LeBron James is no Luke Skywalker

First appeared in the Lebanon Reporter
on June 24, 2015

When I was seven my family took me to see Star Wars. The movies were a new world. One where things appeared larger than life, including the bottomless buckets of popcorn that were strapped on like feedbags. Everything was covered in chocolate or coated with sugar or came in a container no human should be expected to eat alone.

For the last thirty years every movie I’ve seen has fallen short of that first experience, but at the time I had no idea what I was watching. There were swordfights with lasers, talking robots, space monsters and a main character who flirted with his sister and tried to kill his dad.

Surprisingly, this year’s NBA Finals were no different. For you found yourself bloated with a bag of microwave popcorn in your lap and a warm two-liter of Tab at your side, debating whether or not to eat something off the floor, all the while wondering just what am I watching here? Was it really about Golden State proving the doubters wrong by winning small or was this more about LeBron James?

And just as everything in Star Wars revolves around Luke Skywalker, so to does the NBA with King James. And though one is a fictional character and the other a freak with out- of-this-world talents, parallels do exist in their lives. Young Skywalker resisted the Dark Side unlike James. LeBron gave his heart and soul to Darth Riley when bolting for Miami.

But, when that didn’t reap the passel of championships he promised, he threw himself from a sky bridge over a Death Star reactor chasm only to have a garbage chute spit him out in Cleveland, where he dusted himself off while proclaiming his goal all along was to bring a title there.

On a completely unconnected and somewhat random side-note, few have recognized just how difficult leaving the comforts of Miami for Cleveland must have been. After all Miami is a utopia where everyday is sunny and 78 and beautiful women in string bikinis walk down the street handing out free drinks, tart ones with little umbrellas in them. Meanwhile the people of Cleveland, who have been floundering through a championship desert for low these 40 years, welcomed James home as if he were C-3PO and they a tribe of Ewoks.

However, instead of becoming a leader amongst the Rebel Alliance LeBron chose to preach about leadership while treating his head coach as if he were a domesticated animal somebody had staked to the Cavalier bench. Dismissing him during time outs, failing to credit him in post game interviews and then, wham, just like that Darth Vader had cut his hand off.

Between the roster he had by the end of the Playoffs and the fact he kept David Blatt at arm’s length, LeBron charged in to the Finals with both hands behind his back. The fact alone he put up ridiculous numbers (numbers which warranted a Finals MVP nod) and had Cleveland in the drivers seat three games into the series only proves he’s the best player in the world.

But for this thing to work, LeBron has to have both feet in and doing so will be more mentally challenging than a workout with Yoda in the bogs of Dagobah. Skywalker was a hero who threw himself in wholeheartedly when things got tough. The sooner LeBron realizes that even Luke welcomed help in the form of Han Solo, Chewie and Princes Leia, the sooner Cleveland can rock once again. Until then, King James will be left to forge ahead alone, relying upon an ultra-rare combination of his own freak talents and the Jedi Force to get it done.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

Ode to the Junkyard Dog

First appeared on June 10, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

By nature a Junkyard Dog is an uninviting creature. An amalgamation of various pieces and parts, he is not the stately Doberman, loyal Labrador or feisty Yorkie; rather he is all three.

He is a crude beast, unkempt, foul smelling, hard on the eyes and prone to fits of unusual behavior. Their single-minded mission in life is protecting the lot. They prowl their automotive graveyards, determined to mark every tire and drooling for that highly coveted opportunity to run down anyone desperate enough to scale the fence at 2 a.m. looking to steal a carburetor.

Nobody wants to be a Junkyard Dog and nobody wants to face a Junkyard Dog, but in the basketball world, everybody needs a Junkyard Dog. Stephen Curry is a league MVP who is currently flirting with basketball immortality, but he also might be the furthest thing from a Junkyard Dog there is. Klay Thompson, with his machine like shooting form and lightning quick release, can put a lot of things on his basketball resume but Junkyard Dog is not one of them. Even LeBron James, Earth’s best player and one who routinely dominates multiple phases of the game, can’t boast being a Junkyard Dog.

