Editor’s note: writer Tyler Tynes is a ... let’s say, enthusiastic Philadelphia 76ers fan.
A calm, measured 76ers fan’s diary: The dream of Philly basketball is no longer deferred
Inside the mind of a Sixers fan watching his season come to an end.
Photo by Mitchell Leff/Getty Images
In 1951, Langston Hughes, as he often did through the Harlem Renaissance and other periods that produced his brilliant work, published one of his most remembered poems: Harlem — an 11-line masterpiece.
Harlem’s Shakespeare flashed one line that has always been remembered: “What happens to a dream deferred?” There comes an unspoken silence after such a powerful question, before Hughes outlines the way a discarded dream can evolve, can explode, can fester.
It is this vexation I return to as the Sixers finally ended their postseason hopes last night. But I do not sit here and think of how Boston did it, how their defense changed Philly’s game plan, the brilliance of Brad Stevens, the emergence of the young stars Boston will tell you were worth every moved asset, every Brooklyn-based pillage. Rather, I consider the dream at stake — how it was nearly lost, left to die and dry up in our imaginations, and the limits of fandom at times. The reverie athletic joy can develop for us.
One beautiful aspect of athletics is the ability to make us forget, to soothe naive mentalities, and erase the obvious, tangible lines it lives on — whether that be intersectional or socio-political. Harlem is the embodiment of what happens when we allow ourselves to dream, and the deferment of such ambitions. The American Dream is a fictive mission given to those with the ability to prosper under this nation’s dogma; it has never been for me. But athletics can suspend that, for an hour or three, until the bubble pops. Truth finds the psyche and we remember the actuality of our being, the threats it can cause, the problems it gives for other Americans.
There have been several stories of what Philly fandom has done this year for people. It made one man grapple with his depression. It led to some of the most diverse tailgating experiences I have ever seen. For a moment, watching this 76ers team, it has allowed me that dream. The Sixers have given me that oasis — a self-created high of basketball euphoria.
That’s something I’ll miss watching these Sixers. There has not been another team as fun, as unpredictable, as frustratingly inexperienced and as spirited in their embrace of their mission as Philly’s ball club.
LeBron James will win the East, because gods often provide the rules that mortals must adhere to, not the other way around. Boston and Stevens will command respect for the next few years, because talented coaching and a grouping of young stars should, at least, give an organization a small blueprint to success. Toronto will keep bearing seedless fruit until it launches Kyle Lowry into the sun. Washington will be Washington, but we’ll always have John Wall. And as soon as Victor Oladipo stops embarrassing the international black legions of Wakanda, I’m sure we will go back to loving him, too.
The only light left for the playoffs is whatever amounts to the Rockets vs. the Warriors. Meek Mill said he’s pulling for James Harden because he frequently called him for hours during the week during Meek’s prison sentence. I would root for him, too, but history demands a rematch between Steph Curry and James before the latter loses the rest of his hair. So, I demand it as well.
But the memory of our Sixers won’t fade. The Process worked. Meek Mills left jail for a game. Embiid broke his face and then broke Miami. Ben Simmons wore a massive chain with a kangaroo on it in a postgame press conference, so, at least, momentarily I choose to excuse his ineffectiveness in primetime for such a distinct flex. T.J. McConnell brought dreams of Melodies from Heaven and I’m sure made some white child in Ardmore believe his future is basketball. We are all proud of baby Hunter. Please clap for baby Hunter. And Dario Saric showed moments that’d make you believe the ghost of Tony Kukoc rented a home in Philadelphia.
So many believers, haters, and the like expressed the team has a “bright future,” which no one has a true roadmap to predict. But in Philly, we always knew. We didn’t know when but we knew eventually the Hinkian missive would unfurl a legion of basketball bullies to re-take a conference that has always belonged to us — or at least we say it did because part of Philly, sometimes, is outlining our form of Manifest Destiny onto the rest of the world.
It is hard to see this team leave for the summer, but I hope they come back this fun. There are obvious gains that can be made through an offseason of aggression and a corny “fueled by defeat” mantra almost all athletes take to heart. Embiid can work on his conditioning. Simmons can find one percent more of the jumpshot he displayed fading away from the post and learn some decisiveness with the ball. Covington can work on his disappearing act. Brown can find the team some bench players. Markelle Fultz can be freed from whatever prison is holding his talent in lock.
I do not worry about the future. I concern myself more with Hughes’ warning. Will I ever find such basketball elation again? I’m sure. But this season was years in the making, taking a martyred analytics genius, a front office overhaul, the most serendipity since the Cavs got Kyrie, and plenty of trust. The joy that brought Sam Hinkie to Philly in 2013 will return to us. I cannot tell you when. But the dream of Philly basketball being back is no longer deferred. It is bountiful and beautiful, fully in bloom. And it likely shall stay this way unless the daylight glares on its mission and dries it, like a raisin in the sun.
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