Kenan because it wasn’t true. I am not not I’m a Knicks fan, but I’ve been a devoted follower of the Los Angeles Clippers for years. And I like striking power.

Anyway, I mentioned the roommate thing. Kenan joked back: “That’s why they play so well together.” And I realized that my fun fact – the one I brought just for this purpose – was old news to a true Knicks fan.

I was dehydrated. I was dehydrated as hell. I searched my bag for anything I could put in my mouth. I had to replenish the fluids in there.

While I was browsing, a young woman came up to me and my friend. She crouched low, smiling and just looking at him. I tried to hear what she was saying, but I couldn’t understand a word.

I was the ticket holder. But my boyfriend is an actor – and he had been on a big show this past year, so I understood. When you’re on Celebrity Row, the guy on the big show doesn’t just count as a plus-one.

A camera crew rushed over. My friend whispered in my ear, “I think I’m about to go on the Jumbotron?” At that moment, the woman who had refused to look at me shouted, “Annie! You’re on B-Cam!”

I didn’t know what “B Cam” meant. Maybe it was something like, “Be a good girlfriend and look at your husband with admiration so we can get B-roll footage of your undying support.”

Before I could get into character, Kenan leaned over and sweetly gave me and my friend some advice: “Grab your drink. Choose something to do.”

“It’s not me, they want up there!” I screamed.

Kenan looked shocked for a moment. But when the cameraman approached him for his GardenVision cameo, he seemed so comfortable. What a professional. The place went crazy.

The cameramen turned to my friend. I heard cheering. I looked up. A montage of my friend on the TV show was on the big screen. And when it ended, there he was, on the GardenVision, for all to see.

I saw a piece of myself next to him. I managed a short “Woooo!” and slipped away. I didn’t really want to be projected as a friend to the Madison Square Garden crowd.

Then the young lady brought the camera crew closer to me.

“Okay, Annie, let’s to go!”

I didn’t understand what was happening. What happened? Had I not supported my friend well enough? I tried another “Woooo.” Nothing came out of my mouth. I froze.

“Smile, Annie! Smile! Smile and wave! Smile and wave!”

Four angry cameramen stood on either side of the young lady. One of them shouted, “You could look up!”

I thought it would be embarrassing to look up. I didn’t want the people at Madison Square Garden to see me looking. I didn’t want the people of Madison Square Garden to see how vain I could be. I didn’t want to be seen.

A stationary photographer, crouched at the cameramen’s feet, chuckled. He grinned and chuckled. It was actually sweet, and it was all I needed to get my feet back on the ground. I smiled. I waved. I made my ‘huh’ face and waved again. It was done. I would make it an Instagram post. Shame is important to me.

As the game went on, I couldn’t take my eyes off the Real Housewife sitting next to Julianne Moore’s husband on the other side of the field. She looked happy. She looked happy when she was on the big screen, and she looked happy when she wasn’t. I wondered how she did it.

Annie Hamilton is a writer and performer in New York.