I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that this has been the best NBA Finals in nearly a decade, and probably a top-three edition this century1.
The drama. The intrigue. The punch-counterpunch. The way the Pacers keep coming and coming and the Thunder keep finding their footing as an impossibly young team thrust not only to the cusp of greatness but burdened by the outsized expectations they’ve earned by performance if not yet by dint of truly becoming champions.
At times, the Thunder have looked good enough to beat not just every team on the planet but teams that stand in the annals of greats in NBA history—Jordan’s Bulls, Russell’s Celtics, the Showtime Lakers, the ‘86 Celtics. And at times, the Thunder have looked like a group of early-to-mid-20s man-children figuring out in real time whether they’ve grown enough to lay claim not just to a title but to the start of a dynasty the likes of which the NBA is no longer supposed to be able to produce.
Their counterparts from Indianapolis have spent large swaths of games—like quarters at a time—looking like complete and total ass. I’ll be the first to admit I thought they were cooked after Game Five—Tyrese Haliburton looked like he was running through cement and the Thunder did whatever they wanted to do with no impediment by a Pacers team that sure appeared to be cooked. When TJ McConnell is your most impactful player in one of the most important games in franchise history, Game Seven really shouldn’t be on the tip of your tongue.
Of course, if Indiana pulls off the shocker on Sunday, they will absolutely build TJ McConnell a statue outside of Gainbridge Fieldhouse.