Quarantine Diary No. 4
The Shot. Pacers Playoff Jake. The Last Dance.
Normally, I keep my TV’s sound bar at a relatively respectable level. But this wasn’t a normal time. This was Game Four of the Eastern Conference Finals. This was Michael Jordan. This was the Bulls. This was my beloved Pacers fighting for their first NBA Finals appearance in franchise history.
The volume reached rocket engine levels. My palms began to sweat and my heart rate escalated as I sprang from my bed and started pacing around my room as my eyes remained focused on the screen.
Two-point-nine seconds left, Pacers trailing by one in the game, and two-to-one in the best-of-seven series. Bob Costas is setting the scene on the NBC broadcast. My hands are on the top of my head as the pacing turns into a nervous teetering motion. I’m biting my lower lip as the tension builds. I am 31-year old agitated rocking horse of a man — a nervous centaur, if you will.
Reggie Miller is setup underneath his own bucket, guarded by the Bull’s Ron Harper. Jordan is covering Travis Best outside the three-point arc at the top of the key. Derrick McKey stands ready to deliver the Pacers’ inbound pass on the near sideline, covered by Scottie Pippen, who had just missed two key free throws moments earlier.
Reggie gets a down screen from Antonio Davis as Best follows with a chip on Harper. Jordan and Harper switch defensive assignments on the screen so Jordan can shadow Reggie. Coming off the pick at the top of the key, Miller is ready for the switch. Eying Jordan, Reggie uses his tree branch arms to separate from the G.O.A.T. and veer towards McKey.
McKey lobs the ball over the outstretched arms of Pippen, hitting Reggie in stride at the right wing. In one fluid motion, Reggie collects and pivots toward the bucket. Left foot, right foot, leaning right, fading away.
Release.
Net.
Pandemonium.
I strut around my room, hands raised toward the heavens, signaling the made bucket. Thanks to The Last Dance, ESPN’s hagiography on Michael Jordan and the 1998 Bulls, this is roughly the 4,587th time I’ve seen that shot, and not once have I grown tired watching it. It’s the perfect pick-me-up for all occasions.
Having a bad day? Watch Game Four. Trying to pump yourself up for a first date? Watch Game Four. Having a pre-wedding beer with the rest of the groomsmen? Watch Game Four. Going to a funeral? Watch Game Four.
For as many times as I’ve relived that shot and that game over the years, nothing will ever compare to seeing it in person. That shot and the ensuing madness was the loudest single moment of my life. The roar inside Market Square Arena after Reggie tickled the twine wasn’t just a loud clamor of jubilation. It wasn’t merely deafening. It sucked the air from your lungs. It knocked the wind out of you.
At least it knocked the wind out of me. Or maybe that was my dad grabbing my flimsy nine-year old frame and hurling me into the air that left me breathless. He still swears he could have thrown me into the hoop that was thirty rows below us, the same hoop that Reggie’s game winner sailed through. From our seats we could see the whole play as it developed.
Reggie under the bucket. The Davis screen. The switch to Jordan. The shove. The catch. The spin. The Shot.
I’ll never forget it.
I remember the nothingness that came out of my mouth as Mount Market Square erupted. I was so worried Reggie got called for an offensive foul and I couldn’t hear the whistle above the elation. At nine years old I was already a jaded Pacers fan, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for a pivotal call to go against my team. (Just wait till next year when fat Larry Johnson rips your heart out, kid.)
As my dad hoisted me into the arena air I could see at the other end of the court Reggie spinning and flapping about like one of Al Harrington’s (not that Al Harrington) wacky, waving, inflatable, arm-flailing tube men — you know, from Al Harrington’s Wacky Wavy Inflatable Arm Flailing Tubeman Warehouse and Emporium!
I checked the scoreboard hanging above center court.
Pacers 96, Bulls 94.
0.7 seconds.
Seven-tenths of a second left. Obviously, Jordan would take the lost shot. Seven-tenths of a second. Hell, might as well have been an hour.