Color commentators don’t typically slobber over the Junkyard Dogs. And, unless they are standing next to LeBron James during a time out or are on the business end of a massive, ‘drive straight down the lane and slam the ball so hard a guy nearly dislocates his wrist’ type of dunk, the Dogs don’t typically find themselves on the Jumbo-Tron either.

With no microphones to dodge, they can be found lurking in the shadows during postgame interviews. They are the unsung and often unknown, but don’t think for a moment they are unimportant. Golden State doesn’t reach the Finals this year without Draymond Green and Cleveland is on a beach somewhere if Tristan Thompson is wearing a different uniform.

Green and Thompson are Junkyard Dogs. Important cogs in a giant wheel rolling down the freeway of basketball life. They are part of a relentless breed, renown for their hard fouling, hustling, board-hogging, sacrifice your body at all costs demeanor.

SportsCenter inundates us with spectacular passes, unbelievable dunks and an endless supply of high scorers. Meanwhile the Junkyard Dogs are there, grabbing key rebounds, scoring timely put backs and throwing themselves on the floor with no regard for the science that lies behind force meeting immovable objects.

They are the closest thing the NBA has to a punter or utility infielder and they’re just as popular. No kid hits the driveway pretending to be Draymond Green. No rabid, beer guzzling thirty something is going to walk the streets howling obscenities and photobombing the local newscaster in a post-win fervor wearing a Tristan Thompson jersey. And yet the paradox remains.

With them you have a chance, without them, you struggle.And yet they remain largely unappreciated. The faceless, chain-smoking powers that be in the control booth shove one spectacular play after another down your throat, hoping your brain turns to mush and you rise each morning longing for more. But you are a well-informed fan of the game, albeit one who was never picked first at the park or had machine like form.

Unlike the faceless powers that be, you understand the value of the Junkyard Dog. In fact you've always identified with them. When your boss took Stevenson from Accounts to Vegas for that huge conference instead of you, he was quick to say the office needed you to stay back and "do the dirty work".

Your Seventh Grade coach suggested Backgammon before cutting you, but deep in your heart you know their failure in the 1993 Montgomery County Tournament ran deeper than just the other team’s Division One recruit. That historic loss, your mother always maintained, could have been easily avoided with you, the Junkyard Dog, scrapping and flailing around on the floor.

So rest well ye Junkyard Dogs for you may not be the prettiest or most desirable beasts alive, but amongst those who know the game well, and a few overbearing mothers, you will always have a place in the basketball world.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

Loyalty and the NBA: Strange Bedfellows Indeed

First appeared on November 18, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

When I was in the Third Grade I had a crush on Mary Beth Stevens. She of the hair like golden shocks of wheat and dangerous blue eyes so crystal clear they cast perfect reflections of the checkerboard tile floor in the multi-purpose room. Then at recess, while Mary Beth was in a heated game of tetherball, I confessed my love only to have the cutest girl in the Fourth Grade ask me out moments later.

As a simple boy who still raced Matchbox cars and believed the Legion of Doom was in fact the greatest threat facing the world, how was I to know it was a test of my loyalty? A devious plot hatched by the Black Widow Mary Beth herself. But I stood tall and strong, like a 4’3 oak. And for two magical hours we were Charles and Diana, until Mary Beth asked me to dump her lunch tray and never spoke to me again.

Perhaps it’s no secret that, just like fashion in North Korea and the careers of most male meteorologists, loyalty is dead. It’s a powerful statement indeed and one that applies wholeheartedly to the National Basketball Association.

So LeBron is hailed for his loyalty after abandoning Cleveland only to return on a hobbled white horse with two rings earned in the service of another kingdom. How quickly it was forgotten, that ill-fated night Cleve-landers torched King James jerseys in the streets, stomping and dancing all over them. Or what about the “Witless” and “LeBum” posters they displayed when LeBron returned with the Heat?

