A Summer of Hope
Words by Ian Levy
Illustration by Bryan Mastergeorge
Sports fandom is an emotional marketplace whose primary currency is hope. Each fan brings their own individual balance of supply and demand. Each team (theoretically) plays in the pursuit of a championship but also holds the responsibility for feeding this demand. Teams that can compete for a championship do, and proximity to greatness manufactures hope. For these teams who are closer to the margins than to a title, creating hope takes some work.
This emotional currency, hope, comes in two distinct varieties: present and future.
Hope for the present is visceral and immediate. This could be our year, and all that. It is created by a team with a strong foundation and is inflated by reasonably tangible possibilities. If this new veteran we signed can just stay healthy. If this young player can just take the leap. If our bench can score enough points. If our coach can get this team to buy into a system tweak. If we can just find that one missing piece at the trade deadline.
Hope for the future is a little more indefinite. We might actually be building something here, and other mantras of delusion. It is the currency of teams that have been shattered by a personnel loss, or have suffered through some years of wandering in the desert. Hope for the future is something that needs to be sold, although there is almost always a market for it, no matter how bleak the scenario. Hope for the future is assets and draft picks, raw talent and cap space. It is players stashed in Europe and long, tall athletes who run like gazelles but can’t make a jumpshot.
The quality and quantity of hope available to fans ebbs and flows throughout the year. But summer, right now, is when the market peaks. There are 30 NBA teams. Only one will win the title next season, and only a handful can claim a legitimate chance. Fourteen teams will not make the playoffs and many of those will be abjectly terrible. And yet, hope is everywhere you look.
*****
I am a fan — albeit it a rational and pragmatic one — of the Indiana Pacers. My relationship with the team began in the early 90s and, with just one NBA Finals appearance during that stretch, it has largely been fed by hope.
Reggie Miller was what brought me to the Pacers and for years he served as a singular font of optimism. With his clutch shooting, his heroic self-confidence, anything was possible. It turned out that a championship, for a variety of reasons, was actually not possible. So my focus shifted, to Al Harrington, Austin Croshere, Jonathan Bender, Jermaine O’Neal, Ron Artest. Then to Mike Dunleavy, Troy Murphy, Danny Granger, Paul George and three-pointers in bulk. Then to bulk itself and a most forceful defense.
And now this summer, for the first time in a long time, I am having trouble investing in the hope that the Pacers are offering. George Hill has become Jeff Teague. Ian Mahinmi has become Al Jefferson. Thad Young is here, trading the future hope of a draft pick for the present hope of an established veteran. Indiana has acquired three good to very good NBA players for the cost of two very good NBA players and a draft pick. Maybe the team is a little better -- Teague is a very good shot creator, Jefferson should be able to pound second-unit centers in the post, Young is an upgrade over anyone who played power forward for Indiana last year and his athleticism should allow them to play uptempo. On the other hand, they may be a little bit worse. The Pacers have swapped out two of the their three best defenders. There are now real concerns about spacing and a lack of outside shooting.
Of course, those are all problems of projection and strategy. My real unease with this Pacers’ offseason comes from the chronology of the plan. The Indiana Pacers are offering me a chance to buy in (emotionally) on a team that might be pretty good this season, a team that could theoretically catch a few breaks, find a missing piece, and end up near the top of the Eastern Conference. They are offering me hope for the present. What they’re selling smells a little fishy to me, but it’s also not what I am in the market for.
No matter how much optimism I force upon myself, I can’t help but see the ceiling on this team. I want a team with no ceiling. I want hope for the future.
8