Introductions II

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​I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t a hoops fan. Besides growing up in a city, I was probably your stereotypical Indiana kid - basketball hoop in the backyard, buzz cut (when I wasn’t rockin’ the Steve Alford) and an affinity for all things Hoosier. There’s so many fond memories I have of watching a game with my dad or pretending to make the Keith Smart shot or playing Nerf against our family dog, Duchess. As a kid, we would go to Pacers games every now and then. This was back in the we-need-to-have-a-telethon-to-save-the-team-we’re-so-bad era. Names like Dr. Jack Ramsey, Waymon Tisdale, Chuck Person, Vern Fleming, Herb Williams and Steve Stipanovich were seeped into my brain by osmosis. My love of the Pacers though, was cemented a bit later, in the ’90-’91 season. That year, Dick Versace was replaced at the helm mid-season by Bob Hill, and the Pacers faced the vaunted (and beloved in Indiana) Boston Celtics, featuring Larry Legend on his last legs. Somehow, I was at Game 4 in MSA, with relatively decent seats as I remember. The Pacers were down 2-1 and facing another quick playoff exit. But, The Rifleman and Reggie had a different plan in mind, rallying in the fourth quarter to eke out a 116-113 victory. I don’t remember the specifics, but I remember the energy vividly. It was close down the stretch, big shots were made, and it was the loudest and craziest game I’ve ever experienced. 

I was hooked. The Pacers became a constant. Even when I moved away for college, I would listen to games on the radio while driving the campus shuttle around Xavier’s campus. Somehow, if you were on an East-West street, you could pick up the AM station from Indianapolis. There were definitely several times folks had to wait to get to their destination because a crucial game was hanging in the balance. After college, I moved back to Indy for grad school and spent way too many nights (or just the right amount) watching and discussing the Pacers with Jon and Joey and whoever else would listen. We spent what little money we had on 10-game ticket packages and cheered on an amazing team playing in an awesome venue. We should have been rewarded with a title, but that’s for another blog post. 

After grad school, I followed a calling from the west coast, spending 5+ years in Santa Cruz. The distance made following the team harder, as did their lackluster play and off-court antics. But, I still listened to as many games as I could, often staying late at the lab to catch the end of a close one, despite the certain wrath to be absorbed from my then girlfriend for delaying dinner. And I still had faith in my boys, eschewing the points in every two-taco bet with my Laker-loving postdoc advisor. Now, as an east-coaster, I’m following this team with as much fervor as ever and looking forward to more deep playoff runs, memorable shots and incredible moments.

Introductions

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The Pacers saved my life. That truth permeates everything I write. In some ways it is reflected in everything I do. When I was a boy, gratefully escaping Shortridge Junior High, I worked that spring spray painting centerpieces for a wedding decorator. On the newspapers I spread out daily as tarp, I began to notice the perennially disastrous Indiana Pacers making a nice run at the playoffs. Up to that point, basketball had meant something to me only by the force of an Indiana upbringing. In elementary school, Jason and his family took me to my first Pacer game against the Washington Bullets, and I spent the majority of my energy there worried that Manute Bol's legs would snap while running down court. I had, like most Indiana boys, a hoop on my garage. Having reached my final height at the tender age of twelve, I played post position in organized school sports. There, I utilized a reliable jump hook, a decent runner in the lane, and showed a passion for rebounding and physical play. But that was mainly lost on a home environment which valued intellectualism and art. So noticing the Pacers was merely that, a brief recognition.