And then there’s Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert; also known as the one welcoming James back with open arms. This after penning a scathing letter to his fan base denouncing the King 30 seconds after LeBron announced he was divorcing his “hometown” four years ago. A fickle beast loyalty is not. Loyalty is an eternal test of ones will and, when the going gets tough, the truly loyal go nowhere.

But what exactly does loyalty get one? For Cub fans it’s apparently a lifetime of disappointment, frustration and embarrassment. For members of ISIS, it’s a date with a Hellfire missile and an eternity spent looking for a glass of ice water. For Kobe Bryant it’s pumping in 31,000 points for the Lakers and dropping five championship trophies in the broom closet only to return from injury to find trade rumors flaring up after going 1-6 out of the gate.

And before we carve the NBA up for being selfish and materialistic, its best to understand professional basketball is likely a product of our own society. Sports fans, not unlike your two year old, want everything immediately. There’s no waiting in life. They don’t want to hear another one of Daddy’s sermons on patience.

They want the best coach, a franchise player, deep playoff runs and championship trophies, and if they don’t have them by the close of business, the bandwagon gets lighter and season tickets wind up on EBAY with an opening bid of twelve cents.
Loyalty is hard work and we’ve become a people who are, by and large, highly allergic to hard work. Of course there are times when loyalty pays off. For if there weren’t, who in their right mind would ever have it?

Truly rare moments that are magical and powerful and lasting and try as we might we can never get them back. Moments that often take a lifetime to reach and mere seconds to expire. And yet it’s the allure and rarity of these that keep the truly loyal in the game. Moments that keep us picking ourselves up and dusting ourselves off time after time.

So here’s to you who count yourself amongst the loyal, that ever dwindling crowd of the lonely and the ridiculed, smile and wave at all those chasing empty calories, for you know your moment, far off as it may be, does in fact lie ahead somewhere.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Upon Further Review: Lance Will Be Missed

First appeared on July 18, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

Lance Stephenson’s signing with the Charlotte Hornets, or Bobcats, or Hornets again, whatever they've decided to call themselves this season, generated almost no buzz whatsoever. Considering it is the deadest sports week of the year, this must leave those in the Stephenson camp feeling somewhat inadequate; like a 'let's go buy a monster truck and cut the tailpipe off it and accelerate loudly through a retirement village trying to scare people' kind of inadequate'.

This in the wake of LeBron’s decision to return to Cleveland, one broadcast in 195 different countries and every planet from Earth to the one Vladimir Putin calls home. Meanwhile, Charlotte is bracing for Stephenson’s arrival as if he were Hurricane Lance instead of a mercurial, multi-talented guard who does nothing but play hard, agitate opponents and do his physical best to run through walls on a nightly basis.

And while only a loon would ever argue fans owe professional athletes anything, in this case one small exception should be made. And before you get started, it’s not about cars and gold watches and chains or free beer vouchers for the State Fair, though I’m sure this would be welcomed by even the craziest of loons.

In this case let us offer a kind-hearted “Thank you”. Thank you Lance, for being the junkyard dog. Thank you for caring in those times it appeared many of your teammates had forgotten the basic fundamentals of team basketball or the definition of the word 'compete'. Thank you for the triple doubles and spectacular finishes at the rim. Thank you for your goofy All Star video and your ‘never, ever, no matter what happens will I ever back down’ attitude.

While I’m at it, we probably owe you an apology for any Ron Artest comparisons you’ve endured. For all practical purposes, your actions never warranted those. People considered your roots and the things you were perceived to be capable of while passing judgment. You played for a franchise whose greatest player was renowned for flashing choke signs and is run by the NBA’s single greatest trash talker of all time; so if giving a choke sign and blowing in someone’s ear are the worst things you do in life, kudos.

