A NBA Finals Ticket Home

I left for Japan in the middle of the NBA playoffs.

Even across the world, I didn't miss a game. I'd wake up early to catch tip-off at 8 a.m.—sometimes I could talk a  hostel staff to stream the game, sometimes I’d find a café just opening its doors, or, more often than not, curled up in bed watching on my iPhone. However I could, I watched them all.

No one expected the Pacers to get out of the first round. We weren’t supposed to beat the Bucks, yet we did, 4-1. Then came the Cavs, the top seed. “No way,” they said. Another 4-1. Then the Knicks in the Conference Finals, 4-2.

Suddenly, the Pacers were headed to the NBA Finals. Our opponent? The Oklahoma City Thunder - favorites since day one. And somehow, we were still standing.

My brother and I have been Pacers fans for as long as I can remember. We grew up watching Reggie Miller light up the court. So when he texted me asking if I wanted to go to Game 3, our first home game of the Finals—I didn’t hesitate.

That text was a big part of the reason I cut my Japan trip short. Less time in Japan, more money in the budget for tickets. It was a big decision. But this was bigger: a once-in-a-lifetime moment, with my brother, in our state.

We watched Games 1 and 2 apart—he in Indiana, me back in Austin, texting non-stop as the series unfolded. Vegas had the Pacers as 12-1 underdogs, until we shocked the world by stealing Game 1 on the road. Game 2 went to the Thunder, tying the series 1-1.

By the time Game 3 rolled around, I was flying into Indy.

We got downtown early, around 1 p.m, just to soak it all in. Lunch, photos with the Finals pop-up signs, the kind of buzz only big events bring to a city. We ducked into an oyster bar across from the arena before doors opened at 4, with the game at 7. 

My brother and I live very different lives, see the world in different ways. But sports has always been a shared language. Sitting there, he ordered a smoky margarita—rare for him, since he never drinks. Later, his wife told me he didn’t even like it. But I already knew. That one drink wasn’t about taste, it was about sharing the moment. Meeting me halfway. It was him saying, “This isn’t just my memory, it’s ours.”

We closed our tab at the jam-packed bar and crossed the street to the arena. First stop: the merch shop. They barely had inventory, like even they didn’t believe the team would make it this far. We grabbed our jerseys, waited in a second line to get the official NBA Finals 2025 patch pressed on,  to grab food in the third line, and then climbed to the top of the stadium to find our seats.

High up or not, it didn’t matter. I could see everything. I could feel everything. I’ve been to dozens of Pacers games, but this was different.

We traded predictions and betting slips with the fans around us, and soon it was time for tip-off.

Everyone stood—and never sat down again.

We cheered, clapped, stomped, hugged. We screamed for subs, booed bad calls, chanted so loud the noise lived rent-free in the Thunder’s heads. This wasn’t just a crowd. This was an army. We were here.

Right before halftime, TJ McConnell hit a jumper to tie the game. The place exploded.

Nine minutes left in the fourth—we’re down four. We push the ball, pass to Andrew Nembhard—bucket. Down two.

Then McConnell intercepts the inbounds pass and lays it in—tied.

With two minutes left, we’re up six. Myles Turner blocks a shot, Haliburton  throws a half-court pass, Siakam hits a layup on the other end. The Thunder’s morale visibly breaks.

Final score: Pacers by nine.

The arena erupted. The chants didn’t stop as we left our seats, didn’t stop as we walked through the concourse, didn’t stop on the streets of Indy. Cars honked, strangers high-fived, bars stayed open late. The city felt electric.

I’ve never been to a Finals game before. But I’m grateful my first was this one: a gritty, glorious win with the Pacers and with my brother by my side.