Bricked Dreams: A Support Group for NBA Fans

I was in my early twenties when the Clippers did something dangerous: they gave me hope. Midway through the 2005–06 season we finally addressed the glaring hole in the roster — no one could shoot threes. We had Elton Brand devouring the paint, Sam Cassell banking in mid-range jumpers like it was still 1997, Corey Maggette slashing like he’d just discovered the rim was tax-deductible. But spacing? Forget it.

Then came the Valentine’s Day miracle: the Clippers traded Chris Wilcox to Seattle for Vladimir Radmanović. A six-ten Serbian stretch forward, the kind of guy who could stand in the corner and make defenders think twice. He wasn’t Steph Curry — hell, Steph was still at Davidson — but in my mind he was the missing puzzle piece. So I did what any young idiot with a paycheck and no perspective does: I bought the jersey.

I wore it to Staples for a game that week. We lost, obviously. As I trudged back to the car, sulking in my brand-new Radmanović threads, an old Clippers fan shuffled behind me. Gray stubble, weathered cap, decades of pain in his voice. To his buddy he muttered, loud enough for me to hear:

“These young fans don’t know better than to buy the jersey of a guy on a one-year deal.”

He didn’t even look at me. Didn’t need to. The curse had been laid.

By July, Radmanović was gone — not just gone, but worse. He walked across the hall and signed with the Lakers. Same building, different jersey, and me left holding a polyester reminder that in Clippers Nation, even the guys you think will save you are just tenants.

Six fanbases eat well. The other twenty-four starve. Ten haven’t found a single meal in 441 combined years.

Your Team Sucks Too (Statistically)

This isn’t just about me. Your team probably sucks too. Look at the numbers. Six NBA teams — The Dynasties — will get their fanbase a championship once every 12 years or better. Celtics, Lakers, Bulls, Warriors, Spurs, Heat. That’s the short list. Everyone else? Pack a lunch.

The remaining 24 teams — The Mediocre Majority — will get their fans a title every 25 years or worse.

And it can get much worse. Ten of these teams have combined for zero championships in 441 years of ineptitude.

So while fans of The Dynasties are eating well, fans of the Mediocre Majority are either developing scurvy, or Googling “What is this ‘food’ I keep hearing about?”

The Suffering, Quantified

We did the math. Probably spent more time on it than any sane person would (feel free to ask for the receipts, I’ve prepared a PDF to show our work). If you account for the global fanbases of these 10 winless franchises across all their years of existence, humanity has endured an estimated 1.6 billion fan-years of suffering.

For comparison, that’s nearly as much damage as the song Higher by Creed has inflicted on humanity.

Support groups have been started for less. We need a safe space where we can be around people who understand our suffering — people who won’t flinch when we confess that we traded away Shai Gilgeous-Alexander, all of our youth, and a decade worth of picks for Pandemic Paul.

Welcome to MAL-Anon

That’s where MAL-Anon comes in: Mediocre Athletics Lifestyle Anonymous. Think Al-Anon, but instead of drunks in your family, it’s your basketball team. Instead of cleaning up beer bottles, you’re cleaning up shattered dreams.

We present to you, the original, unedited text of MAL-Anon’s member guidebook: The MAL-Anon 12 Steps of Suffering

1. The Law of Managed Suffering

Set a win ceiling in your heart. Not a goal. A ceiling.

“If we hit 47 wins, I treat myself to sushi. If not, I regrout the shower and call it character growth.”

You don’t believe—you budget your belief. You are the CFO of your pain.

In addition to a win-ceiling, ration your irrational hopes; you are only allowed two per season. No rollover minutes. No “but this rookie’s different.” No “if the bracket breaks our way.” Measured. Precise. Doctor-prescribed.

• One player leap (acceptable: “if Jalen Green could just add left-hand finishes”; unacceptable: “Green for MVP”).

• One team outcome (acceptable: “win a road Play-In”; unacceptable: “banner”).

Example: A Kings fans in 2023 said, “If we get a beam in May, sushi. If it fizzles in April, fine — at least I learned how to make risotto.” Knicks fans should practice this yearly: don’t ask for a title, ask for 44 wins and a spring without Julius Randle in a walking boot.

