Nancy Leonard

Wheat Hotchkiss

The Pacers family lost an icon on Wednesday with the passing of Nancy Leonard at the age of 93. The wife of Hall of Fame coach and broadcaster Bob "Slick" Leonard, Nancy played a pivotal role in the franchise's history and was instrumental in ensuring the Pacers remained in Indianapolis.

"Quite simply, we would not be here without her," the Simon family and Pacers Sports & Entertainment said in a statement on Nancy Leonard's passing. "From the earliest days of the franchise, Nancy poured her heart and soul into the team, not just as the wife of Slick Leonard, but as a female trailblazer who rallied the community when we needed it the most."

Mark Montieth told Nancy's life story in great detail in a three-part feature for Pacers.com that originally ran in 2014. Her 70-plus year love story with Slick began when they met as freshmen at Indiana University in the fall of 1950. They were married four years later, would have five children, and were together every step of the way on their lifelong basketball journey, including Slick's seven-year NBA career as a player and joining the Pacers in the franchise's infancy when Slick took over as head coach in 1968.

Under Slick's coaching, the Pacers were the ABA's most successful franchise, winning three championships in 1970, 1972, and 1973. They won all three championships on the road and Nancy was there for all three of them.

"One of her favorite memories is standing in the tunnel that led from the Pacers' locker room to the court before Game 6 in L.A. [in 1970], nervously awaiting tipoff," Montieth wrote. "Roger Brown, the last player out, sauntered by and said, 'You look like you're about to go to the death chamber.' Then he went out and scored 45 points to end the series."

While she wasn't an official team employee during the ABA years, Nancy was instrumental in a number of initiatives behind the scenes. Along with Sandy Knapp, she helped form the Pacemates – the first dance team in professional basketball – coaching the team and holding their first practices in the Leonard family basement.

When the Pacers joined the NBA in the ABA/NBA merger in 1976, the team owners asked Nancy to run the front office in an official capacity, hiring her as assistant general manager.

"She was fully in charge of the front office, likely the first woman in the history of professional spots to hold such a responsibility," Montieth wrote. "She downplays it all today, but those around her do not. Slick was the coach and general manager, and made all the basketball decisions. She directed the office of 13 employees and attended league meetings. It might be surprising to some that she was accepted into the formerly male bastion of general managers, but not to those who know her. She tends to command respect."

After that first year in the NBA, Nancy guided the franchise through its most significant crisis. When the ownership group announced it needed to sell 8,000 season tickets for the following season to raise enough money to keep the franchise afloat, Nancy quickly mobilized, organizing The Save the Pacers Telethon which aired on local television from 10 p.m. on July 3 to 2:30 p.m. on July 4, 1977.

The telethon succeeded, keeping the Pacers in Indianapolis. An emotional Nancy revealed on air that they had crossed the 8,000-ticket threshold in the final minutes of the broadcast. She remembered being especially moved by gestures from some of the Pacers' youngest fans.

“That was when I cried,” Nancy told Montieth. “We were right at the number and these kids start coming in with coffee cans. They had gone up and down the street and collected coins. That kind of told me what the community thought about the Pacers, even people who couldn't buy season tickets.”

Nancy's front office tenure and Slick's coaching career came to an end in 1980, but Slick returned to the franchise as a broadcaster a few years later and Nancy came back with him, this time as a fan.

none

She would drive Slick to every home game, continuing a tradition they had from his coaching days (she told a story at his celebration of life in 2021 that she insisted she always drove them to and from games after his aggressive driving after a loss startled her in the passenger seat). Slick would call the games on the radio with Mark Boyle, while Nancy would cheer on the team from the sidelines.

She was a fixture at Pacers home games for the past several decades. Nancy established close relationships with numerous players, coaches, and staff members over the years, even helping many of them purchase houses in her career as a real estate agent.

Nancy remained close to the franchise even after Slick's passing in April 2021. She was asked to be the Pacers' official representative for the 2021 NBA Draft Lottery. Last fall, she participated in a video shoot for the Pacers NBA Cup court, which paid tribute to Slick and his signature phrase of "Boom Baby!"

And at age 93, Leonard was there in her customary seat behind the Pacers' bench during the team's unforgettable run to the 2025 NBA Finals. After Indiana beat the New York Knicks in Game 6 of the Eastern Conference Finals, many players and coaches made a point to embrace Nancy on the sidelines in the midst of the on-court celebration.

After the news of Nancy's passing, star guard Tyrese Haliburton posted a video of his hug with Nancy on social media.

"The First Lady of Indiana basketball," Haliburton wrote. "Before every game, I knew I could count on a wink and a smile behind the bench. There is no Pacers basketball without Nancy Leonard."

Before Game 7 of the NBA Finals, Nancy did a radio interview with Eddie White for the "Around the House" segment of Pacers Weekly. In it, she recalled her emotions earlier that week being in attendance for the Pacers' Game 6 victory at Gainbridge Fieldhouse.

“During the game I looked up into the stands with everybody with their yellow shirts on…and I thought, 'Bob, do you realize that you brought this here?,'" Leonard said. "These people are having a wonderful time because of what you did."

Nancy was right, of course, but she also downplayed her own role. None of the Pacers' success over the last 50 years would have been possible without Nancy Leonard.

