Miller made a franchise- city matter

Basketball is only a game, a simple game actually. Take a ball, put it in the hoop, repeat. The game doesn’t solve life’s problems. The game doesn’t stop a war or feed hungry children or give shelter to the homeless. It’s simply a game. It shouldn’t mean as much to so many people as it does.

Reginald Wayne Miller is just man who could put a ball in a hoop. He shouldn’t mean as much to a franchise, a city, a state as he does. He shouldn’t be this important, but he is.
Last Thursday night, my favorite basketball player played his last game as an Indiana Pacer. In a valiant effort, Reggie Miller scored 27 points on 11/16 shooting, draining four three-pointers (his signature shot) in a nine point loss to the World Champion Detroit Pistons. The 39 year old marksman shot every last bullet he had left.

Pacers fans like myself will remember that night as very bittersweet. Losing to your rival is nothing to be proud about, but after everything this franchise and the city of Indianapolis have been through since “The Brawl” on November 19th, Reggie didn’t let us go quietly. He reminded us that he still had game. That he still could persevere through these obstacles. That he “tried”. That’s all we could ask from the skinny kid with the killer jump-shot and no other great skill. He tried and we loved him for it.

I still remember my father taking me to games in the late 80s, when the team couldn’t fill up Market Square Arena and had to have curtains hang in the upper deck to make the small crowd look larger. At that time, the Pacers had a culture of losing in the NBA. The ABA glory days were over a decade in the past and no Pacer team had made an imprint in the NBA. Indiana had nothing in professional basketball to hold onto, to embrace, to love. In such a basketball crazed state, this fact was quite embarrassing. Then, along came Reggie, to the dismay of most of the state who wanted native son Steve Alford, to “try” and make his mark in this game. Little did I know as a little boy that I would be watching a basketball legend before my very eyes.

Although he stood 6’7″, Reggie is a little guy. He wasn’t quick or explosive. He wasn’t athletic or agile. He was a player most people could relate to. He took the one skill he had and worked tirelessly to perfect it. That one skill created some of the NBA’s greatest playoff moments.

While most people will remember the clutch shots in Madison Square Garden, the push-off against Michael Jordan and fading three-pointer against the Bulls, the 40-foot banker against the Nets; Pacers fans will remember him as so much more. He made the city of Indianapolis matter. He made us a `somebody’. For the last decade, three things have had the same meaning. Indianapolis. The Indiana Pacers. Reggie Miller.

That’s why the images of fans crying in Conseco Fieldhouse were so breathtaking to me. I felt like I was in that building. I felt like I was with my deceased dad up in the rafters again watching Reggie run around screens from Chuck Person and LaSalle Thompson. I felt like I was watching TV with my deceased grandfather again watching Reggie drain shot after shot and looking into the screen and saying, “This is for you, Indiana”. Pacers fans around the world were in that building Thursday night. And at the end, we all stood up, wiped the tears from our eyes, clapped and said “Thank you Reggie.” He thanked us back. He tried.

Why did I cry last night? Why? It’s just basketball. It shouldn’t mean that much. Reggie Miller is just a man. He shouldn’t mean that much to our lives.

But he does.