Remember: If you don’t believe, they can’t let you down.

2. The Rotation of Blame

Build a four-way zone offense of blame assignment:

• Ownership (“They traded Jordan Clarkson for… cash considerations?!”)

• Coaching Staff (One year you’re Coach of the Year, the next it’s “Mike Brown, call a damn timeout!”)

• Training Staff (blamed for every limp and load management plan).

• The Ref Who Hates Us Personally (Scott Foster knows what he did).

Rotate fairly. Do not overuse the rookie; there will be plenty of time for that next season.

Example: Blazers fans in 2019 rotated blame with playoff precision:

Nov: “It’s the refs!”

Jan: “It’s the trainers!”

Apr: “It’s Jody Allen!”

WCF vs. Warriors: “Nice sweep, Terry Stotts.”

Remember: You didn’t pick the wrong team — they just aren’t consulting you enough on how to run it.

3. The Lottery is Not a Religion

The lottery is a scratcher that costs you dignity instead of money. Let us help translate the buzzwords you'll inevitably be tempted to believe on draft day:

“Generational prospect” = Coach killer who will be looking to be overpaid or flee your team at the first offramp.
Example: With the #1 pick in the draft, the Hornets selected a generational prospect, Anthony Davis."
Correct: "We offered him the supermax and he's still leaving? He can do that?"

“NBA-ready body” = cardio will betray him in March.
Example: "Hasheem Thabeet, at 7'3" brings an NBA-ready body that's going to present a real problem on the defensive end for teams facing the Grizzles."
Correct: "And the cutter blows by Thabeet again, extending the Bucks' lead to 31. In retrospect, maybe the Grizzlies should have spent more time considering Harden or Curry in last summer's draft."

“High motor” = bust-proof role player, which is a lovely way to describe oatmeal.
Example: Magic fans chanting “Shaq 2.0!” when they drafted Mo Bamba.
Correct: Moatmeal; fiber, not franchise.

"High IQ" = Doesn't have the size to be playable after April.
Example: "The Timberwolves are selecting Ty Lawson with the 18th pick, known for his high IQ play on both ends."
Correct: "High what?! He's 5'11; dude probably asks his wife to get the oatmeal down from the top shelf."

Remember: Your team is just a seasoning school. They’ll cook the steak somewhere else.

4. Detox After Free Agency

Free agency isn’t Christmas morning, it’s a clearance aisle at 2 a.m. The stars already know where they’re going; the rest is leftovers and lies. You’ll spend July Photoshopping a savior into your team’s jersey, only to watch him sign somewhere with palm trees or tax breaks. What you get instead is a press conference about “flexibility” and “financial discipline,” followed by a panic signing that smells like bottom-shelf bourbon.

• Admit you are powerless over cap sheets manipulated by men who own yachts.

• Confess to a friend the exact moment you Photoshopped a superstar in your jersey.

• Consider making amends with Elon for crashing Twitter by refreshing Shams’ page a thousand times per minute.

• Resist the urge to torch a jersey on TikTok or declare you’re “done with the NBA” because a 24-year-old chose a bigger market and better weather. You’re not done. You’ll be back by preseason.

Example: Washington giving Bradley Beal $251 million and a no-trade clause in 2022, just in time for him to demand a trade. Or Washington paying $75 million for Ian Mahinmi’s 7 points and 6 boards. Or Washington — never mind, we need to keep moving.

Remember: You can’t manifest loyalty with cap space; you can only overpay for someone else’s spare parts.

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5. Hedge Like an Adult

I happen to do portfolio management at my day job, so let’s talk risk management. 97.5% of all NBA champions entered the playoffs as a 1, 2, or 3 seed. Translation: your scrappy 6-seed isn’t destiny, it’s bait.

Buy a tiny futures ticket on the actual favorites when you face them. You call betting on the other guys betrayal; I call it emotional insurance. You’ll thank me later.

Example: Your 6th-seed Timberwolves crashed the Finals against the 1st-seed Celtics? Drop $1,000 on Boston to win the series. If it gets to a single do-or-die game, sprinkle another $500 on the Celtics. Confuse the Lord Almighty and force Him to choose whether to punish you for gambling or for being a Wolves fan.

