Editor’s note: writer Tyler Tynes is a ... let’s say, enthusiastic Philadelphia 76ers fan. Previous diaries: Game 2 | Game 3 | Game 4
Game 5 was ... an experience. The entire night felt like a glossy Rick Ross music video from a silky verse where Ross croons about fancy cigars and cars we would never afford, spinning yarn about a glamorous lifestyle befitting royalty, rather than the average Philadelphian.
Except, Game 5 in Philly was real. Meek Mill, with a face that would soon be engraved on every internet corner, meme-stricken or not, was flown out of jail by his white cash-throwing friends, some shit Ross would likely lie about in high definition.
Who could imagine, a belabored man stuck in criminal justice calamity, the loopholes and pitfalls often entrapping black people in this state, would only be sort of a side show? A steroid, pumping the muscles and spiking the endorphins of a fan base that never, truly, needs additional stimulants to stunt.
You knew Meek Mill was going to ring the ceremonial opening bell to begin the Sixers’ oncoming onslaught and series-clinching win. Even if the subsequent vibration from it, the electricity produced from its friction, would create a black hole on South Broad and kill us all, it would be worth it if only to cement the dream into history.
I assume the Sixers were kind to its city’s royalty. Thus, a golden Rollie and Audemar must have been slapped on Meek’s wrists upon entering the arena. A Milano or Puma sweatsuit had to be waiting for him in the locker room as he got his haircut before the game, and he valiantly said “fuck that, hand me an Embiid jersey” so the legend could be painted from familiar to sublime.
Kevin Hart sat with Meek. Joel Embiid and Ben Simmons hugged him before the tip. So did boxing great Bernard Hopkins. Jay Wright and some of the Villanova Wildcats took pictures with him in the locker room. Lil’ Dicky was there, too, but we choose not to speak of such foolishness. Eagles owner Jeff Lurie did an unseasoned two-step next to Meek’s son on the jumbotron halfway through the game to the booming blasts of “Dreams & Nightmares,” a song that had a Google search spike around Meek’s release. The last time that happened, the Eagles were on their way to winning the city’s first Super Bowl.
Regardless of what you think about Meek, his music, or his incarceration, his freedom meant we were all free at least for a night. His release was a signal that Philly couldn’t lose despite any odds stacked against us. Really, could you ever imagine some of the richest white people in all of sports would use their political leverage to attempt to free a black rapper? If you did, Tom, good for you. I pray for your optimism.
For the rest of us, however, all of this is as surprising as the team of upstarts who jumped from a 10-72 record years ago, with a cadre of men who could barely pass for NBA talent, into being basketball’s biggest threat.
Dwayne Wade got his ass whupped in what might be his final NBA game, and lamented as much afterwards.
“You wanna see nothing but good things for those guys. This is the future of the NBA. The NBA is in great hands,” Wade said of the young Sixers.
The night came with the usual thrills we are known to enjoy during the triumphant march of a Philly team basking in its elite moment, as we’ve seen for what seems like a lifetime at this point. Embiid found his offensive touch. Simmons’ wizardry moved the basketball around the court in a way that reminded you of young Magic. Robert Covington wasn’t horrible. Tatted trailblazer J.J. Reddick threw triples that brought back memories of a dashing Kyle Korver in high socks.
Even if Goran Dragicslapped the shit out of Simmons late in the game, we will allow it. It’s not like the crusty guard will be playing regulated ball again until autumn’s leaves touch the ground. As a treat, Bam Adebayo bricked a couple of free ones at the line and the 21,000 strong in South Philly got playoff frosties. We were all winners tonight.
Naturally, as the Sixers won their first playoff series since 2012, “Trust The Process” chants rained from the rafters. There was happiness buzzing around the arena. This day was six years in the making: a culmination of catapulting Jrue Holiday to New Orleans, firing Michael Carter Williams and his cast into the sun, watching the exit of an analytical front office hero positioned to take the brunt of an angry press corps and confused fan base, and witnessing seasons so terrible Stephen A. Smith ran out of bluster to describe the pickup basketball delivered to a proud audience.
But that is the notable part about all of this. For six years, we stood proud. We waited for this spectacular marvel to appear in front of our eyes. Philly wasn’t despondent after our losses. We were reminded of what was coming over the horizon. We believed in our teams as we always do. And the glory tour isn’t done, so the band can’t stop playing.
Brett Brown, the leading man of this troop, told the team how special this was in the locker room after the game. “We have so much more to grow and give,” he preached to the full room. He handed Redick a smaller version of the opening bell, a symbol and honor for a mighty performance with the stakes so high.
“Actually,” Redick countered, and handed the bell back to Brown. It was Brown’s first playoff series victory. The team yelled and showered him with water and chocolate milk, the way they did for T.J. McConnell’s after the first triple-double in his career, which is why Brown showed up to a post-game press conference with a towel, drenched.
“Ring that bell! Ring that shit!,” you could hear Justin Anderson saying on a video of the exchange, which, of course, Brown did to the applause of his men.
I doubt fans will forget a night as energetic as this. It fits snugly into the uncountable wins this beleaguered town earned on its victory lap filled with quick-flung middle fingers to anyone who believed we shouldn’t be here.
Yes, this is only an opening-round playoff win. There’s plenty left to be done in this postseason. But I don’t care for any pessimism getting in the way while I dance. So, please, excuse me while I strut. Actually, don’t. Just do the safe thing and get the fuck out of our way.
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