As Jordan came off his back cut from mid-court, Miller trailing, the arena collectively held its breath. You can hear the communal inhale on the broadcast. Toni Kukoc’s inbound found Jordan in stride, just as McKey’s had found Miller moments prior. Jordan catches at the wing, double clutches and shoots. Off the backboard. Around the rim. Out.
Costas very matter-of-factly confirmed what millions had just saw on their TV sets and what I witnessed in person.
“It spins out. It spins out.”
Market Square Arena ruptured into bedlam one more time.
Pacers win. Series tied at two.
My dad, in an effort to beat traffic, or maybe to save me from being trampled to death, picked me up from under my arms and pushed me through our row of seats toward the aisle like a pre-pubescent bulldozer amid the fracas. Now that I think about it, he might have been using me as a human shield to protect himself, but either way, we made it to the aisle and up to the section entrance.
At the top of the section a local FOX camera man was waiting for fans to file out of the arena, the place still engulfed in euphoria and fireworks. What he and his camera captured first was little ole me, donning my Little League Cubs hat and Reggie Miller “Dream Team II” jersey, red faced from screams, now yelling “BOOM BABY!” into his lens using the best big boy voice I could muster.
I sounded like miniature Howard Dean… or maybe Dave Chappelle as Howard Dean.
Game Four of the 1998 NBA Eastern Conference Finals remains the single greatest sporting event that I have ever witnessed in person. Honestly, it might be the greatest single thing I’ve seen in my life, ever. It was even better than seeing the Arizona morning sun kiss a snow-glazed Grand Canyon on a stoic January morning.
As I stood there in my room on Sunday night, reliving that moment for the umpteenth time, I became sad. For the first time since this quarantine started, since this pandemic upended our way of life, I missed sports. But I didn’t miss sports as a source of entertainment or distraction or even as part of my income. I missed being a fan. I especially missed the raw, sometimes near-violent emotion that comes with Pacers playoff games.
It’s not a secret and it’s not up for debate — Pacers playoff games bring out the absolute worst in me. Pacers Playoff Jake is truly embarrassing. He is a ne’er-do-well of the highest order, a buffoon to civil society, and a monster opposed to any sort of manners.
Playoff games morph me into a human wrecking ball of pent-up anxiety. I’ll pace back and forth in whatever living room or bar that I’m in. I’ll sweat through my shirt. My heart rate climbs with each passing quarter. I scream obscenities into the void, my voice raising to Timberlake-like falsettos in the best of times and Mufasa-esque (RIP) roars in the worst of times. I ceaselessly click away at my phone, spinning NBA officiating conspiracy theories on Twitter, texting and answering calls from my friends, brother, sister, and step dad about every bad possession and every missed call. I become the human embodiment of obsessive masochism. I become basketball Gollum.
Ask any girl I’ve ever seriously dated. They’ve all — well, both of them — vowed to never watch a playoff game with me ever again after our first postseasons together. I’m rather positive one girl left the state one spring so she wouldn’t have to watch me morph into Pacers Mr. Hyde anymore. In hindsight, I can’t say I blame these women for shunning me. Drop-kicking that 12-pack of toilet paper across my room during the 2013 Eastern Conference Finals was a little childish. And the scene I made at Double Dogs in Midtown during the opening round against the Cavs two years ago was a little … uh, we’ll call it “impassioned.”
I’d argue that my irreverent playoff behavior isn’t totally my fault. I’d contend that I’m a product of my raising. I learned to cuss from my dad berating players and officials during those classic Pacers-Knicks series of the 90s. I heard words no grade school child should ever hear.
My Grandma Sue was so superstitious during playoff games. She would run her hands through her hair for good luck and switch her view in the living room from couch to recliner depending on how the team was playing while she was sitting in each location. That woman, gawd rest her soul, loathed Patrick Ewing.
