On Brooklyn Nets media day, surrounded by TV cameras and microphones, fill lights, and eager eyes, Ben Simmons sat and fielded questions from the media. He looked uncomfortable but projected confidence.

“I think people forget, me as a player, when I’m healthy, I can play basketball. I’m pretty good, right?”

Ben Simmons was pretty good, right? You’d think so. I own his jersey in three different sizes. I saw him get drafted at just 19 years old, cheered for him in the stands, bought plushies of him, and pretended I was him on the basketball court.

I still remember discovering basketball in 2016, the year Simmons was drafted. I went to Gamestop and bought a copy of NBA 2K17 on a whim. To my surprise, I couldn’t stop playing. I wasn’t fascinated by the gameplay; Instead, I was fascinated by the players. I spent hours combing through the game’s catalog of classic teams: the ’94 Magic, the ’04 Suns, and the ’96 Bulls. I recall stumbling upon the ’87 Lakers and discovering Magic Johnson and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Even as digital avatars, they were immensely cool. At 10 years old, I was caught in a rare, liminal state of being. I was old enough to eagerly learn and retain information yet young enough to seek it in a plethora of delightfully clumsy ways. I sat in a beanbag chair with a bowl of cereal and a broken controller, unfurling a culture, a history, and its wonder.

Soon after, I began watching the 76ers, my dad’s favorite team. They were horrible, uniquely awful, and I wanted them to win so badly. There were bright spots, though; center Joel Embiid showed immense promise, and they had Ben Simmons, the first-overall pick. He didn’t play that season, sidelined with a fractured metatarsal bone in his right foot. In 2016, he was the best prospect in the draft, and the Sixers were the worst team in the league. With the best odds of getting the first pick in the lottery, they won it and took Simmons — Ben Simmons! — the next Lebron James. He could pass like Pete Maravich and slash like Kobe Bryant. He was big but lean, with broad shoulders and perfect proportions. He was Michelangelo’s “David”, a physical manifestation of the ideal man. Simmons — the answer — sat there all season. In a way, the anticipation made his return more exciting; it was easier to idealize.

When Simmons did return, he was great. In his four active seasons with the Sixers, he was a three-time all-star, a two-time All-NBA defender, and the 2017 NBA Rookie of the Year. Obviously, I was a believer, a “belieber” of sorts, and I collected his merchandise with vigorous enthusiasm. He was not without flaws, though, especially on the court. He couldn’t shoot the basketball. Every year, there were rumblings of offseason workouts, how he finally learned to shoot. He never did, though, and to an extent, he never even tried.  He blamed everyone — the fans, the media, the coaches — everyone but himself.  Nonetheless,  Philadelphia made the postseason four times with Simmons.  Yet, they never escaped the second round. Many blamed Simmons for this, perhaps rightfully so. If Simmons did learn how to shoot, if he did expand his game, who knows how good the Sixers could have been?

The truth is, nothing came to fruition, and in 2021, Simmons requested a trade from the Sixers and refused to play, citing a lack of support within the organization. The whole thing made me sad. I had invested good time, money, and energy into Simmons. He symbolized something I once was, a naive curiosity I once had. In 2022, Simmons got his wish. He was gone — traded to the Nets. I was disappointed, not devastated; by that point, Simmons made his wish clear: he wanted a fresh start, and I was older — and busier.

On the Nets, Simmons has played in 57 of 162 possible games. In those games, he looks tired — done — and ready to move on. Worse, players don’t paint Simmons as the nicest guy either, describing him as high-strung and arrogant. The kind of guy who brushes off work for celebrity. As a viewer, there’s always been something off in how Simmons carries himself — how he fields questions — he’s above questions, above the viewer, above you and me. It feels like, at times, he actually believes he’s the ideal man — the hero I saw him as. I hope Simmons succeeds; I hope he’s healthy and an all-star, but honestly, I’ve moved on. If I am the Giving Tree, Ben Simmons is the boy. I’ve given him my apples, my branches, and my trunk; I’ve supported, I’ve cheered, and idolized; I simply have nothing left to give. I don’t regret it; I just want my trunk back, my branches back, and that 10-year-old excitement — that transient state — all of which I invested in Simmons. Perhaps, though, my loss isn’t his fault or mine, but time’s. That state, that branch, at some point, snapped off, and now, it is but a piece of driftwood, lost in the flow of time.