For some, Lance’s departure is a somber moment. Don't confuse this with a eulogy for the Pacers title chances for that will come in November if they plan to head into next season with the current roster. Heart, toughness and playmaking are just three things the Pacers will lack in Stephenson’s absence.

Few can argue there were instances where the ball stuck in his hands. Despite this, nearly every time the Pacers appeared rudderless, Lance was the only one who consistently tried his best to right the ship. He was a hard-nosed, high energy guy and that’s not something many in the NBA can boast on a resume.

It would seem we’ve been all too quick to forget the times the Pacers were booed off the floor last year (see being down 30 to Atlanta in the first half). In those games, Stephenson was by himself playing his brains out. He was a wild stallion who did his best to stay in the stall, who fought the urge to go ‘all out playground’ on opponents and tried as best he could to operate within the framework of Frank Vogel’s system; though we all witnessed how extremely difficult this was for him at times.

So now he’s left for greener pastures. And though a max contract guy he may never be, he was an important piece of the Pacer puzzle and one that must be replaced with another gutty playmaker. If this can’t be done, then the remaining roster has to be reshuffled. Either way, if the Pacers plan to contend in the East again, then their off season must be far from over.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Jordan vs. James? Far Too Early For That

First appeared on June 12, 2014 in
The Lebanon Reporter

While San Antonio surges towards the fifth Title of the Gregg Popovich era, the talking heads are at it again. Creating news amidst a Finals devoid of sexy storylines. As the Spurs clinic on team basketball continues chugging towards the land of Larry O’Brien, the media yawns, rubs its eyes and turns its focus towards LeBron’s place in history. Is it time to say he’s better than Jordan?

The real problem is San Antonio. Their stars seem to enjoy playing together, their star in waiting appears to relish his role in the shadows and their head coach is about as quotable as Michelangelo’s David. Rare have we seen a blander shade of vanilla in Professional Basketball.

But the noise, oh the noise, noise, noise! Lebron James can’t fight through cramps. He’s the softest 6’8-280 the sports world has ever seen. Wait a minute, Miami won? LeBron is the best player in the world! Better dare we say than the man himself? Is LeBron James better than Michael Jordan? It’s a tantalizing debate indeed, and one those born in the 1980’s or after need to see their way out of immediately. To fully appreciate what Michael Jordan accomplished you had to be doing something other than filling your drawers and living bottle to bottle in the 80’s (insert poorly crafted Gary Busey joke here).

Secondly, all those closeted Bulls fans from the 90’s need to stand down as well. Those who were once so rabid and widespread, but have somehow largely disappeared, or simply grown too round to fit into their jackets, hats and jerseys anymore. The only people qualified to weigh in on this topic are truly objective basketball fans, or those who grew up despising Jordan, embraced an “NBA Small Market Conspiracy Theory” when the Lakers defeated the Pacers in the Finals and eventually found a gig as a Part-Time-Pretend-Sports Columnist.

Now that we have our panelist, let’s continue. As of this exact moment, Michael Jordan is the best basketball player this universe has ever seen (and yes, that includes the planet Lovetron). Perseverance is the first characteristic that sets MJ apart from LeBron. On his way to six titles, Jordan’s Bulls lost their first three playoff series before experiencing three straight season ending losses to the Pistons (once in the Conference Semis and twice in the Conference Finals).

Enter Exhibit A. Michael Jordan didn’t sulk his way into free agency. He didn’t shudder and quit in the face of elimination and he didn’t recruit other superstars to help him get to the top. Jordan went back to work and became a stronger player, helping the Bulls defeat the Pistons in the Eastern Conference Finals the next season. This is perseverance and it’s a characteristic that separates Michael from LeBron. Advantage Jordan.

Exhibit B would be the Hall of Fame. When it’s all said and done, James will have played with no less than three Hall of Fame players (four if and when Chris Anderson is voted into the Street Performer and Carnival Worker Hall of Fame). Jordan’s six title teams fell well short of including four Hall of Fame players. Advantage Jordan.