A month or so later I was invited to a friends house for a Pacer game party. I cared not for the Pacers, was singularly excited about being invited to a party. The occasion was for game five of the Eastern Conference Finals in 1994. What I was treated to was one of the single most exciting events of my young life. Reggie Miller scored 25 points in the fourth quarter in the Garden versus the New York Knicks and I was hooked. My life became entangled with the Pacers from that moment on. The following year I spent time at the Indianapolis Star learning the ins and outs of Pacer beat writing. I jumped in my best friend's pool with all my clothes on when Patrick Ewing missed the tip-in during game seven of the Eastern Conference Semi-finals. I was the only one I know who didn't turn off the TV for Reggie's eight points in eight seconds. I flew home early from a cousin's wedding to be in Indy for game seven against the Bulls in 1998. I wrote an impassioned letter to Donnie Walsh following the 1999 Eastern Conference playoff collapse against the Knicks, urging patience, pleading for him to keep the team intact. One of the happiest moments of my life was spinning, dancing, hugging at the improbable 40 foot shot by Reggie to force a first round overtime game 5 against the Nets. With our theatrics, Harper and I convinced an entire New Orleans bar to watch and root for the Pacers in the ensuing two overtimes. I attended Reggie's last game with JT and Joey, and to this day display the ticket stub on my fridge.

But none of that explains how the Pacers saved my life. It is less riveting than Reggie's heroics, far less tangible than basketball plays. In college, I was diagnosed with severe clinical depression. I was largely despondent and inert, at my worst suicidal. I still have pages and pages of dark writing and in my darkest dark, when I could not even find the strength to write, there are pages of stats—possible line-ups, potential trades, number trends, names and cities and match ups—all the Pacers. The hopelessness I understood in that time was softened by a focus on men who played a game. When I no longer cared if even my heart continued to beat, the rhythm of the basketball against the court became my heart beat. The concreteness of winning and losing, as well as a continual hope in believing in a finite season, buoyed me when concreteness and hope were things I lacked in my own life. To this day my writing pages are interrupted by pages of stats. There is something incredibly poignant about the simplicity of basketball—pick and rolls, alley-oops, the poetry of a jump shot—that redeems the ugliness of my soul. I could not have known as an awkward adolescent stumbling upon one of the great moments of basketball playoff history, that I would come to live and breathe the game, in a time when living and breathing gave me no joy.

My subsequent recovery did not dampen my passion for the team one bit. I have continued to eagerly follow the Pacers, visiting Conseco ten times a year while living in Indy, and after moving, have listened to Mark and Slick at least 70 games each season. Since the Malice in the Palace, I have carefully tracked the process of returning to relevance, all the while crafting in my own mind the smartest way to rebuild and bring back a disillusioned fan base. The Pacers are an integral part of my existence.

In honor of Reggie's playoff game winner against the 76ers in 2001, I composed a haiku for his yearly contest, which speaks to the Pacers' importance in my life.

                                    And in one moment,

                            time stopped, the world fell away.

                                   Nothing left but sky.

-Coalson

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International Snow Sculpture Finals

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As predicted by non-judge Coalson, the winner of the International Snow Sculpture FInals held in Breckenridge, Colorado, turned out to be Mongolia. They also picked up the People's Choice Award. Congrats to Mongolians everywhere! And a quick congrats to Sam Young for re-signing with the Pacers after a brief financial-related hiatus. We missed you brother, for your defense, your professionalism, your hustle plays, your mini-mohawk, and your 3.6 points per game. We're glad to have you back! 

Yinka Dare...

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For once in my life, I was right about a ridiculous NBA stat thrown out in a conversation. Turns out Yinka Dare was a horrible passer. The Nigerian-born 7-footer played 4 years for the Nets and amassed a grand total of 4 assists (an average of 0.1 per game). Unfortunately, Dare's career was cut short by injuries and his sudden death from a heart attack at the young age of 31. You are missed Yinka, but I know you are smiling somewhere watching Ian Mahinmi carry the torch of selfish big men.

The Malice at the Palace

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Jonathan Abrams writing for Grantland:

Mike Brown: Nobody was holding the Piston players back. The one guy that I did know and had a pretty good relationship with was Ben. I went over and I tried to grab him and talk to him. His nickname was Debo, so I tried to pull a nickname from the past out. I was like, "Debo, Debo, it's not worth it. Go back. Debo. Come on." He kind of slowed down and I finally got him to a point where he stopped.