A calm, measured 76ers fan’s diary: Regardless of Justise Winslow, the Sixers won. Mask off.

Editor’s note: writer Tyler Tynes is a ... let’s say, enthusiastic Philadelphia 76ers fan.

Right after the hammer slapped shut a casket for all of Miami’s basketball hopes and dreams on South Beach Thursday night, Ben Simmons growled in Justise Winslow’s frazzled face.

Winslow deserved it. Miami’s invented brand of bully ball has proven effective against this young Sixers’ team. That is until sometime during this game they stopped giving a fuck. That might of been when Dwyane Wade’s old ass tried to pull Justin Anderson into the octogenarian gates of South Florida hell, the door of which I assume opens by the Heat baseline. There, I know, is only shitty tapioca. Shitty tapioca and another “Wade Game” before he retires that I pray pisses you off the same way it pissed me off the other night.

The Sixers also could’ve stopped giving a fuck when Winslow stepped on Embiid’s mask. Embiid certainly did. “Little do they know I have about 50 of them,” Embiid said in post-game. “It’s going to take much more than that to get me out of this series. I’m going to be a nightmare for them too.”

Embiid’s response was classic Embiid for however classic one can be if you’ve played less than three seasons in the NBA. He got pissed on-court and he threw that shit towards the Atlantic Ocean. Someone gift that savant a hoagie.

**Points to sound guy in the corner**

Yes. You sir. Please play the music we agreed upon.

Thank you, beloved.

Winslow noted this week he has no issue playing the role of the villain as long as it interrupts the Sixers’ tenacious pace of play. Well, buddy, let me tell you. That shit ain’t work.

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Though I probably don’t have to tell you this at this point, and I will anyway, it is crucial you understand that Sam Hinkie is smarter than you and your family. He is smarter than those hatin’ ass columnists who poo-poo’d The Process before it even began. And he is certainly smarter than all the executives in the NBA still trying to figure out if The Process or any form of tanking works. If Hinkie opened a church tomorrow I’d be on the front steps begging to be a deacon. The Process isn’t ahead of schedule, children. The Process is running around on steroids and trying to fight your loved ones over the big piece of chicken at Sunday dinner.

If you don’t believe me, a humble servant of Philadelphia, ask the Heat who have caught two spectacular ass whuppins already. Let’s take stock of how we got here. Dario Saric is the international ambassador of the three ball and Mario Bellinelli is his chief of staff, banging off balanced buckets in the finest Tuscan leather. Justin Anderson is Secret Service and will hip toss your hatin’ ass into the stands if you act up. Embiid and Simmons are the modern-day Bad Boys, and when they fuck up Markelle Fultz pays their bail.

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On the list of dudes who gotta get fought based off three games of this series:

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98. The combined age of Dwyane Wade’s joints. (I don’t have a joke for this, I just want y’all to know he walks around with a cane)

Anyway, as I have said so many times in the past few months of 215-proud chest beatings, Philly is on an unstoppable wave fueled by passion and Yuengling and it’s coming to a city near you. I don’t know what happens next for the internet’s favorite basketball team, but I can tell you one thing, friends: the Heat are getting that ass beat. And for the moment, nothing is more wonderful than that. Especially if you read this whole thing humming “Mask Off.”

P.S.: Someone please check on my large son Hassan Whiteside. He does not deserve this. Set my son free. Even if the end result is Joel Embiid dunking on his ass. Amen.