When I was young, there wasn’t much to do in my neighborhood. A junk yard of mobile homes and old cars that almost looked abandoned, I called it home because it was all that I knew. Trouble found my brother and I often, child protection services was always knocking at our door, and, for the life of me, I still can’t remember what my Dad looked like when I was young. I had to either buy in or get out.
When the ever-changing Indiana Winter decided to call it quits for the season, my brother and I ventured outside to keep our minds off of what was going on our insides. There wasn’t much to do in the trailer park. The only amenity the community offered was a ran down basketball court and we were going to take advantage of it. We spent all Summer at the court. Most of the time we were creeping on the girls that would hang out, but every now and then a pickup game would get going and we would jump in. As youths, it was the best Summer of our lives.
When long, hot days turned into cool, breezy nights, we started to nestle back into our regular routine of hibernation and survival and started to try to focus on going back to school. While we had each other, it wasn’t enough all of the time. We needed something more. And something came just at the right time.
In the Fall of that year, a group had come to our school and was planning on an outing that was going to bus kids to events around the city of Indianapolis. Their first event was an Indiana Pacers game. To be honest, I didn’t even know that Indiana had a professional basketball team. It wasn’t something we watched, it wasn’t something we heard about. Nonetheless, we were excited; if for no other reason than to just get out of the house.
Hours and days passed to no end. We kept it on our minds. We were so ready to do something new, something different. And then the day came. The group leader picked us up at home in a 15 passenger van and we made the trip downtown. I can’t stress enough how long that ride was. It felt like we were driving to Alaska. My brother and I were so excited, the van driver had to tell us to quiet down. We couldn’t wait.
And then, like a Catholic meeting the Pope, we were humbled. We were awestruck by the size and smooth lines. MARKET SQUARE ARENA. It was massive, it was spectacular, it was our Vatican. We got out of the van and filed into a line. We were using the buddy system and held hands with each other while we crossed the street. My brother and I started to drift because we were breaking our necks staring up at the marvelous structure. We got inside and ate lunch in a meeting room. The chairs were comfy and smooth, the ambient lighting was soft on the eyes, and the smell… Oh, the smell of concessions being cooked. The quiet buzz of people filing in. The feeling we got when we knew there was something much greater and more important than us was overwhelming.
After devouring our lunch, we went down to the locker room for a meet and great with the players. Some children were really excited to meet their favorite players. Some children were running around, hiding in the lockers. My brother and I, just lost in the moment, kind of stood in the middle of the room, waiting for something to happen. Without warning, a really tall black man came over and put his massive hands in ours and asked us our names. While he was talking to us, I noticed his cool long shorts, and clean cut, brand new Pacers jersey. What stood out, however, was this man’s tiny afro haircut, sharp teeth, and protruding ears. He was by far the oddest man we had ever seen, but also the nicest, most inviting, most soft spoken man we had ever met too.
The Pacers won that night. The man with the funny ears had put on a show. My brother spent most of the time playing around with classmates, but I was engrossed. I fell in love that night. My first true love. I fell in love with basketball, with the Indiana Pacers, and with a tall, skinny, funny looking man that would become the face of the Pacers and the face of Indiana for 18 wonderful years. People sometimes can’t even mention the franchise without first mentioning his name.
As I matured and as I grew older, so did that man and so did the Indiana Pacers. That player eventually retired and the Pacers got a new face and a new building. I cried when the Arena was demolished. Not because I was sad that a historic building was being eradicated, but because I could finally bury those bad moments from our childhood under the rubble that once stood at 300 Market Street. My brother and I, whenever we get in touch and begin talking about our childhoods, he can’t remember that night we first stepped into Market Square Arena. We still bond over Pacers basketball, though. It takes us back to that place that we could escape to. It takes us back to a place far, far from the trailer park that was just pure. No matter what we do the rest of our lives, no matter how far we are from each other or this state, we will always have Indiana and we will always have the Pacers.
