“Yo, people are saying Tyga had the biggest comeback. Tyga? Tyga!? Lime in the coconut Tyga? Yo, get out of here.” —Soulja Boy
Paula Abdul said, “I feel blessed to have had as many comebacks as I can.” At least, it seems like she said it. The quote’s attributed to her upward of five times on the World Wide Web, a place of truth and honor, but hell if I can find the original source. Regardless: If she feels blessed, the Pacers must feel divine.
Or at least adjacent to divinity, a bunch of basketball Lazaruses. These Hoosier mystics know their way around a resurrection and specialize in miracles. They are the NBA’s preeminent comeback artists: They had a 20-point comeback against the Bucks in the first round, did the same thing to the Cavs in Round 2, erased a 17-point deficit against the Knicks in the East finals, and snatched victory from the Thunder’s jaws in Game 1 of the Finals last week. Indy’s had so much late-game magic these playoffs, you start to wonder whether maybe it has some dirt on the basketball gods. There are coyotes less resilient, and those dogs will outlive us all. Play through the buzzer or hold the L.
The Pacers are the kind of team that makes you run to the internet and search “Chernobyl cockroaches.” They will not go away. Not only does no lead feel safe, but leads feel scary. Like the Pacers have you where they want you. There is no ease. They run teams down. They are a collection of undead ninjas. There will be no voluntary surrender. Either you cut their head off, or they will stitch themselves up and continue to haunt. They feel like they’re in any game, and you do, too.
Going into the Finals, OKC was well aware of the Pacers’ ways. The Thunder should have been well schooled on Indy’s MO and been prepared to hold tight to the rope all game. I was in the building for Game 1. I was in the building and full of fear—Indy’s offense is extremely “spaceships don’t come equipped with rearview mirrors,” and I mean that as the highest possible compliment—but it seemed like the Thunder had learned their keep-the-pedal-down lesson in the Denver series. The Thunder have the best defense in the league, one tailored to give Indy problems. Surely they would handle business. And for most of Game 1, business was booming. OKC was in control. Then the fourth quarter started.
Even as the Pacers’ comeback came roaring down the stretch, I wasn’t shocked. I was horrified, afraid for my psyche, but I wasn’t terribly surprised. I thought it made sense, dramaturgically. Dramaturgically speaking, these Pacers are neo-thrillers. It’s not anybody’s business what you do with your laurels, but for God’s sake, don’t rest on them against this unkillable battalion. The offense gets going, and a demented visage lies before you.
Portrait of a Thunder Fan During NBA Finals Game 1
First quarter: This is great. I love this. Basketball is the best.
Second quarter: The Thunder should be up more, but this remains great. I love this. Basketball is the best.
Third quarter: OK, so, I don’t love this. Can’t let this team hang around. Basketball is getting on my nerves.
Fourth quarter: My eyes … they’re bleeding.
Portrait of a Thunder Fan During NBA Finals Game 2
First quarter to fourth quarter: WE ARE NOT SAFE. HEAD ON A SWIVEL. DANGER, DANGER, DANGER.
After we got the full Pacers experience in Game 1, huge leads seem treacherous and full of ruin. Being up 20 midway through the fourth quarter in Game 2 was no balm. It felt like stage dressing for unholy theatrics. Even when Rick Carlisle threw in the proverbial towel by subbing in rookie Johnny Furphy with around four minutes left, nothing seemed assured. Only when James Johnson entered the game a couple of minutes later did I start to feel certain.
The Pacers are for horror enthusiasts. It is terrifying going against them. They will have you sweating the full 48. There is no enjoying a lead, no coasting. There is only the steady hum of fear, the sense that you are minutes away from the game being turned upside down. Indiana is 8-1 in clutch games this postseason. What this means is that your team could be up double digits with a minute left, and still the cortisol waterfall rages on.
Thunder fans are not the only ones who feel like this. Bucks fans know. Cavs fans faced similar horrors. This Pacers group traumatized New York. My colleague Sean Fennessey, a dyed-in-the-wool Knicks supporter, put it like this:
It wasn’t just that leads weren’t safe; it’s that there was hardly a moment to catch your breath as Thomas Bryant and Andrew Nembhard and Obi Toppin were constantly leaking out after made baskets for fast breaks, diminishing that vanishing window of joy after your team scores, when it feels as though things could maybe possibly be safe and good. Deeply unpleasant, doom-laden basketball watching.
And yes, Sean. That is how it feels, and thank you for bearing witness to and sympathizing with the stress that fills every game of these Finals for Thunder fans. Cheering against the Pacers is like cheering against Michael Myers. Every Aaron Nesmith made 3 feels like a warning. It doesn’t matter if they haven’t been hitting all game; I am shocked when he or Nembhard misses and fairly certain my eyes are straight-up lying to me when Toppin clanks a triple. When the Pacers are running hot, buckets feel like foregone conclusions.
Many layers to the terror these Pacers bring. Part of the fear is that the points could come from anywhere. Part of the fear is that their rep precedes them. Part of the fear is that you watched them do unto you as they have done unto others, sort of a remixed Golden Rule. Part of the fear is that they employ Carlisle, who is a sage, pragmatic, ever-flexible spell caster and a basketball genius. That he is over there on the sideline with his beakers and Bunsen burners. I also, for whatever reason, imagine him with a cape. When I hear the words “Rick Carlisle” and his picture flashes in my mind, he is always wearing a cape and a lab coat. That he is over there tinkering with his potions is horrifying.
They are the hanging scythe. It’s as if there is a boulder at the top of the arena, and at any moment, out of absolutely nowhere, that thing could come rocketing down and Sexy Beast the Thunder’s pool of tranquility. Any lead under 17 feels like making love to disaster. Indy is seconds from boiling, a team full of mutant hibachis.
I saw Chet Holmgren’s dad walk into the Thunder arena before Game 1. The shirt was ivory and the pony pristine. In any normal series, I would have considered this a gift, a sign of good things to come. A typhoon of calm would wash over me. Against Indy, it did nothing. It was still Cirque du Soleil in my stomach. It will remain that way until the series ends. The Pacers make it so.
