Once, in 1998, I was exposed to actual Hoosiers.
That’s the demonym for people who live in Indiana, and the Hoosiers working at a random Wendy’s on my drive from Connecticut to Missouri served a mean burger. Midwesterners, as you know, don’t mess around when it comes to clogging arteries in a tasty way, and those amiable employees didn’t disappoint.
On that late-20th-century day, I, like many, made Indiana a place one drives through to get somewhere else. It could be on the way to Ohio or Illinois—or even Michigan or Kentucky.
The reality, however, is that the state is more than just a highway through a farm.
If divvied up in thirds from north to south, the northern third is distinctly Great Lakes material. Envision Chicago suburbs (in the northwest), the Rust Belt (think Gary, home of Michael Jackson), and a sprinkling of intellect (think Notre Dame). Somewhere around there are a bunch of Amish.
The middle third is standard Midwest, anchored by the capital Indianapolis, home to bland types like Mike Pence. This slice, on the other hand, did also give us David Letterman and a sizable car race to chat about. An hour south lies Bloomington, home to Indiana University and a handful of supposedly liberal people.
The southern third is full of rolling hills, dark red counties, and Scots-Irish. In other words, it’s basically Kentucky. It’s the part of the state that birthed Larry Bird and the dude from a small town who sang about being from a small town.
It also has a miniscule reminder of how overlooking a region can make us miss the tales that move us. That little dot is the town of Milan, inspiration for the greatest sports movie of all time, as in the one that taught me everything I need to know about life.
I’m talking, of course, about Hoosiers.
Back in 1954, all high schools in Indiana played basketball in just one class. That meant tiny towns—and schools—faced off against the big boys in the annual state basketball tournament. And that year, David (Milan) beat Goliath (Muncie). A town of about one thousand took down a city 60 times the size, and in a state obsessed with basketball, it was a huge deal.
By 1986, Hollywood got a hold of the story and made some tweaks.
According to them, the year was apparently 1951.
The town was apparently Hickory, somewhere in the southern Indiana cornfields.
And Gene Hackman was apparently a good basketball coach, albeit one with a volatile temper and checkered past in upstate New York that had him banned from coaching—until receiving one last chance.
Barbara Hershey was a teacher at Hickory, one determined to protect the school’s best player from the black hole of small-town basketball, emphasizing instead the academics that would get him out of dodge.
Dennis Hopper was the town drunk. He also happened to be the father of a player and an occasional assistant coach.
Hackman’s unconventional tactics irked the townsfolk, and several early-season losses only exacerbated the tension.
Meanwhile, Hershey began to see past the caricature and noted a nuanced man, otherwise known as a potential romantic partner.
When the town held a vote to dismiss Hackman, she defended him, and the player she had been shielding indicated he would return to the team—but only if Hackman stayed on as coach.
Despite a Hopper relapse, the team turned it around and landed in the state championship at Butler Fieldhouse in Indianapolis, matched up against the titans from South Bend.
Just prior to the final buzzer, Hickory’s star buried a shot from the same exact spot that the star of Milan High School had made his non-fictional buzzer beater.
Everyone went crazy.
And I cried.
But why?
What was it about this highly fictionalized account of kids playing with a ball that brought me to tears?
It was, without a doubt, the bundle of life lessons.
Small towns can be depressing—and liberating.
Judgement can be fierce—and meaningless.
Life can imitate art—and art life.
Everything starts—and ends—in upstate New York.
The narrative of the underdog is timeless.
Redemption is oh so sweet.
And finally, there are stories everywhere—are we taking the time to listen?
Thankfully, in 1998, for a very brief moment, I did. The greasy snack is long gone, but to this day, the voices of those kind Hoosiers remain.
