Halfway through the fourth quarter, I felt it—the win was actually possible. You could feel it creeping into the city, this bubbling tension of anticipation, like a dam about to burst. I scrambled. Cameras out, batteries charging, memory cards clearing. Then it happened: “The Dagger.” The Raptors won. Toronto exploded.

The night of the win wasn’t just a celebration; it was pure chaos—beautiful, lawless chaos. I roamed the streets until 4 a.m., watching the city completely unhinge. Everything climbable was climbed: streetlights, rooftops, bus stops. Dundas Square turned into something out of a dystopian rave—burnt-out buses became makeshift stages, flares lit the night sky, and fireworks cracked down alleys. Nathan Phillips Square felt surreal: people running through the water, hanging off the arches, cheering so loud it drowned out everything else. And, of course, there was Plant Guy, casually carrying his giant leafy trophy like a king among the crowd. It was Toronto at its wildest, loudest, most unified.

The parade a few days later was the city catching its breath, basking in the glow of something bigger than a championship—it was pride, resilience, and the feeling of belonging to something that finally mattered on a global stage. But for me, it’s the night of the win that lingers. The raw, unfiltered energy of a city unleashed.