Remember: Winning feels good. Being able to pay your bar tab after the loss? Priceless.

6. Rituals That Actually Help

Superstitions are just hoarding with choreography. Your unwashed ’98 Bulls hoodie isn’t playing defense — except maybe against intimacy. Consider some rituals that actually help.

• Laundry Karma: Wash the “lucky” hoodie and the playoff socks. At halftime, move them to the dryer. Win or lose, you’ll have clothes to wear.

• Mix Up the Game Day Meal: Grill some protein, grab water and Beer Nuts instead of replaying 1992’s menu.

• Hydration Substitution: For every beer, add one water. It may be too late for your liver, but your text message history will thank you.

• Timeout Walks: Every challenge = touch a doorknob. Reset the downward spiral.

• Push-Up Penalty: Every turnover = 5 push-ups. By March you’ll either have triceps or cardiac arrest, but at least you’ll feel something.

Remember: Rituals won’t change outcomes, but changing them might save your marriage.

7. The Mascot is Your Real Franchise Player

You think it’s your max-contract forward or the rookie with “limitless potential.” Wrong. Your franchise player is the one who never demands a trade, never tweets subtweets about usage rate, and never shows up on the injury report as “out indefinitely — vibes.” The mascot is eternal. He dunks through fire, survives coaching changes, and still shows up in April when half your roster is mentally in Cancun.

Example: In the Donald Sterling years, the Clippers faced the Suns in the semis, and in Game 6 Mike Dunleavy Sr. trotted out a cold rookie, Daniel Ewing, to guard crafty vet Raja Bell in the final moments. Raja hit a dagger — not ending the series, but breaking the team’s spirit. And what was Chuck the Condor doing? Scaling a 50-foot ladder to one-hand a three. He’s got a flamethrower, a t-shirt cannon, and that trampoline double dunk locked in. I hear he’s dated half the Spirit Squad.

Caveat: Mavericks fans are cursed with Mavs Man — a human action figure who looks like Robocop cosplay. Mavs Man is what happens when you give a mannequin steroids and no eyebrows. The Mavs could’ve gone with a horse, but instead they asked: “What if the Uncanny Valley had season tickets and a midlife crisis?”

Remember: Your stars will age, your coaches will get fired, your picks will flame out. But the mascot? The mascot is forever. Unless it’s the Pels’ King Cake Baby — in which case, burn the costume and salt the earth.

8. One Blowout Grace Rule

Not every night requires martyrdom. You don’t have to sit through 48 minutes of televised waterboarding just because you bought League Pass. The mediocre fan learns discipline: one game per month, if the deficit hits “comedy” levels by halftime, you are absolved. No shame, no penance. Shut it off. Protect your evening, protect your soul.

Examples:

• Pistons fans in 2024 found themselves down 30 at halftime so often they started treating the Grace Rule like rollover minutes. By March, they were redeeming entire weekends.

• December 2020, Clippers vs. Mavericks. Halftime score: Clippers 27, Mavs 77. Do you think I refilled the popcorn for the third quarter? Absolutely not. I doom-scrolled pandemic headlines and learned how to autolyze a sourdough starter.

Remember: You’re not weak for turning the TV off. You’re strong for not hurling it through the drywall.

9. Your Rival’s Pain Is Part of Your Joy

Banners are rare, but bitterness is renewable energy. When your own team can’t deliver joy, harvest misery from across the street. Rivalry pain counts double — their loss is your win. You may never touch a Larry O’Brien trophy, but you can toast every time your neighbors flame out in Round One.

Examples:

• Knicks fans didn’t just beat Cleveland in 2023; they bathed in schadenfreude while Nets fans watched their “superteam” dissolve like aspirin in tap water.

• Clippers fans can’t celebrate titles, but every season they finish ahead of the Lakers in the standings sees Clipper Nation walking a little taller. In 2021, the Clips made the conference finals while the Lakers got bounced in Round One. That wasn’t just a win — that was communion.

Remember: Rather than crying into your beer, allow your rivals’ tears to season it instead.

10. The Mid-Tier Mentor Mirage

Every rebuild drags in one guy too polished to quit, too flawed to carry. A player whose glory days are behind him, in the sunset of his career.

