There’s something profoundly moving about watching your childhood dreams come alive through your child’s eyes, and this Indiana Pacers season has given me that gift in ways I never imagined.
I grew up bleeding blue and gold. In the 1990s and early 2000s, being a Pacers fan wasn’t just a hobby—it was a way of life. I lived and died by every possession, every playoff run, and every heartbreaking loss. My Pacers Starter jacket wasn’t just clothing; it was armor, a declaration of loyalty that I wore with the kind of pride only a true believer understands.
My parents, especially my dad, fueled this obsession in the most wonderful way. Would go to games together and cheer through it all. They would take me all over Indianapolis chasing autographs and glimpses of our heroes. I’ll never forget the time we went to a White Castle just so I could get Randy Whitman to sign my Pacers painters hat—the dedication of Pacers fans knew no bounds. My mom, God love her, would hide her eyes during the tense moments (let’s face it, she still does) because she’d get so nervous watching our team.
I would spend hours with a childhood friend clipping newspaper articles about Antonio Davis and the rest of our beloved roster, carefully adding them to scrapbooks and plastering them across my bedroom walls. Those clippings weren’t just newspaper—they were pieces of our dreams, tangible proof that our heroes were real and our passion mattered.
I can still hear Mark Boyle’s voice echoing through my memories: “Ding dong, the witch is dead!” when we finally conquered those cursed New York Knicks in the playoffs. That moment felt like liberation, like years of frustration melting away in a single, perfect call. I remember slipping on that Superman shirt for a playoff game during Reggie’s prime, believing with every fiber of my being that our sharpshooter from UCLA could carry us to the promised land. And the 2000 Finals still ache in a way that only true heartbreak can.
But nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the atmosphere at Market Square Arena. That building was pure magic wrapped in concrete and steel. The noise level was simply otherworldly—people would bring earplugs to games just to protect their hearing from the sheer volume of Pacers faithful losing their minds. And while it’s been loud, I find myself hoping that one day Gainbridge Fieldhouse will recapture that same electric atmosphere.
Back then, we always felt like we had a chance. The Reggie teams, the Jermaine O’Neal squads—there was always that sense of possibility, that “what if” that kept us coming back. But it was different somehow.
Now, watching this current Pacers team with my nine-year-old son Andrew beside me, everything feels different. Special. This isn’t just nostalgia talking—there’s something electric about this group that reminds me why I fell in love with Pacer basketball in the first place.
Andrew doesn’t carry the scars of those playoff losses. He doesn’t know the pain of watching teams that should have won championships fall short. Instead, he sees this team with fresh eyes, full of wonder and possibility. When Haliburton makes an impossible shot or Nesmith hits a clutch three, Andrew jumps up from the couch with pure joy, and for a moment, I’m nine years old again, too.
This Pacers team is incredible in ways that feel both familiar and entirely new. They play with a joy and chemistry that reminds me of those great teams from my youth, but there’s something more sustainable about them, something that suggests this isn’t just a flash in the pan. The way they move the ball, the way they support each other, the way they’ve embraced being Indiana’s team—it all feels intentional, built to last.
And maybe that’s what makes this season so special. It’s not just that we have a legitimate chance to win it all—though we absolutely do. It’s that I get to share this chase, this dream, with Andrew. I get to teach him the rituals: how to properly celebrate a three-pointer, the importance of never leaving early, the art of believing even when logic suggests otherwise.
When we’re sitting together watching the game, I see him developing that same passion I had at his age. Every highlight, every heart-stopping moment, every step toward what could be our first championship—we’re experiencing it together.
This feels like the year—not because I need it to validate my decades of fandom, but because Andrew deserves to see what happens when belief becomes reality. He deserves to experience what it feels like when your team—your beloved, heartbreaking, wonderful team—finally breaks through.
So here we are, chasing that championship, but really chasing something much more precious: shared memories, family traditions, and the beautiful madness of being a fan. Win or lose, this season has already given us something special. But if this team can go all the way, if Andrew gets to see his first championship parade for this Pacers squad… well, that would be magic of an entirely different kind.
Go Pacers! This one’s for Andrew and every kid falling in love with the game for the first time.