Exhibit C would be Titles. Jordan has six, James two. Advantage Jordan. This is largely why expert witness Mark Jackson was careful to call James the “best small forward of all time” and not the “greatest of all time”. This is also why Jordan has no reaction when people call James the greatest. MJ knows facts are facts and right now the facts clearly show LeBron james, while amazing and seemingly inhuman, must bolster his resume to eclipse Jordan.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Rushmore not big enough for Indiana Legends

First appeared on February 14, 2014
in The Lebanon Reporter

Completed in 1941, Mount Rushmore’s sixty foot tall façade was carved from sheer rock, blasted by dynamite and chiseled by hand. Commemoration on a massive scale, and yet only four men were chosen. Four Presidents of the 29 grazing in the paddock at the time. So much for the Adams boys or Woodrow Wilson. And what do you say to William Howard Taft? “We’re sorry Mr. Former President Sir, but the geologists feared there just wasn’t enough rock in all of South Dakota to carve you.”

Thanks largely to its remote location and proximity to nothing, Mount Rushmore has become one of our most forgotten National Treasures. But it surfaced earlier this week when LeBron James, apparently trying to change the subject from the fact he’s been looking up at the Pacers all season, offered his “Mount Rushmore of the NBA” instead. In the world according to LeBron, the four greatest players ever are Larry, Magic, Michael and Oscar Robertson.

The fact half of King James’ choices included former Hoosiers was immediately apparent. And while his comments inspired a flurry of lists including everything from the “Rushmore of NFL Greats” to that of “Best Sports Equipment Managers”, it did get this Part Time Pretend Sports Columnist thinking.

In a state infatuated with round ball, is it possible to determine the four greatest players ever? Any list involving the state of Indiana’s Mount Rushmore of Basketball surely must include Oscar Robertson first. The Big O remains the only NBA player to average a triple double for an entire season. His trophy case boasts our nation’s first State Title won by an all black school (’55-Crispus Attucks), a gold medal (‘60 Olympics) and a World Championship (‘71 Milwaukee Bucks).

The Rocket would be next. Rick Mount’s picture perfect jumper and propensity for scoring propelled him onto a historic 1966 Sports Illustrated cover. This honor did more than introduce a phenom to the nation, it threw a national spotlight on Indiana High School basketball, effectively becoming the cornerstone for our state’s reputation as a hotbed for the sport. After 50 years, Mount’s 2,595 career points at Lebanon still ranks fourth all time in state history and his 2,323 points at Purdue is still the most ever scored by a Boilermaker. All this, it should be noted, done while being a sharpshooter with dynamic range playing in an era without a three point line.

Larry Bird’s journey began in the hills of Orange County. At Springs Valley High he averaged 31 points, 21 rebounds and 4 assists before going on to lead tiny Indiana State to a watershed Final Four match-up with Michigan State’s Magic Johnson. As a Celtic, Bird earned 3 league MVP’s and 3 NBA Championships in addition to a gold medal playing for the single greatest basketball team ever assembled (Note to younger readers: google the ‘92Dream Team’).

The fourth and final face was admittedly most difficult. Honorable mention goes to Marion Pierce, George McGinnis and Damon Bailey, but in the end it’s Steve Alford. A former Mr. Basketball (’83), Olympic Gold Medalist (’84) and NCAA Champion (’87), Alford was also a two time NCAA All American while playing for the legendary Bobby Knight at Indiana University.

From John Wooden to the Milan Miracle to over 150 players who’ve gone on to play professionally, Indiana has more than a passion for basketball, it has a rich history as well. And you can forget the side of a mountain, true Hoosiers will want these faces painted on the roof of an old Mail Pouch Tobacco barn somewhere far from the beaten path.

© 2014 Eric Walker Williams

Pacers remain so close....

