1998 Eastern Conference Semifinals vs Knicks

Lore & Background

The 1997-98 lockout compressed the regular season to 50 games, and the playoff bracket felt more like a gauntlet than a tournament. Teams had fewer rest days, fewer exhibition warm-ups, and the physical toll of a condensed schedule meant that series like this one were decided as much by legs and lungs as by Xs and Os. The Pacers, a team built around Miller's scoring and Smits' stretch-four game, had to match up against a Knicks roster that could score on the perimeter with Houston and Starks while still owning the glass with Ewing and Larry Johnson. The series was defined by contrast. Indiana lived on the wings—Miller's step-back threes, Vaughn's quickness, the pace they could push on the road. New York lived in the paint and the mid-range, a team that wanted to slow the game down, rebound, and hit a 16-footer over your head. Every game in the series carried the tension of those two philosophies colliding, and the crowd noise in Garden City games turned the arena into a cauldron that made road shooting an act of faith. For Pacers loyalists, the series also lives in the memory of Al Harrington's rookie year—watching a 23-year-old big man go toe-to-toe with Ewing and Larry Johnson, drawing charges, fighting for position, and showing the franchise that the next generation was arriving even as the Reggie-and-Rik era was in its twilight. It was a bridge series: the last time the old Pacers identity (Miller, Smits, Vaughn) met the new one (Harrington, and the players who would follow) in a high-stakes playoff setting.

In Their Own Story

The arena was a pressure cooker. You could feel the humidity in the air, the way the crowd noise didn't stop between possessions but rolled in waves, each one crashing over the next. Miller caught the ball at the top of the key, the arc of the pass still visible in the arena lights. He dribbled once, twice. The Knicks' defender was a half-step in front, hands up, but Miller wasn't looking at the rim yet. He looked at the scorer's table. He looked at the clock. Then he looked at the rim. The step-back was slow. Deliberate. The kind of move that only works because you've done it four hundred times in practice and four hundred times in games and the defender's hips know it's coming before his feet do. The release was high, almost lazy, the ball spinning up into the rafters of the Garden. The net snapped. The crowd inured itself to silence for one heartbeat before the roar came back, and Miller was already turning, already jogging back on defense, face unreadable, as if he'd just made a free throw. In the locker room afterward, the silence was different. It was the silence of a team that had done everything right and still wasn't enough. Smits was already in his towel, eyes closed. Vaughn was bouncing a ball against the floor, over and over, not looking at anyone. And Harrington, the rookie, was sitting on the bench with his knees up, listening to the muffled sounds of the next team's warm-up through the wall. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. He'd seen what it took. He'd seen what it cost.

Reader's Guide

1998 Eastern Conference First Round – Indiana Pacers at New York Knicks. The Garden is at full capacity, the hardwood gleaming under the arena lights, and the series is on the line with both teams nursing bruised legs from a lockout-shortened grind. The ball is inbounded. Ewing sets a screen at the top, his back a wall of shoulder and neck, and Houston slips off it for a catch-and-shoot. The Pacers' defender is a half-step late. Houston rises, the ball leaving his fingertips in a high, flat arc. The rim shakes. The Garden detonates. On the other end, Miller catches at the elbow, reads the rotation, and fires a skip pass to Vaughn cutting the lane. Vaughn rises for a running layup, but Ewing is already there, a long arm extended, the ball deflecting off his palm and caroming off the backboard. The rebound is a three-man scramble—Harrington, Johnson, Ewing—bodies tangled, sneakers squealing on the hardwood. Ewing pulls it down, tucks it, and the crowd swells. The broadcast voice is flat, clinical: "Ewing secures the glass, and New York will push the pace." In the stands, a Pacers fan in a faded #31 jersey presses his palms against his eyes. The series is slipping. The Garden roars, and the sound doesn't stop for a full minute, a wall of noise that you feel in your sternum before you hear it. The season is short. The window is closing. And everyone in that arena knows it.

Did You Know?

• The 1997-98 season was cut to just 50 games due to the lockout, meaning teams had fewer rest days and the physical toll of back-to-back playoff games was significantly higher than in a full 82-game season.
• Al Harrington, drafted in 1997, was in his rookie season during this series, giving him his first taste of playoff basketball against one of the league's most physical frontcourts.
• The Knicks' 1997-98 roster featured a rare combination of size (Ewing, Larry Johnson) and perimeter scoring (Houston, Starks) that made them one of the most difficult defensive matchups in the Eastern Conference that yea