May 20, 2000, Boston, New Garden.
Game 2 of the Eastern Conference Finals kicked off amidst the roar of nearly 20,000 fans at the home arena.
In the locker room before the game, Doc Rivers pounded on the whiteboard, repeatedly emphasizing, "Don't give Miller any breathing room. Continue with the defensive strategy from last game, but tonight, I want you to play even more aggressively."
The game started with a high-pressure pace set by the Celtics. As the Pacers ' key perimeter player, Reggie Miller immediately felt immense defensive pressure.
Eddie Jones was like an unyielding leech, constantly plastering on Miller and using physical contact to wear him down. Whenever the Pacers tried to create an open shot for Miller through a screen, Garnett would always be a step ahead with his superior mobility, using his long arms to disrupt Miller's receiving route. Even if Miller drove into the paint using a screen, Mutombo would immediately spread his arms to help defend, completely blocking his layup angle.
Miller tirelessly crisscrossed the half, trying to find opportunities to receive the ball among the defenders, but the Celtics ' defensive rotations were almost flawless.
After the first quarter, Miller was 0-for-5 from the field.
In the second quarter, he went 0-for-3 again.
He took eight shots in the first half but failed to score a single point.
During halftime, the away team's locker room was unusually quiet. Miller sat in front of a locker in the corner, a towel draped around his neck, his hands covering his face, saying nothing.
Larry Bird Larry Bird stood in front of the whiteboard, looking at his demoralized players. He took a deep breath, his tone still calm. "Hold your heads up, we still have a chance. Play with more patience in the second half, and set better screens..."
But the situation did not improve in the second half.
The Celtics ' defense was highly targeted; Miller would be double-teamed as soon as he received the ball, and his vision for jumping and shooting was completely blocked.
"Beep..."
The final whistle blew, and the red light came on.
The scoreboard showed 98-85, with the Celtics winning another game.
Reggie Miller walked toward the player tunnel, where his stats for the game were displayed on the big screen: 2-for-13 shooting, scoring only 6 points.
In two consecutive games, Indiana's leading scorer has been completely contained in Boston.
With the series down 0-2, the Pacers are in a completely passive position.
May 21, 2000, 3:00 AM.
Reggie Miller stared at the shadows on the ceiling. The streetlights streaming through the blinds were cut into dim stripes, falling on half of the bed.
For the past four hours, his brain has been uncontrollably replaying the scenes from several hours earlier.
0-for-8 shooting in the first half.
He made 2 of 13 shots, scoring 6 points.
For a shooter accustomed to dominating games in the playoffs, this statistic is so glaring it keeps him up at night. He can even vividly recall the suffocating feeling of each shot... Eddie Jones' relentless physical contact, Garnett's long arms that could cover the basket at any moment, and the dull "clang" of the basketball hitting the rim.
The helplessness he felt sitting on the bench when he was substituted in the fourth quarter intertwined with the suffocating silence in the locker room after the game. His teammates didn't say anything, but that silence itself was a heavy burden.
He is 35 years old this year.
This fact is more unsettling than "0 for 8". After 13 seasons, this may be his last chance to reach the NBA Finals. If he can't get past Boston this year, the door to the championship may be closed forever.
Miller rolled over, his gaze falling in the dim light on the framed photo on the bedside table. It was a picture taken in 1995 against the Knicks, showing him making that famous "chokehold" gesture at Madison Square Garden.
He was 30 years old at the time, at the peak of his career, and thought he had plenty of time to win everything.
But now, at 35, the tightness in his back and the deep ache in his knees are a constant, relentless reminder that time is running out.
Miller glanced at the wall clock. The team had practice at 5 p. m. today. But he couldn't wait until then.
He threw back the covers and sat up in the darkness. He was going to the gym now.
5 a. m., Conseco Fieldhouse Indianapolis.
The vast venue was empty and silent, with only the emergency exit signs emitting a faint green glow. The air was filled with the smell of floor wax and air conditioning.
Miller, wearing a gray hooded training uniform and carrying a heavy net bag, pushed open the heavy door to the players' tunnel. He walked to the sidelines and pressed the master switch.
