Harold Katz is getting smarter. The owner of the Philadelphia 76ers wisely didn't get near the podium during Maurice Cheeks' emotional jersey retirement ceremony last week.

Katz knows he would have been booed -- loudly. And he seemed to know that his appearance would snatch the fans out of their nostalgic wonderland and bring them back to the bleak wasteland of 1995.

Instead, he let the good feelings of years gone by flourish.

Last Monday night fans were treated to the good, old days of the Cheeks Era; days when the Sixers didn't usually lose until the Eastern Conference or NBA finals. Except, of course, for that magical 1982-83 season when they almost didn't lose at all and became World Champions.

Those days are gone, long gone.

The only time the Sixers get to be the lead segment on ESPN's SportsCenter these days is when they set a new standard for futility as they did recently with their fourth straight loss in the last minute of a game. Those clever ESPN types put up a graphic that said, "Pholding Philly."

But while the Sixers drag themselves back from the All-Star break and into the second half of the season Wednesday with a 14-34 record, there is a glimmer of hope shining through the rubble of the 1994-95 season. It's as bright as the reflection of the CoreStates Spectrum lights on head coach John Lucas' bald head.

In fact, the biggest sign of hope is Lucas himself.

Finally, the Sixers have a caring, spirited, knowledgeable person calling the shots. He's no Doug Moe, no Freddie Carter, no Jimmy Lynam and, most importantly, he's no "yes man" for Katz.

With far less talent than any Sixer team in recent memory, Lucas has cajoled 14 wins out of this bunch and with a healthier Jeff Malone and a break or two in the final two minutes of a dozen games, they could have at least seven or eight more W's and be a playoff contender.

Lucas knows talent, knows what he wants from his players and seems to know what to do to get the most from them. He has the players respect, something Carter didn't have. He has desire, something Moe didn't have; and he seems to have his way with Katz; something Lynam didn't have.

He's not perfect, though.

Sometimes his substitution rotation boggles the minds of press row and the players at the end of the bench. Sometimes he goes with players too long, pulls others too quickly.

But if you look at the players he has brought to Philadelphia -- rookies Sharone Wright, Derrick Alston and B.J. Tyler and free agent signees Willie Burton and Scott Williams, you'd have to say he was 3-for-4 with the jury out on the still-maturing Tyler.

The one mistake?

Williams. No wonder he didn't get much playing time with the Bulls.

Lucas has had to get by with both all-star guard Dana Barros and Clarence Weatherspoon playing out of position much of the year. And he's had to get by -- period -- with Shawn Bradley, a name that brings grimaces to the faces of Sixer players, coaches and fans alike.

Until Bradley came along, uttering two words "Brad Daugherty" used to be the most hurtful thing you could say to a Sixer fan. Now, the selection of Bradley as the No. 2 choice in the 1993 draft has outdone the trading away of Daugherty, the No. 1 pick in the 1986 draft, for the legendary Roy Hinson, on the list of all-time draft blunders.

Yes, you'll hear the Sixer brass still talking about patience and that he's still a project who should still be in college and so on and so on. They get encouraged every time he stays out of foul trouble long enough to put up respectable numbers like 13 points, nine rebounds and three blocks.

But, deep inside, they ache every time Bradley slings an awkward shot toward the basket, gets pushed around by the Felton Spencers and Kevin Duckworths of the world and seems like a fish out of water the way he flops around every time he gets the ball down on the block.

Lucas, toeing the company line, has said nothing but positives about Bradley. But catch him with his guard down and he'll reveal with a roll of the eyes or a shake of the head what he really thinks. In half a season, he sees what the folks can readily see from Row 22 of Section Z -- this nice, young Mormon man is a backup center at best -- an injury-prone, uncoordinated weakling at worst.

Some teams have expressed an interest in him. Dallas and Charlotte supposedly have inquired, but to show you how far his stock has dropped, they're mentioning second-round draft picks for him.

At some point, unless a miracle occurs, the Sixers will have to swallow the outrageous $44.28 million contract he signed for over eight seasons. One suspects Lucas wishes he could do the unloading in the upcoming off-season.

And, frankly, it might be the best thing for Bradley, too. People who make $44 million and can't play at a pro level will never catch a break with the Philly faithful. Hey, if they never fully appreciated a Hall of Fame third baseman named Mike Schmidt for much of his career, you can imagine what they really think about Bradley.

He says the crowd reaction doesn't bother him, but the boos and jeers he receives every time he steps on the floor must eat away at a nice, polite, religious young man's soul. He doesn't appear to have the talent or the passion to excel and the steady stream of groans can only hinder, not enhance, any progress toward respectability Bradley will ever make.

Lucas knows a thing or two about reclamation projects. He picked his own life out of a drug-infested gutter. He's well on his way to rehabilitating the Sixers from the slums of the NBA's Lottery Land.

But even Lucas knows when he's met his match. Unfortunately, there are no rehab centers for 7-foot-6, underdeveloped, over-paid giants whose heart and talent-level are more suited to missionary work and playing for laughs with the Harlem Globetrotters.