The most disappointing season in Suns’ history? Maybe. But we leave it without one thing we’ve always had: hope.
The 2024–25 Phoenix Suns season wasn’t just a disappointment. It was a profound failure. And maybe we’re still too close to it, too entangled in the moment to fully grasp its place in the broader arc of Suns’ history. Without the distance of time or the benefit of hindsight, there’s no need for a poll to ask if this was the most disheartening chapter the franchise has written. The answer would be an overwhelming, almost unanimous yes.
Disappointment wears many faces in Phoenix. It’s the sting of a Game 7 meltdown after a 64-win season, the hollow ache of a 2–0 NBA Finals lead slipping through trembling fingers, the helplessness of watching a 19-win roster limp through winter nights with no hope in sight. It’s the pain of seeing a season’s potential shattered by injury, like in 2000, or by a single unlucky break — like Joe Johnson’s in 2005 — that changed everything. It’s the slow-motion heartbreak of John Paxson’s dagger, of Mario Elie’s kiss of death, of Tim Duncan’s impossible three, of Metta World Peace ripping your heart out and laying it gently in the basket.
So yeah, disappointment is the norm in Phoenix. It’s practically woven into the fabric of the franchise. But is this the most disappointing season ever? Only time, and a little distance, will offer enough clarity to answer that question.
What I do know is that this season represents something far darker than just disappointment. It symbolizes hopelessness. In every heartbreak before this, there was always something to cling to. A great team that came up just short. A promising young core. Draft capital. A future you could believe in, even if the present let you down.
But this season? This was the all-in gamble. The Suns traded the future for Kevin Durant, then doubled down and threw the scraps of what remained into the pot for Bradley Beal. Two seasons later, they’ve come up with nothing. Not a playoff series win. Not even a Play-In berth. Just a bloated payroll, a barren asset cupboard, and a franchise staring into the abyss, unsure of how to climb out.
And that’s where the real hopelessness sets in. Because the Suns didn’t just trade the future for a mediocre present. They traded it for this. For a team spinning its wheels, trying to play catch-up in a race it used to lead. They had a young, exciting, hungry core — one that was building something real — and they threw it away for big names, big contracts, and even bigger egos.
Is there a way out? Sure. There’s always a path forward. But standing here, in the smoldering aftermath, it feels like the weight of Jupiter is pressing down on this franchise’s chest. Trade Durant? Fire Budenholzer? Renegotiate Beal’s deal? Nail a late first-round pick? Each move feels critical. Each step has to be flawless. It’s not just about getting back to being competitive. It’s about restoring belief. Rebuilding trust. Giving the fan base something to dream about again.
Because right now, that’s what’s been lost the most: hope.
I was in the arena against the Golden State Warriors last Tuesday night, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more deflated as a fan. There were cheers, sure. But they weren’t for the Phoenix Suns. They were for the Warriors. And as I looked around, it became clear: Suns fans? They’re lost. Hopeless. Disappointed. Too tired to boo. Too disengaged to care.
Will time tell if this is the most disappointing season in the franchise’s history? Maybe. But right now, all I feel is hopelessness. Sure, I’ll continue watching, keep an eye on the transactions, and keep brainstorming ways to get this team back on track. Why? Because we’re fans. Fanatic is what it stands for. We’re fanatical about the purple and orange. This team is part of who we are—our soul, our identity.
But never in my years of following the Suns have I entered an offseason with this much despair. It feels as though the wrongs of this season can’t be righted for at least a decade. And it’s going to take something extraordinary to shock me out of this funk. But I’ll hold on to that faint hope that maybe we can still be surprised.
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