GAH! Where am I? Whose laptop is this? CelticsBlog? “Grant Burfeind, Staff Writer?” That can’t be right. The last thing I remember I was Googling whether my appendix would be compatible with Joel Embiid’s body and what his address is so I could mail it his way. Now…well, now I’m somewhere else entirely.
I catch a glimpse in the reflection of this laptop screen. Dear god, I’m gorgeous. But it’s not me. My stress lines are completely gone. That soreness in my lower back, no more. Whose body is this,
and why does it feel completely devoid of the stress that I’ve been so used to carrying my entire life?
I think back to last night. After I gave up on removing my own appendix, I opened up Twitter for some therapeutic trolling of Celtics fans. The storm was angry last night…is it possible a bolt of lightning careened into my room, striking me at the same moment this “Grant Burfeind” person was reading my awesome burn? And somehow, we’ve Freaky Friday’d with one another?
I can’t believe it, but I also can’t deny it. I’m a Sixers fan, and I’ve ended up in a Celtics fan’s body.
I push back from the desk I’m sitting at and take stock of the room I’m in. Celtics paraphernalia adorn the walls. A 2024 NBA Champions replica banner. A poster of Jayson Tatum and Jaylen Brown holding the Larry O’ Brien trophy and the Finals MVP trophy, respectively. I think I’m going to be sick. I need to get out of here.
I race out of the room, practically jump down the entire flight of stairs I find in front of me, and burst out the front door. It’s a beautiful day, and the charm of the apartment buildings to my left and right is undeniable. Across the street, a man in a #11 Celtics jersey and a devastating sunburn catches my gaze, looks up from his phone, and says, “Hell of a game last night! The Celtics are the balllllls! You think the Sixers even show up for Game 2?”
I ignore him, still not fully processing this new reality I’m in. A “ring, ring” snaps me out of my stupor. I step back as a young child on a green bicycle whizzes by, two shamrocks painted on either cheek. “Can’t wait for your next article, Grant! I’ve got an idea for you – should any future playoff matchup between the 76ers and Celtics count as an automatic win for Boston to spare the Sixers fans the grief? Could be good!”
She doesn’t wait for me to respond, and lets out another “ring, ring” as she pedals away.
I watch her disappear down the street, that stupid little bike rattling over the pavement. I’m still stuck where she left me, trying to square what I’m experiencing with anything I’ve felt before.
I take a deep breath. Close my eyes. Open them again, accepting that this is really happening. Then, I take stock of what I’m seeing. Everyone here looks…happy. Like they’re not waiting for something to go wrong.
And not fake happy or “we’ll see what happens” happy. Actual, out-in-the-open, no-guard-up happy. There’s a couple walking a dog across the street, both in Celtics gear, debating whether they should buy playoff tickets for this opening round or wait until the next. A guy on his porch is smoking a cigar, coughing after every puff, but smiling all the same. Nobody looks tense or like they’re bracing for the other shoe to drop.
Even the sun feels different. Warmer, almost alive. I swear I can hear it whispering, “Who hurt you?” How does it know?
Back home, after that awful game 1 versus Boston on Sunday, I know the energy is the complete opposite. I bet this Grant fella is experiencing it for himself. My neighbor, Vinny, is probably yelling about VJ Edgecombe’s ceiling and comparing him to AI. Joey, our landlord, is likely lamenting that the Process died in 2019. I know Bobby has our favorite call-in show blasting through his open window. Right this second, they’re probably debating whether Tyrese Maxey is allowed to smile after a loss.
If Grant is standing outside my apartment right now, there’s a very real chance he’s watching my two roommates arguing in a pile of trash bags, one of them holding a half-eaten Wawa hoagie like it’s evidence in a court case.
That’s just April in Philadelphia.
I take a few steps down the street, not really thinking about where I’m going. I just need to move.
This is ridiculous. I’m PROUD of where I’m from. Philly made me tough, not like these Boston softies. You don’t grow up a Sixers fan and come out soft. You take your hits, build up a tolerance for things going sideways. It’s part of our identity, and we wouldn’t have it any other way…right?
I’m not one of these people. I’m not. I keep walking. The street opens up a little and then I see it.
TD Garden.
I’ve seen it before, obviously. On TV, in clips, in all the places I don’t like to look for too long. But standing here, actually looking at it, is different. It’s bigger than I expected. Goosebumps tingle across my forearms. It has this weird calmness to it, like it wants to wrap you up in a big hug after a long day. Almost like an old friend that you know will always be there when you need them.
I stop for a second. This is where they walk in expecting to win.
Expecting.
That’s the part that sticks.
Back where I’m from, nothing is ever that simple. Even when things feel good, there’s always something attached to it. A condition. A “yeah, but.” You learn to live in that space. You almost get comfortable with it.
Here, it’s just…confidence.
And I hate how much sense that’s starting to make.
I tell myself this isn’t real. That I just need to figure out how to get back, how to get myself struck by lightning and ensure this Grant guy gets struck at the same time. I should be panicking, maybe someone at Massachusetts General Hospital can help me reverse this?
Instead, I turn around and start heading back toward the apartment I woke up in.
By the time I get back inside, the panic I felt earlier is gone, or at least quieter.
I sit back down at the laptop, and read through the game recap on the CelticsBlog page that’s still up on my screen. “Celtics, Jays look sharp in Game 1, blowout 76ers 123-91.” I read about how the Celtics kept the ball moving, generated clean looks, and stayed connected from start to finish. The words are so unfamiliar that a sense of vertigo starts to wash over me.
For the first time, I’m not rage-reading about the Celtics from the outside. I’m part of it. I’m really here, in this body, in this life, starting to get a sense of what this must feel like every night, every season, every decade.
I think to myself, Celtics fans have no clue how good they have it.
These people wake up expecting things to work. Even when something goes wrong, there’s this baseline belief that it’ll sort itself out eventually. Even when they switch ownership groups, coaches, whatever. This aura and legacy of “Celtics basketball” seems to persist. What even is “76ers basketball”? The word “process” enters my brain for a second and I physically flinch.
This isn’t how it works where I’m from.
Back in Philly, you don’t assume anything. You hope, negotiate, and convince yourself it might be different this time, even when the writing is on the wall.
And now that I’m here…I don’t know why I’d want to go back.
I sit there for a while, staring at the screen.
I know I should probably try to undo this whole thing. No way Grant will know jack shit about making a Philly cheesesteak. He’s going to ask if we have gluten-free bread and I’ll be finished. Well…not me. Him. That sorry, down-trodden, pessimistic man who’s never seen the inside of a Conference Finals in his lifetime.
I guess there’s no reason to rush. After all, this might be the only time I get to experience this euphoria of supporting a quality basketball franchise.
This is a better situation. I’d never admit it in my old body, but here? Now? I can scream it from the hilltops without the fear of Joey or Vinny or god forbid Mr. McLaughlin pummeling me into oblivion.
Grant, wherever you are — whether you’re in my apartment trying to explain to my roommates that you’ve been Freaky Friday’d, or trying to figure out how to relieve your lower back (you never will, believe me) — I wish you nothing but happiness and good fortune.
I really do. You’ll need it as a 76ers fan.
Take care of my fish. Water the plants, or don’t, screw ‘em.
Because I think I’m going to stay in this new life for as long as I can.