That pent up anxiety, room-pacing, and Timberlake falsetto I mentioned earlier? I totally stole that from my step-dad. And I’m not the only one. My brother and sister? Complete playoff heathens, especially my little sister.
Hell, last year, my brother and I skipped Easter dinner with our family because we had tickets to watch the Pacers get swept in the first round by the Celtics. He even left his girlfriend to fend for herself at our family dinner table. My sister and step-dad were going to the game, so why shouldn’t we go too? That’s kind of like having Easter dinner with family, right? I mean, we were in the same arena. That counts.
And you know what? I don’t regret it and I can promise you my brother doesn’t either. Neither does my sister or my step-dad. Not for a single second. It was worth it just for this dunk.
And this very friendly and lovely woman from The Last Dance — is she actually my mother? Who’s to say?
I’m a victim of Hoosier basketball hysteria. I’m calloused by the heartache and disappointment of my childhood Pacers fandom that has stretched well into my adulthood. Each and every notable Pacer team of my life has either been thwarted by a generationally talented superstar, an NBA dynasty, or by events so bizarre they can only be explained as witchcraft.
I present to you, a timeline of Pacers playoff misery:
1990: Isiah Thomas and The Bad Boy Pistons
1993: Patrick Ewing and the Knicks
1994: Patrick Ewing and the Knicks
1995: Shaq, Penny and the Magic
1998: Jordan and the second Bulls dynasty
1999: Larry Johnson’s phantom “4-point play” and the Knicks (again) — The worst foul call in NBA history and the genesis for my life’s pessimism. I mean, just look at this trash and tell me it wouldn’t wreck you for life.
2000: Kobe and Shaq (again) and the Lakers dynasty
2001: Allen Iverson
2004: Tayshaun Prince, the Pistons and “The Block”
2005: The most infamous night in NBA history: The Brawl at Auburn Hills, Reggie’s ruined farewell season, and the Pistons (again)
2012: LeBron, Wade, Bosh and the Heat
2013: LeBron, Wade, Bosh and the Heat (again)
2014: LeBron, Wade, Bosh and the Heat (again, again)
2015: Paul George’s snapped leg
2017: LeBron and the Cavs
**DEEP SIGH**
2018: LeBron and the Cavs
2019: Victor Oladipo’s ruptured quad
2020: The Rona
…I’m fine.
It hasn’t been easy, rooting for this team of ours in the springtime. In fact, I’d wager each postseason run has been as detrimental to my health as smoking a thousand cartons of Marlboro Reds in an hours time would. But, damn, what I wouldn’t give to feel that rush of emotion right now, to cheer every made shot, to bemoan every missed call, and to belittle every opposing superstar. Give me that addiction.
I was okay not having sports in my life during this global pandemic. Sure, it sucked not having the excitement of March Madness, The Masters, NBA and NHL Playoffs, and Opening Day. I’d much rather have been able to watch the Cubs every day during quarantine than not. But given the circumstances, sports just didn’t seem that important.
At times I would feel bad about how little I missed sports knowing that so many of my friends who work in athletics and sports media were hurting financially without. But, as a fan, I was making do with my nerdy PBS history documentaries. Truly, honestly, I was doing alright. I had found other hobbies and interests to fill my quarantine and my job at the legislature had thankfully kept my bills paid and my pantry full. And yes, I fully understand how fortunate and privileged I am to be able to say that — ridiculously fortunate and privileged.
Then I started watching The Last Dance, and my ambivalence changed. I started to miss sports as much as the next fan. After watching the ninth episode this past Sunday night, I especially longed for Pacers playoff games. I ached for my near annual springtime emotional meltdowns. I yearned to obsess about a game in which I had zero control over.
I wanted to turn into that unhinged playoff maniac that I was accustomed. I missed my tantrums. I missed screaming unbelievably crass curse words at the TV. I missed planning my week around each series’ game schedule. I missed watching games with my friends and family. I even missed the heartbreak that I knew was inevitable with each Pacers postseason.
