A Daughter’s Snow Globe Memory
It was the wildest ride of our life, even though we weren’t going fast. There’s Dad at the helm.
Do you choose to play or sit out? You have time to think about that. I’ll ask you again at the end.
On June 2, 1983, Philly exploded in celebration as the Sixers brought home their third NBA Championship. From my self-chosen seat at the back of the victory float that day, I watched my Dad become part of the city’s heartbeat.
His arms spread wide like an eagle’s wings, embracing Philly, teaching me a lesson about active love I wouldn’t understand for decades.
The crowd’s roar wasn’t just a sound—it was a wave of pure joy that washed over us, even those of us trying not to be swept away.
The parade marked the first time the city had celebrated a basketball title since 1967 (not that they had a parade for that victory). Still, Philadelphia fans made sure to make up for that oversight.
That day, the 1983 Sixers Championship parade drew 1.7 million people to Philadelphia’s streets and the football stadium. And of those 1.7 million faces in the crowd, I would only recognize two. But it only took those two faces to change everything.
The Invisible Daughter
We stepped onto the float with makeshift stairs, just like we were going on a hayride. My sister and I lagged behind my Mom while Dad and Mr. Katz, the team’s owner, took the front with the trophy. Mom sat in front of us. She and Mrs. Katz would wave and scream, unlike my sister and I.
We believed we were transparent, two young girls playing at invisibility while history unfolded around us.
It’s funny how, as a preteen, I thought I could somehow separate myself from that moment that belonged to everyone in Philadelphia, even us. We put on our stoic faces so no one would mistake us for having any involvement in the victory. While my father showed how love could embrace an entire city, I tried to shrink from its reach.
When Philly’s Heart Beat as One
They lined the sides of our float with Plexiglas so we could see out like we were driving in a convertible with the windows up. Only our hair wasn’t blowing in the wind, and we didn’t need seat belts, not that we used them back then anyway. The 1983 Sixers Championship parade moved at its own pace: it was about savoring every moment of the Sixers’ triumph. At the time, I was too busy trying to stay in the background to notice how time had slowed down just for us.
The Day Friends Broke Through
In a crowd of thousands and all those police barriers, faces blurring together like droplets in an ocean, I heard something impossible: “Stephanie over here!” I spotted my eighth-grade classmates, April and Stacey, standing by the stairs to the float. I ran over to them. It was impossible to believe; not only could they see me, but they were looking up to me.
The Magic Found Us Anyway
The excitement that I had been holding back spewed out of me like a shaken soda finally opened. “How did you find me?” Well, that was obvious, “We saw your Dad.” So then I had to know, “How were you allowed through?” They laughed, “We told the guards we were friends with you.”
They had done more than break through the walls of fans – they had shattered my careful barrier of invisibility, reminding me that I was part of something extraordinary.
Even still, when they ran off to find Maurice Cheeks’ float, I felt a pang of envy. They understood something it would take me 42 years to process: those floats were meant for floating. This day belonged to all of us.
Forever Falling: A Father’s Triumph, A Daughter’s Awakening
Only William Penn loomed larger than Philadelphia that day, the statue rooted firmly from atop City Hall as our float approached through the blizzard, swirling confetti.
The 1983 Sixers Championship parade now lives in my memory like a perpetual snow globe, with ticker tape forever falling around us in celebration.
No one stood alone that day, though some of us tried by choosing the back of the float, not yet understanding our place in history.
We were too young to understand that greatness doesn’t ask permission to include you – it simply sweeps you up in its arms like a father embracing his city.
The rest of the City of Brotherly Love fought, won, and celebrated that championship together. And did they celebrate.
So I ask you again: Do you choose to play or sit out?
When I shake my memory’s snow globe now, I see that love isn’t meant to be contained. The most extraordinary thing you can do is allow yourself to become part of the magic. It would take me 42 years to learn this lesson.
And the confetti continues to fall to this day.
This story doesn’t stand alone. It floats in a snow globe of memories with two other tales of Philly love. Give them all a shake. Watch the love swirl.