I know exactly why and when I became a fanatic for the Philadelphia 76ers. It was an early spring night in 1965. I was just 15 at the time, gangly, nerdy, complete with the requisite black, horned-rim glasses, and very much into my own little world. I was into music and sports -- not playing, but listening.

I was hooked on clear-channel, 50,000-watt AM radio stations. The big rock 'n' roll music stations like WKYC in Cleveland, CKLW in Windsor, Ontario, and WLS in Chicago nightly lured me and countless other teenagers to sample the hot deejays and soak up the sounds of rock, roll, and soul.

But there were also the stations that carried sports. I would pump up the volume on the professional play-by-play of all the games I could find. That meant plenty of major league baseball and buckets full of basketball -- especially NBA basketball! It didn't matter if the words wafted from Don Criqui at WHN in New York, Vince Lloyd on WGN in Chicago, Ed Kennedy on WCKY in Cincinnati, Jerry Gross ("Grab a bottle of Busch, we're goin' into overtime!") on KMOX in St. Louis, or, as on this night, the gravel-throated Johnny Most on WHDH in Boston. Tapping into the games from these towns was like traveling there from our small wood-frame home on the North Side of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

It was a ritual of sorts, because the signals of these stations, as strong as they were after dark, didn't always come through loud and clear. Maybe it was the atmospheric conditions. I had to work some magic to make those stubborn signals sing. I would lower my head, and nestle my right ear as close as I could to the white latticework that covered the speaker of the trusty Emerson kitchen radio.

I actually rested my head on the shiny red Formica countertop, and I placed my hands against the warm body of the box, fired by the glowing tubes inside the back panel. Sometimes it seemed that if I held it, cradled it, and caressed it in a certain way, moving my hands a little or a lot, the machine would respond by allowing me to hear every word, every thought, every name, every play, just a little bit better.

I had been following the NBA season regularly, with the games on radio as my guide. But what was only a hobby rapidly became a passion as the Eastern Division playoffs marched toward their climax. I knew that the Philadelphia 76ers were giving the Boston Celtics a run for their money, but I also knew the inevitable would take place. Nobody beat the Celtics in the playoffs -- nobody. They were certainly the best, the champs, the kings of pro basketball. But there was an arrogance about them that spawned a genuine hatred. I had it big time. I despised the Celtics because they always won, somehow, some way. They were especially invincible on their home court, the Boston Garden, the lucky-charmed, parquet chamber of horrors that left so many teams brokenhearted over the years. In particular, I knew all too well that Boston never lost a seventh game of a playoff series there.

Unheard of! Impossible! No way!

But it seemed like Lady Luck was spinning Philadelphia's way this time. Maybe it would be different this year. The 76ers had played Boston tough all series long, forcing a decisive seventh game. In the battle of the giants, Philly's Wilt Chamberlain of the Sixers was dominating Boston's Bill Russell.

On the night of this final game of the Eastern playoffs, I went in search of Boston's WHDH Radio, home to the Celtics broadcasts and their on-air cheerleader Johnny Most. I had found my way to this signal before, but the station really didn't come in all that well or that often. As usual, the reception wasn't very good from Boston, and for long periods of time there was nothing but ear-stabbing static. I tried my usual human antenna trick, moving my hands, turning the radio on its side and upside down, carefully twisting the right hand dial back and forth, hoping to find that elusive signal. But it only worked well enough to keep me up-to-date with the score every few minutes.

Until near the end of the game.

Suddenly, as if the clouds stepped aside, the radio waves carried Most's raspy descriptions loud and clear. His next words sent panic into the hearts of Boston fans and prompted prayers of hope from 76ers fans like me.

"He lost the ball off the support," Johnny croaked, in surprise and dismay. "Russell lost the ball off the support, and Boston's only leading by one point! The Celtics are claiming that Chamberlain hit him [Russell] on the arm. And the ball goes to Philadelphia with five seconds left."

Then there seemed to be an eternity of silence. Fifteen seconds went by, and I thought for sure the signal had gone out at the damnedest time. But it wasn't that at all. Johnny Most was stunned silent. He couldn't believe what had just happened. He couldn't believe the Celtics might lose. Might lose a game seven. Might lose it in the Garden. Was that Celtics' four-leaf clover finally wilting?

As Most apparently regrouped, he cued his color sidekick, a fellow from WHDH named Jim Pansullo, to set the game situation for the listeners.

Pansullo chimed in, "110 to 109. Now, the tension is really there... and this change of events has hit us right in the nose."

I was dreaming, not with my face in the pillow, but with it still firmly fastened to the countertop, ear to the old Emerson, waiting for what I knew would be the winning basket by Philly.

True, the outcome was still in doubt, but at least the audio was clear, as Most snatched the microphone back from his broadcast buddy.

"Greer's putting the ball in play. He gets it out deep and Havlicek steals it! Over to Sam Jones. Havlicek stole the ball, it's all over," he screamed. "Johnny Havlicek is being mobbed by the fans. It's alllll over. Johnny Havlicek stole the ball. Oh, boy, what a play by Havlicek at the end of this ball game!"

Yeah, what a play. Boston wins again. Chamberlain loses again.

But those were just fleeting thoughts.

Because on this night when the entire professional basketball world was nearly shocked by an upset of mammoth proportions, I knew that Boston could and would be beaten by this Philadelphia team. It was just a matter of time, and I wanted to be a part of it, in my own little way.

So, this is the story of how that team and a kid from Pittsburgh found excitement, drama, and joy at the other end of the Turnpike more than three decades ago.

Today, the spirit of that team has risen up, calling to me to tell the story of their pride and power; to tell the story of a pro basketball team that had no peer then -- or now; to tell the story of that glorious, unforgettable Season of the 76ers.