A calm, measured 76ers fan’s diary: The night T.J. McConnell brought Melodies From Heaven

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

Previous Round 1 diaries: Game 2 | Game 3 | Game 4 | Game 5
Previous Round 2 diaries: Game 2 | Game 3

Sometime around 1996, when the world was captured by the spectacle of bad suits, when America hosted the Olympic Games in Atlanta and the Spice Girls skied to their first No. 1 hit in “Wannabe,” the magic of Kirk Franklin enchanted a stage. The country was captivated by a bite-sized man who looked like a bootleg version of David Robinson — if he shrunk and didn’t play for the Spurs.

What Franklin and his group started in 1992, and the praise they’d go on to give on this stage in 1996, was unaware of the reasoning for their splendor. The same year they organized, a saint by the name of T.J. McConnell was born in a swingeing hovel named “Pittsburgh.”

Franklin’s stage became a pulpit. That pulpit led to praise. Some believe they were there to glorify a God that night, a being so almighty He surprises you when you least expect it. To onlookers, the subsequent banger “Melodies From Heaven” could have been about a Sunday Deity.

I believe it to be about McConnell, a Philadelphia divinity.

“Put your hands together like this ... just like that, just like that, just like that,” Franklin boomed to a crowd as he wore a brown suit that’d make Donnie McClurkin shriek. “Can we have a good time in His name tonight? I can’t hear you. Can we have a good time right now? How many of you glad to be here right now? So you don’t mind having a little church with me, huh? C’mon and sing it with me.”

And then the choir howled.

MELOOOOODIEEEEESSSSSS FROM HEAVENNNNNNN....

Franklin could be seen in the background twerking his neck happily. And this is the only way I can envision McConnell after his world-shattering performance. Internet fans described him as if he was playing for a Philadelphia Catholic League MVP, and sometimes jokes carry hints of accuracy. Our CYO basketball star finally grew up.

Yesterday, I told you tragedy did not suit Philadelphia, that our horror was playing out like a Greek drama. Today, I need you to be the crowd in a Kirk Franklin symphony. Give praise to White Boy Basketball because White Boy Basketball was the Sixers’ saving grace, the fire in their belly, a catalyst propelling their excellence forward and suspending doubt, pushing a series well past its limits.

Truthfully, like Franklin to the ear, the basketball eye deserves to see more of this team, their crippling inexperience, their fun displays of athleticism, the — sometimes-needed — bullying of a puny, Louisville legend to cement our grandeur.

The jubilation in watching McConnell when all his gears are churning is similar to watching Franklin perform “Melodies From Heaven”. Always the entertainer, Franklin frequently pushes his 17-member choir to get louder, to jump higher, to reach octaves unthinkable, but blissful when achieved. All I can do when this is seen, when the moment has climaxed, is dance like Franklin does, showing-off whatever a Milly Rock was for a 90s audience, spinning and strutting.

There are some moments when Philly basketball is so good, you can only chuckle, which I often find myself doing. McConnell is an undrafted, pass-first, point man from Arizona turned hypeman to Basketball Gods on South Broad. There shouldn’t be a conceivable world where he is able to muster career highs in points in a win-or-go-home situation.

Yet, here we are. White Boy Basketball has saved us, so it deserves my prayers. Even if we didn’t know the side-effect of it was McConnell turning up and flashing the John Cena “you can’t see me” taunt sometime during the game.

Toward the end of “Melodies From Heaven”, Franklin gestures to a board operator to cut the sound. All you can hear is a joyful, A Capella ditty — a holy refrain from Tamara Mann and the others. Franklin is practically bursting from his horrible suit. Call and response comes next.

MELODIES SAY

MELOOOOODIEEEESSS FROM HEAVEN

RAAAAAIN DOWN

RAAAAIN DOWN ON ME

If you don’t believe what we saw last night was delivered from the chariot of the pearlies, I cannot bring you out of your petulant misery. (Unless you are from Boston, to which I believe your permanent sad disposition is just how you are made.) Joy came back to Philly basketball by way of some scruffy kid that arguably shouldn’t even be playing in prime time. The end result was a melody from heaven. Let the feeling forever rain down on me.