The air, usually a whirr of anticipation, crackled with a unique, almost palpable tension on June 22.
Game 7 of the NBA Finals. For all of the marbles. The first championship in franchise history within our grasp. It was more than a game; it was the culmination of a season, a promise, a dream shared by a state that bleeds, breeds and breathes and basketball.
Then, only seven minutes into the first quarter, the world seemed to seize. A collective gasp, sharp and agonizing, reverberated through the Paycom Center and Gainbridge Fieldhouse, spilling out into silent watch parties across Indianapolis and beyond.
Our star, Tyrese Haliburton, lay on the court, Achilles ruptured, pounding the hardwood in agony and disappointment. The air left our lungs in a deflating rush. Jaws dropped. Tears, hot and uncontrollable, began to flow, blurring the impossible scene before us.
As a sports reporter who has covered the Pacers for many seasons, I’ve had the pleasure and privilege of witnessing the ebbs and flows of this franchise and, more recently, watching Tyrese Haliburton specifically catalyze its ascent to new heights.
I was here before Sacramento traded him, covering a team with potential but missing that undeniable spark. I had the pleasure of watching him grow from a promising, young, flashy passer into the undisputed leader of this team, seeing the potential in his game unfold into something truly special, something that mirrored the fast-paced, high-octane vision Rick Carlisle had for this unit.
I was there when he signed his max contract, not just a formality but a profound statement of belief in his future and, more importantly, in ours. It cemented his place as the cornerstone, the heartbeat of a new era of Pacers basketball. I was there for the Pascal Siakam trade, the bold, calculated risk that sent shockwaves through the league and signaled our true intentions: we weren’t just rebuilding for tomorrow; we were aiming to win now.
And while I may not have been in every single seat, I was present for virtually every game of the regular season and this improbable, exhilarating playoff run — covering the nail-biting early rounds that tested our resolve, all the way to the Eastern Conference Finals where we battled against titans, and then, gloriously, to the NBA Finals. I witnessed countless timeouts, many late nights at my desk, clacking away at the computer after a Pacers win or loss, often burning the midnight oil as I filed my stories, capturing every high and every agonizing low.
That night, in undoubtedly the biggest game of his life, a championship moment, a historical breakthrough, was stolen from him. From us. It was a brutal, cruel twist of fate that felt like a punch to the gut of an entire state. A state was robbed of its crowning moment. The pure basketball fan, regardless of allegiance, was robbed of seeing a phenomenal player compete on the sport’s biggest stage for the ultimate prize.
No place fell on deaf ears harder; no pain resonated more deeply than in Indianapolis. My city. Our city.
Even though the injury struck early in the first quarter, the Pacers, remarkably, fought on, finding a way to take a single-point lead into halftime. In that brief intermission, I needed to clear my head. Still emotional from the injury. I took a drive, and what I saw cemented the depth of this city’s investment: zero traffic. Not a car in sight. Everyone, it seemed, was glued to their televisions and their radios, holding their breath, daring to believe we could still pull this off and bring a title home.
I recall Game 4 here in Indianapolis.
Across from my media seat sat a young Pacers fan, a kid who, through his sheer presence, philosophically embodied the very essence of what we experienced Sunday night. Every up and down of that game, which we ultimately lost, played across his face: the anxious hope, the nervous energy with every missed shot, the palpable sorrow of defeat. He was truly invested.
That kid, I am certain, will remember that heartbreak forever, just as the city will remember the anguish of a Game 7. The same type of angst, the same desperate hope, the same profound woe of losing — that was our shared experience.
But let me be absolutely clear, Tyrese: please know that the city is not upset with you. Not for a single, fleeting moment. How could we be? We are heartbroken for you. Our tears are for your pain, for your lost opportunity, for the cruel hand destiny dealt you. We are overwhelmingly, unequivocally proud of you.
We are proud of Pascal Siakam, who embraced this city and our mission with open arms. We are proud of T.J. McConnell, whose relentless grit and heart embody everything we love about this team. We are proud of Myles Turner, who has trusted the process for more than a decade. We are proud of Andrew Nembhard, Aaron Nesmith and Bennedict Mathurin, who are part of the entire team.
You are more than just a collection of players; you are a band of brothers who went to war every single night. You embraced the underdog role, reaching the mountain top despite the constant claims of being overrated and a ‘fake all-star’ — I remember Wally Szczerbiak’s dismissive words vividly, and you silenced them all with your play, with your leadership, with your undeniable impact. You were counted out by every big-headed sports figure, every biased outlet, every pundit who underestimated your collective will and talent.
Yet, you proved them all wrong, game after game, series after series. That journey, that defiance, that unwavering belief in yourselves, is something truly special.
Nothing embodies the spirit of being a Hoosier more than that fight, that resilience, that unwavering belief in yourselves when the world doubted you. It’s a spirit rooted in hard work, quiet determination, showing up every day and proving what you’re capable of. That’s who we are as a state, and this team, this season, truly captured that Hoosier essence.
On behalf of the city, thank you, Tyrese.
Thank you, Rick. Thank you to Pascal, T.J., Myles, and every single player, coach and staff member. Thank you to the entire organization for putting the world on notice that the Indiana Pacers are a force to be reckoned with. Thank you for reminding everyone that in 49 other states, it might just be basketball. But here, this is Indiana.
Here, it’s something more profound, something deeper, a part of our identity.
Your city stands with you, not just in this moment of shared grief, but every step of your recovery and beyond. We eagerly await your return, ready to write the next chapter of this incredible story together.
Get well soon, brother.
Contact Multi-Media & Senior Sports Reporter Noral Parham at 317-762-7846 or via email at noralp@indyrecorder.com. Follow him on TikTok @HorsemenSportsMedia. For more sports, click here.
Noral Parham is the multi-media & senior sports reporter for the Indianapolis Recorder, one of the oldest Black publications in the country. Parham has worked with various leagues to provide a diverse perspective in sports, including the Big Ten, Big East, IHSAA, IndyCar, MLB, NHRA, NFL, NBA, WNBA, WWE and the Olympics. Prior to joining the Recorder, Parham served as the community advocate of the MLK Center in Indianapolis and senior copywriter for an e-commerce and marketing firm in Denver.
