I probably should be depressed right now. I should be crying in a corner, in disbelief that the 76ers, of all teams, have taken the Boston Celtics to the brink. Maybe I should just refuse to watch Game 6 in protest of the abominable performance last night, and simply avert my eyes from the coming of the apocalypse.
I should be endlessly despairing at the tragic downfall of the journey to the promised land, and mourning the death of the promise this young team showed last year.
But I’m not going to do that. So everybody, calm down.
I won’t understate how horrific that Game 5 loss was. After completely blowing Game 1 to an Embiid-less crack squad of energizer bunnies cashing threes and failing to sleepwalk for three quarters and epically choking a Game 4 comeback, the Celtics went home and got wall-to-wall dominated on May 9.
If logic ran the world, this series would be over already. The Boston Celtics are more talented, match up extremely well on paper, and have been gifted three golden chances to put this series in a headlock. Instead, they stare down an elimination game on the road.
Raise your hand if this sounds familiar.
It probably should, since blowing a home Game 5 in the second round is quickly becoming a yearly tradition. For those unacquainted, just last year this very same situation befell an even younger and less experienced team against the Milwaukee Bucks.
Except Game 6 turned out to be the best game in the career of Jayson Tatum. When the rest of the team looked shell-shocked, Tatum delivered again and again and again. He levitated above the floor, and even reigning “everyone-thinks-he’s-the-best-player-in-the-league” winner Giannis Antetokounmpo was powerless to stop him.
I don’t believe in the supernatural, especially in sports, so I would never imply that just because it happened last year it will happen again. But I do believe that players believe in that kind of thing and that Tatum will go into Thursday knowing that he is capable of single-handedly bringing this disasterclass back from the depths of hell.
I also believe in dire situations pushing people past their limits and to levels not even they knew they had. I may not be a professional basketball player, but I am an amateur choir singer—which is the closest approximation I’ve got, so let me have this—and it simply does not matter how many times we rehearse a piece in an empty hall. Once you put an audience in front of us, suddenly the whole choir can sing notes with more dexterity and purity than we could have dreamed of 24 hours earlier.
The Boston Celtics have been here before
The Boston Celtics have not played a truly do-or-die game since last June. And no matter how hard you try to convince yourself every game matters, nothing can approximate actually having your back against the wall. If this team has another gear, it will come out on Thursday night. If they don’t, then it will have been good to get this season over with, so we can start finding one.
So here I am, less than two hours removed from a brutal, backbreaking loss, trying to reckon with the fact that a team that I have objectively wrapped way too much of my emotional well-being is one game from elimination.
And yet, for some perverted reason, I’m glad this happened. I’m excited to have every ounce of faith I have vested in this team be tested and judged by a vengeful God that is utterly sick of this team’s complacency with being good but not great.
Last year, I allowed myself to slide into a fatalist depression every time something went wrong, to the dismay of my friend Max, who happens to be a zen-wizard capable of enjoying each game like it’s a fun and exciting opportunity. But I think it’s time we all take a page out of his book, and channel the anxiety into understanding that this is what it’s all about. Time to batten down the hatches and unleash everything we’ve got.
And if that’s not enough, so be it.