The Long Cold Winter of Our Discontent

And so the seasons, they go round and round, and the painted sides of Sammy D’s oddly groomed head go up and down, and yet again we’re left staring the face of a long cold offseason wondering what might have been.

In all reality, the Sixers exceeded expectations by leaps and bounds. Scarcely one calendar year into our Iverson-induced "rebuilding" and already the playoffs. Nice work all ‘round says I.

And yet, there remains much work undone.

There are some who would prefer to call winning two games against Detroit a measure of triumph. Despite my desire and inclination to be a member of that jaunty crowd of optimists, I think this series has illuminated the stark reality not only of how far the Sixers have come, but of how far they still have to go. Another year of seasoning on Louwill, on Thad Smooth, on J. Suave and even on he who still lacks nickname will certainly improve our squad. But if the last two games have taught us anything, it is that it will take more than seasoning to compete with the Detroits and Bostons of the world.

The Sixies aren’t "there" yet. But we’re somewhere, to be sure.

Somewhere where athleticism is king; where turnovers grow on trees and fast break points gallop amidst the greenery like so many bunny rabbits; where a rainbow arches across the sky at the bottom of which is not a pot of gold but a golden pot of salary cap space, guarded by an avuncular bald leprechaun; where youth and optimism bloom like daisies in the springtime and even the most cynical of fans can sit back and appreciate the beauty in the madness Coach Mo hath wrought.

Wherever we are, I imagine it looks a lot like Candyland.

I’ll leave it for another day to try and determine what the Sixies should do in the offseason. There are plenty of dull days ahead in which to discuss the relative merits of Elton Brand and Josh Smith, to drool over the tremendous upside potential of young black dudes with one year of college experience and incredibly ludicrous first names.

For now, I want to leave everyone with these prophetic words, penned nearly a year ago to the day by my brother in arms Chief Naka:

What ended quietly and most effortlessly (for the other team, in this case Toronto) a few days ago was yet another season in which our lovable and gullible 76ers failed to bring us home any bacon from the store. Instead they showed up with fetid tofu and a bag of magic beans.

Will we yell at them for settling for the magic beans? Yes, we will scream expletives and cover them with flem and foamy spittle. Will we scoff at the beans and flash exasperated looks of contempt in their direction every chance we get? Absolutely, no opportunity to mutter outraged sour grapes in modulated tones will be wasted. Will we, the editorial staff at the Dalembert Report, see this tofu and bean combination as a waste of our time and effort, our devotion and pride? Will we simply throw the tofu in the trash and flush the magic beans down the toilet, thus freeing ourselves from any potential harm and heartache they will almost definitely bring? I wish the answer was yes. Sadly, it is no. We will season and then eat the tofu, we will plant and water the beans, all the while cursing our efforts as if we were acting against our own will in some way; a couple of gamblers forever stuck in a casino to whom we owe no money but where every card game is dealt by Shawn Bradley, every roulette wheel spun by Glenn Robinson, every slot overseen by Brad Greenberg. Of course we will plant the beans, and coo at them, and leave the radio on for them when we leave the house. After all, whoever sold them to us said they were magic. They might grow.

Magic beans indeed.