With a soft "snap," blinding daylight poured down, illuminating the new arena that had only been completed at the end of last year. The light-colored maple floors were spotless, the dark blue basketball hoops stood solemnly, and the yellow and blue seats resembled a sleeping ocean. This was Indiana territory.
Miller walked to center court and took a deep breath. He pulled a basketball from the net and began dribbling.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sound of the basketball hitting the wooden floor echoed lonely under the empty dome. He dribbled all the way to the right wing three-point line, then suddenly stopped, lowered his shoulder, jumped, and flicked his wrist.
Swish.
Hollow core into the net.
Miller ran over expressionlessly, picked up the ball, returned to his position, and shot again. Swish. Swish.
For the next two hours, the only interaction within this massive steel structure was between him and the basketball hoop. From the right wing to the top of the key, from the left wing to the corner, he took ten shots from each spot, and the basketball almost always swished through the net.
But Miller's brow remained furrowed. He knew perfectly well that a high shooting percentage when open was meaningless. Last night in Boston, he simply didn't have that kind of space to jump with ease.
7 a. m.
The arena doors slowly opened. Larry Bird Larry Bird walked in, holding a steaming cup of black coffee. He looked at Miller, who was sweating profusely on the court, and raised an eyebrow slightly.
"When did you arrive?" Larry Bird's voice wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the empty arena.
Miller didn't stop shooting; he simply uttered two words: "Five o'clock."
Larry Bird took a sip of coffee, strolled over to the coaching bench, and sat down. "Two hours into the game?"
"Um."
Larry Bird didn't say anything more, just watched quietly as Miller completed another set of corner three-pointers. Then he spoke, "Come sit down for a bit, Reggie."
Miller hesitated for a moment, stopped what he was doing, picked up the ball and walked off the court, sitting down next to Larry Bird. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the floor.
The two remained silent for a moment.
"You know what?" Larry Bird broke the silence, looking at the basket, "Back in the 1981 NBA Finals against Houston, I went 1-for-8."
Miller's towel, used to wipe his sweat, stopped in mid-air as he turned to look at the head coach.
"I remember it was Game 2 of the NBA Finals." Larry Bird's tone was flat, as if he were talking about someone else. "I only scored 6 points in that game. After the game, in the locker room, that kid McHale came up to me and said, ' Larry Bird, you played like a high schooler tonight.' I really wanted to punch him in the face."
Miller's tense face finally relaxed, and he smiled slightly.
"But do you know what I did in the next game?" Larry Bird turned to Miller, looking him straight in the eye. "I scored 27 points and grabbed 10 rebounds. I brought them back to reality."
Miller fell silent.
Larry Bird raised his hand and pointed onto the court. "Remember that series against New York in 1995?"
Miller nodded.
"In that series, your average off-ball movement distance was the highest in the entire league." Larry Bird's voice was steady and powerful. "You kept going around screens, kept cutting along the baseline, and you wore John Starks Reggie down. You can reduce your ball-handling even further. All you need to do is run, catch the ball, and then shoot. That's your most lethal weapon."
Miller closed his eyes. Memories of 1995 flooded his mind; back then, he was full of energy, running the entire court for 40 minutes without feeling tired. But now he was 35. Facing Boston's young defensive monsters, could he still run with that same relentless energy?
As if seeing through Miller's inner struggle, Larry Bird looked at him and said, "You can still run. Your stamina is better than most 30-year-old players in the league. And..."
Larry Bird paused, his tone becoming serious. "This might be our last chance."
Miller opened his eyes and met Larry Bird's gaze.
" Reggie, tonight is our home court," Larry Bird said, pointing to the floor beneath his feet. "If we can't even defend our own home, this series is truly over."
Miller took a deep breath, his chest heaving, and tossed the towel onto the seat next to him. "I understand."
"So tonight," Larry Bird stood up, looking down at his captain, "I want you to fight like you did in 1995. Run, catch, shoot. Run the guy guarding you until he breaks down."
Miller stood up as well, the hesitation from the previous night completely gone from his eyes, and nodded firmly. "I will."
Larry Bird patted Miller on the shoulder and turned to walk towards the door. Halfway there, he stopped and turned back to say something.
"And Reggie."
"Um?"
"Don't come to the gym at 5 a. m. anymore. You need to rest."