First appeared on June 5th, 2013
in The Lebanon Reporter

Back in the day the man perm was an unstoppable force of nature. And, with all apologies to the late Rick James, when it comes to man perms few could rival John Oates of Hall and Oates fame. After Monday night’s debacle in Miami, fans of the Blue and Gold were left lamenting the 32 points King James dropped on Indiana or the fact the league’s MVP absolutely shut down Paul George in the biggest game of his life; but my mind was on Hall and Oates.

How fitting would it have been for one of the greatest duos of the 80’s to be waiting in the Pacers tunnel as they sulked from the floor? Perched on their stools, rocking a single amp, John Oates still looking like 1983 with Daryl Hall’s golden pipes bellowing out “So close, yet so far away”.

That’s what the Pacers were, so close, yet the Heat’s dominating performance in Game 7 made it clear Indiana remains so far away. As great as the Pacers were, the Heat reminded them what a true Champion is. Turnovers erased any chance Indiana had at playing for an NBA Championship, thus deep sixing what Marv Albert had already dubbed the “greatest upset in NBA Playoff History”; clearly Marv hasn’t gotten over Reggie Miller.

Forgetting Marv Albert’s misguided prophecy, and unflattering hat helmet, for a moment, up until Monday night the Indiana Pacers were on a run that seemed destined for the Finals. It could be said everything they touched turned “blue and gold”. The 1980’s brand of smashmouth basketball the Pacers were playing looked so effective that somewhere Chuck Daly was smiling behind a Poker table while those with the most titles in front offices around the league were silently questioning their movement away from a dominating front line.

The usually outlandish and cranky Sir Charles was actually spot-on when comparing Roy Hibbert and David West’s dominating play to Russell and Chamberlain. Mix in strong all around play from the emerging superstar Paul George, sharp shooting (at times) from George Hill and the surprising arrival of Lance Stephenson, and the Pacers quickly became the second worst nightmare Erik Spoelstra could have; the first of course being Pat Riley coming out of the stands to ask “have you seen my clipboard?”

The outcome of Monday’s game was far more than “LeBron being LeBron” or the Big Three finally engaging themselves at the same time. It was more than the “will of a champion” or the Heat having stars and the Pacers having players who may or may not be stars depending on who you’re talking to, the day of the week and the price of oil in China. So close, yet so far away.

It came down plain and simply to turnovers. The Pacers were careless with the ball which would be a creative strategy to employ for any coach who actually wants to win. 21 turnovers in an elimination game can be a sign of many things. The short list includes: inexperience, youth, poor eyesight, teammates in camouflage uniforms and really, really dumb decisions. Those who watched Indiana Monday night know the answer is “D All of the Above”.

There’s a restless look in your eyes tonight (Paul George), there’s a secret hurt in my heart (strange little hardhat wearing man who carries a pink flamingo around to every Pacer game), and the dream that pulls us together (winning a championship), is the dream that pulls us apart (this last part is up to Vogel and the Pacers front office to prevent). So close, yet so far away.

© 2013 Eric Walker Williams

Nike can't sneak anything buy us

First appeared on August 30th, 2012
in the Lebanon Reporter

LeBron James is the best basketball player on the planet, a three time MVP, NBA Champion, Olympic Gold Medalist and yet remains largely a public relations disaster. When news broke recently that Nike would unveil James’ latest shoe (dubbed “Signature X”) for a retail price of $300 Shoeheads everywhere eagerly rubbed their hands together while the rest of us, you know those with real jobs who have bills to pay and kids to feed, were left scratching our heads.

The last thing LeBron needed was another reason for John Q. Public to loathe him. All this after he'd done so much to heal his reputation. He'd said and done all the right things since the "I'm taking my talents to South Beach" debacle left him flat on his back with two black eyes. He'd finally dominated the playoffs in the way so many deemed him incapable of. He captured his first NBA Title and won his third MVP trophy with humility. He even showed a measureable level of maturity after taking a backseat for much of the Olympics without complaint. And now this.