As our country begins to re-open in different capacities and as sports leagues attempt to reemerge this summer, I admit I’m tepid. I want more than anything, for us to be safe. More than I want Pacers or Cubs games, more than I want to watch games with friends in a bar, more than I want to playfully torment the girl I’m dating, more than I want to go to the Indy 500 with 400-thousand other people — I want us, you, me, everyone — to be safe, to be healthy.
While I know a sense of normalcy would be good for morale and for economies, I can’t help but wonder what the human cost would be. That’s something we’ve rarely, if ever, have had to consider when it comes to athletic events — at least not since the glory days of the Roman coliseum. But we are in uncommon times that call for uncommon measures and I understand that for as important as sports are to us as entertainment, they are also vital to us as a society and economically. Trust me, I totally get it. My entire broadcasting career is on hold right now. It royally sucks.
But I know that whenever sports do come back, like most of you, I’ll go crazy in the best way possible.
That being said… BOOM BABY.
WHAT I’M WATCHING…well, WHAT I watched…
Now that my quarantine is officially over and I’m back to working full time, I figured I’d share the 10 best shows, movies, and documentaries I watched while in isolation. I picked only shows and movies that I had never seen before, so the Pierce Brosnan James Bond collection and Country Strong are both ineligible. Sorry, Garret Hedlund. But I still love you, dude.
Country Music, A Film by Ken Burns (documentary miniseries, PBS)
The Last Dance (documentary miniseries, ESPN)
American Experience: George W. Bush (two-part documentary, PBS)
Succession (TV series, HBO)
Ford vs. Ferrari
Bombshell
Hillary (documentary miniseries, Hulu)
The National Parks: America’s Best Idea (documentary miniseries, PBS)
The Gentlemen
Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood
I also knocked out Waco and Tiger King (twice, actually) on Netflix. Taylor Kitsch was fantastic as David Koresh in Waco, but the show was painfully historically inaccurate and somehow found a way to make Koresh a victim. Not sure how the hell that happened.
As for Tiger King…man. The first few episodes I unintentionally laughed so many times. I had to pause the show when Joe Exotic hired the Walmart ammo clerk as his campaign manager because I was laughing so damn hard. That might have been the funniest moment of my entire quarantine. But as the series progressed, I came to realize that nearly everyone in the show is irredeemable, aside from a couple of the park’s devoted employees. Why I decided that more than one round of that show was worth it, I’ll be never able to explain to myself.
WHAT I LISTENED TO…
My time during quarantine was probably best spent diving to unexplored depths of a vast ocean of tunes. I not only ran through the gamut of new music that was released, but I also was able to dig through some classic albums that I’ve had circled for quite some time, and I discovered artists I had never heard of before. Here is a list of the best new songs or artists that I listened to or discovered — not including the ones mentioned in previous quarantine entries.
TOP ARTISTS & SONGS
“Dreamsicle” — Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit
“Feet Off the Ground” — Brett Cobb & Jade Bird
“Two Broken Hearts” — The Wild Feathers
“Where I’m Going” — The Wild Reeds
“Wreck You” — Lori McKenna
“Dancing Shoes” — Green River Ordinance
“Wicked Game” (Chris Isaak cover) — Midland
“The Trouble with Wanting” — Joy Williams
“Silhouette” — Parker McCollum
“Love the Lonely Out of You” — Brothers Osborne
“The Magician” — Jason Isbell
“Back Through then Lens” — The Brook & The Bluff
“Close Up the Honky Tonks” (Buck Owens cover) — Dwight Yoakam
“Washington Avenue” — Pat Green
“Harder Way” — Jamestown Revival
“Before You Called Me Baby” — Caitlyn Smith
“The Eye” — Brandi Carlile
“Sick and Tired” — Cross Canadian Ragweed
“I Can’t Win” — Joey Landreth
“Green Eyes” (Coldplay cover) — Aubrie Sellers