The Sixers Don’t Care About Their Fans
As I write these words on the morning of Nov. 18, the Philadelphia 76ers are 2-10, the second-worst record in the NBA. The average price for admission here is $250.10.
This is why they tanked for four interminable seasons a decade ago? For this?
I know, I know. The star of the team is still recovering from “left knee management,” an affliction that cost him all but two of the first 12 games and threatens to impede Joel Embiid for the rest of this season, and beyond. He has already said he will play no back-to-back games this year.
The fact that it took the Sixers two weeks to acknowledge that the left knee management designation required one extra word – injury – tells you everything you need to know about this smug organization and its disrespect for its own fans. The Sixers feel no need to tell the truth about injuries.
When Embiid missed the home opener, there was no advance notice. The mom and dad taking their kids to that game, adorned in their Embiid jerseys, never got to see the player they shelled out $1,000 for, and at that point never even got an honest explanation.
Do you have any idea why that is?
I’ll tell you why: Because the Sixers don’t give a damn about their fans, this city or anything that doesn’t fill the pockets of their carpetbagger owner Joshua Harris.
If you didn’t know the truth about the hedge-fund wizard, all you needed to see was the shot of Harris in a luxury box at Lincoln Financial Field last Thursday night rooting against the Philadelphia Eagles. You see, he also owns the Commanders, who play in Washington.
And when the Flyers are playing the Devils, Harris is rooting against Philadelphia, too, because he owns the NHL franchise in New Jersey. The Flyers and Sixers share the same building, the Wells Fargo Center, but he actively roots for his arena partners to fail.
Of course, Harris is currently immersed in a plan to separate himself from our local hockey franchise and its building. He wants to build a basketball palace in Chinatown. He has promised it will invigorate Center City. Skeptics believe the new arena will ruin the culture of that unique community and will serve as yet another cash register for the man who never has enough money.
Since Harris took over the Sixers in 2011, they have increased ticket prices threefold, have ignored preexisting deals for the naming rights to the then-Wachovia Center and have become the poster team for tanking. Meanwhile, they are notorious for hiding the truth about injuries and for embracing the concept of “load management,” resting healthy players.
There’s no question the Sixers will pull out of this rut – they are too talented to play like this all season – but you can bet the mortgage that they will come up short again in the playoffs, where they have failed to make the conference finals in all 13 seasons Harris has owned the team.
Cheer for them if you must. They still have Philadelphia in their names, after all. But I cannot join you – and I have been a fan of the team my entire (73-year) life.
I can no longer root for the most fan-unfriendly sports team in Philadelphia history.
———————————————————————
There is every reason to believe the Eagles (8-2) are back into contention for a Super-Bowl appearance this season. Last season’s collapse seems like ancient history now, despite the worrisome presence of head coach Nick Sirianni on the sideline.
The puzzle pieces GM Howie Roseman added in the offseason have snapped into place for the past seven weeks. RB Saquon Barkley is having even more of an impact than expected. Zack Baun and Nakobe Dean have restored fan faith in the linebacker position. DBs Cooper DeJean and Quinyon Mitchell are rookies in name only. They were brilliant draft picks by Roseman in the 2023 draft.
So why am I still reluctant to go all-in on this team? (No, it’s not my stupid five-win prediction before the season. I have already eaten enough crow for that one.)
Well, the biggest reason is Sirianni. His record (42-19) is terrific, no question. But his antics on the sideline and his news conferences before and after games do not inspire confidence. I keep in touch with lots of Eagles fans, and I have found no one yet who is impressed by the guy.
Second is the quality of opponents the Eagles have been beating during their six-game winning streak. The first five have a combined record of 13-38. And the sixth, Washington (7-4), has looked more like the bad teams of recent vintage than the juggernaut that started this season.
In the next five weeks, the Eagles will face tougher tests against the Rams (5-5) in LA next Sunday night (look out for their WR tandem of Puka Nacua and Cooper Kupp), and then the Ravens (7-4) and the Steelers (8-2) on Dec. 1 and 15, respectively.
If the Eagles look good against those opponents, it’s time to believe again.
But I’m not there yet.
————————————————————–
P.T. Barnum once famously said: “There’s a sucker born every minute.”
You are currently reading the words of one of those suckers.
That’s right. I was among the 60 million lost souls who watched the boxing match between Internet sensation Jake Paul and washed-up former champion Mike Tyson very late on Nov. 15.
The show was so bad, in every way, that I actually considered, for a fleeting moment, to cancel my subscription to the main offender, Netflix.
I will not do that, of course, because Netflix is my favorite streamer. But I will never watch another live event there. Netflix does a lot of things well, but live events are definitely not one of them.
The first clue that this would be a full-blown debacle was when the broadcasting team included D-list actress Rosie Perez. Rosie who? She is called “The First Lady of Boxing” because she claims to know the sport, but that is hardly enough of a reason to put her in the booth for a mega-event like the Paul-Tyson fight.
It should be noted that Rosie was predictably awful, but probably better than laughable play-by-play screamer Mauro Ranallo and tongue-tied analyst Roy Jones Jr. Absurdly loyal to their Netflix bosses, all three of them tried to polish that turd of a fight, at the expense of all credibility.
The event started around midnight on the East Coast. It featured eight two-minute rounds and 14-ounce gloves. In other words, it was a 16-minute pillow fight.
Tyson, 58, was cooked after the first round. Paul, 27, stunned the old man in the third round, and then he basically stopped fighting out of respect for the former “baddest man in boxing.” Ugh.
Ironically, the best parts of the broadcast were the moments when Netflix lost the signal. Suddenly, the onslaught of hype stopped, as did the pillow fight. Unfortunately, the broadcast signal came back.
Netflix should be embarrassed, but the streamer no doubt is only encouraged by the insane number of people watching.
So what did this joke of an event prove?
Well, apparently boxing isn’t dead yet.
And there is never a shortage of suckers, as P.T. Barnum pointed out . . . . . 175 years ago.
Some things never change.