Aside from the 1930’s and Washington’s winter at Valley Forge, has there ever been a worse possible time to ask $300 for a shoe? With unemployment at 8.2% and an estimated 15 million American children living in poverty, how can Nike justify charging $300 for this shoe? It’s especially unnerving considering they were more than likely put together in some unventilated ramshackle aluminum shed by Vietnamese children being paid in McDonald’s coupons.

Perhaps the more pressing issue here is just who exactly is in the market for a $300 shoe anyway? Clearly Forbes Magazine said it best when they surmised wearing the right pair of sneakers can “make you look something else: rich.” And if you count yourself amongst the throngs of other twenty somethings trying to “look rich”, just remember layaway was originally meant to assist struggling families during the Great Depression, not for you to blow a month’s salary on a tennis shoe. Especially when that money could be used to keep the lights on your house; you know the same one your parents call the basement.

And if you count yourself amongst the famed 1% who actually have $300 to flush on a tennis shoe that will be cool only as long as it takes Nike to release someone else’s new shoe, then perhaps the Pintando Pasas by Converse is the more responsible choice. These are shipped to a rural Mexican village where kids decorate them before sending them back to the U.S. where they’re sold for around $300. And while you’ll probably get laughed off the court should you show up calling “next game” wearing them, the silver lining around the Pintando Pasas is that the shoe benefits a youth art program in Mexico.

Basic economics tells us there’s a market for this shoe or Nike wouldn’t be pricing it as if it were made from leather recovered from the Tomb of King Tut. Unfortunately it appears to be just another example of the continued misadventures of American priorities. Either way little has changed for LeBron James. He remains a guy America is trying so hard to fall in love with despite the unfortunate knack he has for finding ways to make himself look really bad.

The answer is simple. We launch a Facebook campaign to convince those in the market for new athletic footwear to boycott Nike in favor of a more sensible option (Kangaroos), or we round up everyone who buys the “Signature X” and demand to see their tax returns.


© 2012 Eric Walker Williams

That old familiar feeling for Pacer Fans

First appeared on May 26th, 2012
in The Lebanon Reporter

So the Pacers bid to upset the Miami Heat fell short. Thirty two points short in Game 5 to be exact. And as the Pacers ride off into the sunset for greener fairways and All-Inclusive resorts with white sandy beaches, the rest of us are left to ponder what could have been.

Pacer fans sit with incredulous faces, popcorn littered at their feet, luke warm beers in hand. A golden army 15,000 strong sitting in complete silence. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. When was the last time Hollywood gave us a blockbuster where the bad guys actually won?

It was almost a magical story. The Indiana legend turned Executive of the Year and his band of blue collar players, those same players who were branded misfits by the media and NBA officiating during the series, almost eliminating the league’s two sacred cows. In the end it wasn’t the MVP who stepped on the Pacers throat, rather it was Dwayne Wade who made so many impossible shots Thursday night it seemed as if he were trying to beat himself in a game of Horse.

But beyond the court the Pacers have aroused within us a spirit of bygone days. The inner Pacer fan in all of us had lay dormant for many moons. We first crawled our way into the cave in 2000 when the Pacers made the NBA Finals only to go on and lose in 6 games to the Lakers. Hibernation seemed the only tonic strong enough to prevent what we all saw coming; the collapse of a franchise that had carried us through the 90’s. And while we struggled to keep our eyes propped open through Reggie’s retirement, we succumbed to the sweet relief of slumber through the Brawl and subsequent countless nightclub melees and shootings. And we snored long and hard through many a fruitless season.

Now with a spirited performance against the Heat, the Pacers have done nothing but leave an entire fan base wanting more. Younger fans got a taste of what we all gorged ourselves upon during the days of the Davis boys and the Dunking Dutchman and yet now the lights are out in Banker’s Life and the only person moving up and down the floor is a lonely custodian sweeping away the blood, sweat and tears of another lost season.