Front offices sell him as “a leader,” “veteran mentor,” “stabilizing presence with championship experience.”

Translation: he’s limping by March, teaching rookies how to file trade requests, and name-dropping the Finals minutes he logged in garbage time seven years ago.

Examples:

• Pistons signed Josh Smith to stabilize the franchise. He stabilized them right into the lottery.

• Wizards gave Spencer Dinwiddie the captain’s armband, then air-mailed him to Dallas before the calendar flipped.

• Clippers tried John Wall in 2022 — anchor, not rudder. Then came Russ, whose playoff meltdown torched the last chance at a run. And now? CP3 nostalgia has ‘em doing the Time Warp again.

Remember: The mid-tier vet is just ownership trying to use a household name to convince you they’re doing something.

11. The Doomscrolling Survival Guide

The internet isn’t therapy, it’s a demolition derby. Enter at your own risk. If you insist on firing up the app formerly known as Twitter, remember some best practices for keeping your sanity intact:

• Never read the comments after midnight. Nothing good lives there.

• Mute freely, block sparingly — one is pest control, the other is chum in the water.

• Limit replies to memes, gifs, and the occasional stat screenshot. Words are blood in the ocean.

• Log off after losses. Nobody has ever won an argument on Wi-Fi with a .gif folder.

Special Addendum: Lakers Nation

• Engage at your own risk. This is not conversation, it’s ritual combat.

• Never debate free throws. That way lies madness.

• When accused of jealousy, post the 2002 WCF Game 6 box score and walk away.

Remember: The high road is free, but salt keeps forever — so season lightly and log off.

12. Not All Greatness Wears Rings

Just because your franchise has few (or zero) banners in the rafters doesn’t mean your team hasn’t carved out true moments of glory. While the rebuild machine keeps stripping your ship down to the studs, you hang onto the flashes — the crossover, the buzzer-beater, the one night when your guy outshone the dynasty across from him.

Allen Iverson stepping over Ty Lue in Game 1 of the 2001 Finals? Yeah, you’re not even a Sixers fan until you can recite that moment like scripture.

Your team will change their logo, their arena, the coach, the roster. But greatness? That’s forever. It’s the North Star a fanbase crystallizes around to begin with.

Examples:

• Donovan Mitchell crossing up Millsap before icing a 25-footer to cap his 51-point Bubble masterpiece? That’s a Utah sacrament.

• Dame pulling from the logo to wave OKC off the floor in 2019 — and waving off half their roster’s careers in the same motion.

• James Harden’s block on Lu Dort in the 2020 bubble — a miracle stop that rewrote a decade of “no defense” jokes in Houston, if only for a single night.

Remember: Banners are rented, moments are owned. Guard yours like heirlooms — they’re the anchors you’ll need while the ship keeps rebuilding itself at sea.

The MAL-Anon Pledge

I acknowledge that I am a fan of a fundamentally mediocre basketball team,

and that my evenings, moods, and sodium intake have become unmanageable.

I accept that banners may never bloom in my climate,

and yet I will water the cactus anyway.

I commit to show up: to watch the Tuesday road game in Detroit,

to clap for the two-way who hustles,

to stand for the aging vet when he checks in for one last run.

I will keep rituals: wash the jersey and move it to the dryer at halftime;

mix up the game-day meal; hydrate — one water per beer.

I will not crown a savior in July nor execute a point guard in November.

I will rotate my blame like tires and replace it when bald.

I will remember that every franchise is a campfire of strangers,

and my job is to bring kindling — stories, patience, and snacks.

When anyone, anywhere dares to hope in our colors,

I want the hand of a fellow sufferer to be there:

Welcome. The water is warm. Because it’s a mirage.

And for that, I am responsible.

What Have We Learned?

Probably nothing. But that’s the point. We’ll meet here again next season, same time, same chairs in the circle, same burner accounts ready for July’s lies.

Because it works if you work it. And if it doesn’t work? Welcome to the club.

Now please help stack up the chairs before you leave. We can’t ask the mascot to do everything.

Todd / 120 Proof Ball

If you liked this piece, you’re part of the problem.