Exits: The wanting is the point

The drudgery of The Process is at last over for the Sixers, what comes next should be defined by its young core and ecstatic possibility.

In 1970 my newlywed parents emigrated from the Philippines to South Philly. My first real memory is from October 21,1980, the night the Phillies won the World Series. I am three years old, jumping on a bed with my older brothers, who are wearing red Phillies batting helmets and screaming the most celebratory word they can think of: “Champagne! Champagne!”

This sounds fully insane but: I have never felt as good as I did on May 2, 2026, when the Philadelphia 76ers, led by Joel Embiid, came back from being down 3-1 to eliminate the Boston Celtics in a Game 7 at TD Garden. I bowed down on the living room floor in my Tyrese Maxey jersey, the carpet cradling my face, absorbing my tears as a current of thought emanated from my brain, leapt all synapses, landed in every cell of my body.

They became the team I always knew they could be, but could never allow myself to believe they would.

I was crying for Embiid — previously 0-3 in career game sevens and also 22 days out from emergency surgery — but also exorcising the delusional hope, justifiable hope, anger, anguish, resentment, and self-loathing that comes with being a Sixers fan. I cried for Markelle Fultz, Michael Carter-Williams, Jimmy Butler, that cursed Tobias Harris-over-me extension, James Harden, hell, even Ben Simmons. Deep down, I was crying about Practice. My tears were for Embiid’s right navicular bone, left orbital, left meniscus, left ring finger, right meniscus, right thumb, right orbital, frozen Bell’s palsy face, and ruptured appendix.

I started 2025-26 saying, “There’s no way it could be worse than last year.” When our rookie V.J. Edgecombe scored 34 points in his NBA debut in a road win over Boston, I knew great things were possible. I waited years for Paul George to become Playoff P, and come May, here he was — a perfect, well-rested post-ketamine/shrooms/ayahuasca/whatever suspension 36-year-old with beautiful, limited production that could still make a middle-age woman swoon. It was pure pleasure (pure pleasure-in-pain pleasure, the best kind) to watch these vets hoop with the young guys.

I was not shocked that this Sixers team beat Boston; I always knew they could do it. I was not shocked that they were brutally swept by the Knicks immediately after; I always knew they could do it.

“I know we lost… but for me, this was a success,” Embiid, referring to his left knee, said after the Knicks series. “I really thought I was done.”

Embiid, a native of Cameroon, speaks three languages — Basaa, French, and English, the latter of which he learned only after he moved to the United States to pursue a career in basketball at the age of sixteen. He had only begun playing basketball one year earlier. I think about all the translation — of languages and customs — he must do every day, especially in front of American media who seem to insist on wilfully misunderstanding him.

Embiid’s story is often presented as a fairy-tale: he moves to America, wins a high school state championship, does one year at Kansas, gets drafted at #3 into the NBA. But what about the entire life he lived before leaving home, before leaving behind his brother Arthur, who he never saw again? Who died suddenly while Embiid was sitting out his first two full NBA seasons recovering from two foot surgeries? Embiid’s career is defined as much by a never-ending, beyond-words, deeply personal grief — one that almost caused him to return to Cameroon before ever playing NBA basketball.

“There has always been something lonely in Embiid, something he can’t quite explain,” writes Dotun Akintoye in his definitive profile of Embiid. “One of his most vivid childhood memories is of visiting France on a family vacation around the age of 12. But while everyone left to go sightseeing, Joel stubbornly holed up in his aunt’s apartment, playing video games. His parents left him out of subsequent family trips to France, bringing just his two siblings.”

I love a melancholic NBA head case (complimentary); they are endlessly, deeply human and relatable to me. But while it’s easy to love Embiid and other players, it is truly embarrassing that I continue to support the Sixers franchise.

Every other night I watch Jared McCain, Julian Champagnie, and Isaiah Joe — three talented young players that Philly let go for basically nothing — play not-insignificant roles in a landmark Western Conference Finals. (Don’t get me started on Mikal Bridges and Landry Shamet.) An emblematic fact: before the 2023 All-Star break, the Sixers waived Champagnie to make space in the roster for Mac McClung to compete in the Dunk Contest.

Photo credit Bill Streicher

But none of that matters anymore. Those of us who have been Trusting the Process for twelve years understand that era is definitively over. In fact, The Process is a shitty nickname that refers to a shitty tanking strategy that will only be remembered as a decade-long collection of fuck up upon fuck up upon fuck up. We should retire that name; Embiid — and fans — always deserved better.

The future of the Sixers has little to do with either Embiid or Paul George even though, crucially, their bloated salaries will dictate what moves Philly can make in the offseason. Embiid’s three-year, $192.9 million contract begins next season and George is guaranteed $54+ million for the next two seasons. What comes next should only be dictated by Maxey, Edgecombe, and building a deeper bench of role players.

V.J. Edgecombe cried on Draft Night, explaining that in the Bahamas his family lived off a generator for nine years. His break from home manifests as fearlessness and tenacity that feel absolutely electric — fucking scintillating — paired with Maxey’s speed, smiles, and athleticism.

What is Maxey’s ceiling? Can we get him to never again have a game where he only puts up 12 shots? He is The Franchise, a nickname bestowed upon him by Embiid, so can he stop deferring to Embiid on offense? Can we keep Kelly Oubre, so oddly settled and likeable, in Philly? More importantly, can we keep Quentin Grimes?

What if Embiid medically retires and becomes the Sixers Chief Officer of Vibes and DX Chops? What if Embiid becomes the NBA’s first part-time player? What if Nick Nurse distinguishes himself as a coach in any meaningful way, good or bad? What if Paul George takes a pay cut and makes it his job to mentor Edgecombe into the best two-way player in the league? What if the next GM can find the imagination and creativity required to keep the team moving forward, rather than spinning its wheels with a rotating cast of spare parts?

What if the Maxey-era Sixers could proceed lightly, blithely even, into a winning future?

My life, inextricable from my Philadelphia fandom, is in many ways defined by “What if?” questions. It’s just what happens to immigrants and their kids. But the pain, the unknowable, are what make our yearning rich. Our memories of heartbreak, linked with ecstatic possibility, remain forever. The wanting is the point.

And this year’s wanting was — Champagne! — exquisite.