It’s a dull nihilistic absurdity, an existential crisis wrapped up in a twisted tangle of torment. There is no meaning except to suffer. Our brains are collectively short-circuiting with flashbulb Sixer memories on a flickering projection screen, desperately digging up images of better days once lived. T.J.’s game winner. A Covington deep bomb. A Zumoff ‘WOWW!’ The joyous fury of a Dario fist-pump. Joel’s first block on Russ. Ben’s playoff dunk against the Heat. You see Brett Brown, drenched. “Ring that bleepin’ bell my brother” he demands. And you obey. The locker room erupts. You are so deeply loved.
Could the 76ers mistakes have helped the Boston Celtics win a title or three?
