Let’s go back to the beginning.
I’m at my grandmother’s house in Chicago surrounded by my family when my phone rings. I recognize the name, my heart starts pounding, and I pretend I left something in my car so I can sneak out. As I rush out and answer the phone, Nat Newell, my editor for the last nine months, is on the other end. We exchange pleasantries and then he tells me the news he had been praying for: IndyStar would like to hire me as their new Pacers beat writer.
I almost can’t believe it and want to scream at the top of my lungs, but I hold back and tell Nat I’ll have an answer for him tomorrow. Of course he would agree, but he just needed one night, one chance, to reflect.
When the call ended, I stood there and looked around. There’s a long concrete driveway that runs from my grandmother’s front yard to the backyard, and when I was a kid, my cousins and I would unfold her basketball hoop and play on it all day in the summer. In fact, kids from all over the neighborhood used to come and each of us would proudly declare that he was going to make it to the NBA.
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I never thought that more than a decade later I would be in the same place with my dream from the beginning, although different from what I imagined, unfolding before my eyes. Or maybe I should say our entrance dream.
After returning to my grandmother’s house, I carried on as if nothing had happened and waited until my dad, mom, twin sister, and I got back to our home in Romeoville, Illinois before finally breaking the news to them first.
My sister immediately gave me a bear hug and my mom was speechless, but the most powerful reaction came from my dad. Seconds after I told him “I’m going to the NBA,” and it wasn’t a dream to begin with, he just started crying, running around our house and crying.
As tears streamed down his face, that was probably the proudest moment of my life and perhaps the clearest I’ve ever seen my dad. Growing up, he was my superhero: he always sacrificed, he always pushed himself, and he always made his way. He used to jokingly call himself Superman and wear Superman shirts to work, but that night he was just a man happy for his son.
I have IndyStar to thank for that.
When I started this job last November, my father’s tears were in the back of my mind and motivated me to give it my all every day. Was he perfect? Not even close. But that was never my goal.
My goal was to seize the opportunity and I think my work reflects my commitment. From my article on undrafted rookie Keifer Sykes’ unlikely journey to the NBA, to my article on No. 6 pick Bennedict Mathurin and his sister, who are coached by their late brother, I’ve done my best to bring you all the stories you couldn’t find. nowhere. plus.
Throughout that process, I also learned a lot about sacrifice. As a beat writer, most people don’t see that you wake up at 3am. loved ones super early or late just to hear your voice.
However, my dad never complained if I woke him up, and neither did I. How could he? During the past nine months on the Pacers beat, everything that once seemed nearly impossible was real. I asked questions of LeBron James and Stephen Curry, arguably the two greatest players of this generation, accidentally collided with Jayson Tatum after taking a wrong turn in the bowels of TD Garden, and sat next to Hall of Famer Joe Dumars on a Summer League. play.
However, regardless of the stars I came across, the coolest moment of all was when I saw Superman, my father, Jessie Boyd, cry tears of pure happiness. IndyStar orchestrated that, turning my dream into a reality, and as I embark on a new chapter, I close this one with nothing but gratitude.