In my lone season covering the Pacers, I lived my driveway dream, saw Superman cry

Let’s go back to the beginning.

I’m at my grandma’s house in Chicago surrounded by family when my phone rings. I recognize the name, my heart starts pounding and I pretend that I left something in my car so I can sneak away. As I rush out the door and answer the phone, Nat Newell – my editor for the past nine months – is on the other end. We exchange pleasantries and then he tells me the news that I’d 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 it in and tell Nat I’d have a response for him the next day. Of course I would accept, but I 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 leads from my grandma’s front yard to the backyard, and when I was a kid, my cousins and I would roll out their basketball hoop and play on it all day in the summer. In fact, youngsters from all over the neighborhood used to come over, each one of us proudly declaring we’d make it to the NBA.

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I never thought that over a decade later I’d be in the same spot with my driveway dream – albeit different than I envisioned – unfolding right before my eyes. Or maybe I should say our driveway dream because it's so much bigger than me.

After going back inside my grandma’s house, I carried on as if nothing happened and waited until my dad, mom, twin sister and I drove back to our home in Romeoville, Illinois, before finally sharing the news with them first.

My sister immediately gave me a bearhug and my mama was legitimately speechless, but the most powerful reaction came from my father. Seconds after I told him, “I’m going to the NBA,” and it was no longer a driveway dream, he just started crying, running around our house and crying.

As the 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 – always sacrificing, always grinding and always making a way. He used to jokingly call himself Superman and wear Superman T-shirts to work, but that night he was just a man overjoyed about 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 every day and motivated me to give my all. Was I perfect? Not even close. But that was never my goal.

My goal was to honor the opportunity, and I believe my work reflects my commitment. From my feature on undrafted rookie Keifer Sykes’ improbable journey to the NBA, to my piece on No. 6 pick Bennedict Mathurin and his sister, who are driven by their late brother, I strived to bring you all stories you couldn’t find anywhere else.

Throughout that process, I also learned a lot about sacrifice. As a beat writer, most people don’t see you waking up at 3 a.m. to catch a flight, being the last one to leave the arena on game days or when you forget what time zone you’re in so you end up calling your loved ones super early or late just to hear their voice.

My dad never complained if I woke him up, though, and I hardly did either. How could I? For the past nine months on the Pacers beat, everything that once seemed nearly impossible was real. I asked questions to LeBron James and Stephen Curry – arguably the two greatest players of this generation – accidentally bumped into Jayson Tatum after making a wrong turn in the bowels of TD Garden and sat next to Hall-of-Famer Joe Dumars at a Summer League game in Las Vegas.

But regardless of what stars I crossed paths with, the coolest moment of my time covering the Pacers was when I saw Superman – my father, Jessie Boyd – cry tears of pure happiness. IndyStar orchestrated that, turning my driveway dream into reality, and as I embark on a new chapter, I close this one with nothing but gratitude.

This article originally appeared on Indianapolis Star: Pacers beat writer James Boyd says goodbye, thanks, IndyStar