Unanswered questions remain. What will become of Larry? Will Roy Hibbert and George Hill be back? The Pacers front office and players have both done so much work to get to this point that it would seem this group deserves to stay together at least until West’s contract expires. And one would think pushing Miami as far as Indiana did would be enough to eradicate the scourge of empty seats that has befallen Banker’s Life Fieldhouse for lo these many years.

So as the Aussies say, “Belt Up” Indiana Fans. It’s time to move on. But as you do, remember to nurture what the Pacers gave you this year. For it is a seed. A seed of hope. Make sure you care for it. Give it all the love and attention it requires for that seed holds great promise. Perhaps next year, or at some other not so distant point, that seed will bloom into the promises that went unfulfilled oh so many moons ago.

© 2012 Eric Walker Williams

Pacers must find a way to turn down the Heat

First appeared on May 15th, 2012
in The Lebanon Reporter

OK so Sunday didn’t turn out to be the bloodbath so many had predicted. And though the Heat are one step closer to proving Jon Barry’s theory of a sure-fire Miami sweep correct, what remains to be seen is not the outcome of the series but rather how the Pacers will respond. Compounding matters for fans of the Blue and Gold, it would seem Miami took Indiana’s best punch in the first half Sunday and rallied to win with a dominating Fourth Quarter.

Of course the experts love for the Heat is nothing new. I’m sure had ESPN covered the Germans during World War II or filmed a 30 for 30 on Napoleon, they would have given the Russian’s no shot as well. The trouble of course is the magic of the upset lies in the fact nobody sees it coming. Who knew Stalingrad would become a Hornets nest capable of crippling Hitler’s Eastern advance? Or that Napoleon would taste defeat for the first time at the hands of an army perhaps made most famous by their propensity for retreat?

And really, who can fault those in the full-time-not-pretend media? The truth is the predictability of the NBA is tiresome. Of course the quintessentially obstinate American in all of us would say this is simply all the more reason for Indiana to take Miami down.

Let us not forget the Heat are the epitome of everything that is wrong with professional basketball. In a league completely driven by Superstars and propped up by those who gaze at them in captivated wonderment, Miami has three of them. Three talented men who should be filling seats on their own in smaller markets. Three men who came together and used the magic powers of artificial smoke and strobe lights to morph into the “Big Three”; a trio of superheroes joining forces to do something they clearly felt incapable of doing alone.

Meanwhile with no true Superstar, Indiana is the Yin to Miami’s Yang. They have no cult following. They are not paparazzi worthy. Heck, the only time Banker’s Life ever saw a smoke machine was when House of Hair came to town. On paper the match-up doesn’t have the magnetism of Ali-Frazier, but the fact remains there are no guarantees in life (see Lugar, Richard).

So while David Stern busies himself ensuring that those elves in his workshop busy engraving the Larry O’Brien Trophy realize the ‘b’ in LeBron is in fact capitalized, the Pacers need to set their jaw, clench their fists and get ready to take their best shot at Miami; again. Only this time hit harder, hit smarter and don’t let them get up when you have them down.

And after a 95-86 loss Sunday, Indiana remains at a crossroads. In a Pacer blue convertible the dapper Frank Vogel is slumped at the wheel while in the passenger seat alongside Larry gnaws at a thumbnail with Boomer’s overinflated head looking on from the backseat he’s sharing with that one guy with the hardhat, flip signs and pink flamingo.

They can forge ahead, take their medicine and lay down as Miami rolls on to the Eastern Conference Finals, or they can put their turn signal on and take the NBA for an unexpected ride. Tuesday night the basketball world will wait breathlessly to see if Indiana fights back, if Vogel follows his league-issued Garmin, or will we hear the presumptuous voice of David Stern choking out “RECALCULATING!!” as the Pacers try to derail the only sure thing the NBA has had since the Zenmaster traded his clipboard for a fly rod.

© 2012 Eric Walker Williams