"From organizing the now-legendary telethon that helped save the team to being a constant presence courtside as a true superfan, her passion for the organization made her beloved by generations of players, alumni and staff," the Simon Family and Pacers Sports & Entertainment said on Tuesday. "She will always be part of the Pacers family and her legacy will continue to shape who we are. We extend our heartfelt condolences to the Leonard family and all who were touched by Nancy's remarkable life."

nancy-leonard-was-an-indiana-icon-who-left-indelible-imprint-on-the-pacers-organization

Nancy Leonard was an Indiana Icon Who Left Indelible Imprint on the Pacers Organization

INDIANAPOLIS (Sept. 24, 2025) — The Simon Family and Pacers Sports & Entertainment issued the following statement on the passing of Nancy Leonard:

“We are heartbroken to hear of Nancy Leonard’s passing. Quite simply, we would not be here without her. From the earliest days of the franchise, Nancy poured her heart and soul into the team, not just as the wife of Slick Leonard, but as a female trailblazer who rallied the community when we needed it the most. From organizing the now-legendary telethon that helped save the team to being a constant presence courtside as a true superfan, her passion for the organization made her beloved by generations of players, alumni and staff. She will always be part of the Pacers family and her legacy will continue to shape who we are. We extend our heartfelt condolences to the Leonard family and all who were touched by Nancy's remarkable life."

statement-from-the-simon-family-pse-on-the-passing-of-nancy-leonard

Statement from the Simon Family & PS&E on the passing of Nancy Leonard

nbaplatformservices

Nancy Leonard Represents Pacers in 2021 NBA Draft Lottery

nancy-leonard-represents-pacers-in-2021-nba-draft-lottery

The Pacers officially know where they will pick in the 2021 NBA Draft. Indiana did not move up in the NBA Draft Lottery on Tuesday night, so the Blue & Gold will own the 13th overall pick in the Draft, which is scheduled for July 29. The Pacers also own two second-round picks, the 54th and 60th overall selections.

Tuesday's lottery went as expected for the Pacers, who had a 92.9 percent chance of picking 13th entering the night and just a 4.7 percent chance of moving into the top four. This year's lottery telecast was held remotely and the Pacers were represented by the legendary Nancy Leonard, a former team executive and the wife of the late Hall of Fame coach and broadcaster Bobby "Slick" Leonard. Leonard participated in the lottery from her home.

This will be the highest the Pacers have picked in the Draft since 2011, when they selected Myles Turner with the 11th overall pick.

The Pacers have had the 13th pick three previous times in franchise history. They drafted Dudley Bradley 13th in 1979, took Dale Davis with the pick in 1991, and selected Tyler Hansbrough in the slot in 2009.

The Detroit Pistons secured the first overall pick in Tuesday's lottery. Houston will pick second, Cleveland third, and Toronto fourth.

pacers-to-pick-13th-in-2021-nba-draft

Pacers to Pick 13th in 2021 NBA Draft

Slick Leonard Celebration of Life: Nancy Leonard Speech

slick-leonard-celebration-of-life-nancy-leonard-speech

indgrapp08

without-slick-and-nancy-leonard-where-would-the-pacers-be

Without Slick and Nancy Leonard, Where Would the Pacers Be?

indmmontieth

Part 3 of a 3-part series on Nancy Leonard's instrumental role in Pacers history.

Part 1 focuses on Nancy and Slick Leonard's early life, up through Slick's hiring as head coach of the Pacers. Read Part 1 »

Part 2 focuses on Nancy's work in the front office and her role in keeping the Pacers in Indianapolis.  Read Part 2 »

The franchise saved, the Leonards returned to the dirty work of the day to day operations. Although the bills could be paid, the financial issues didn't magically disappear because of the telethon. Slick was the coach and general manager, and handled all basketball matters. Nancy took care of the rest. Neither trespassed on the other's territory, and both commanded respect.

“She was the iron fist in a velvet glove,” Knapp says. “She was strong, but boy, she did it in a way that half the time you don't even know you were being punched. She was very fair, but she was tough as nails. She wasn't some sweet mother-housewife taking care of the paperwork. She was running the ship. She always gave the impression she had everything under control, and I always had the feeling that I shouldn't bring any of my personal problems to the office.

“She's a perfectionist. You just simply had to do things the right way, and if you didn't do it right you did it over again. I swear, she was the Energizer bunny before there was one. She just never stopped. ”

Darnell Hillman, who played five ABA seasons and one NBA season with the Pacers, saw her in action as often as any of the players.

“She expressed herself,” he says “She wasn't derogatory, but she would let you know what worked in the past, and how things should be done. Nancy has a presence about her. She doesn't come in and take over the show, but you'll certainly know who she is. She's not loud, but before the meeting's over, you'll know who she is.”

Hillman benefited from her decisive manner when the NBA put on its first slam-dunk contest in the Pacers' first season in the league, copying the ABA's event from the previous year. It was conducted like a tournament, with a contestant from each team going head-to-head with another one over a period of several weeks. The field was gradually reduced to two survivors, and they competed at halftime of the final game of the championship series between Portland and Philadelphia in June.

Hillman won it, over Golden State's Larry MacNeil. But his selection to represent the Pacers hadn't been an obvious one. Although he carried the nickname Dr. Dunk because of his jumping ability, he was 27 at the time. Two of his teammates, Dan Roundfield (23) and Mel Bennett (22), were younger and equally athletic. A dunk-off to determine the team's representative might have been in order.

Recalls Hillman: “Nancy walked into practice one day while we were shooting, explained the contest, and said 'Darnell's going to represent the team. Any questions?' We all looked at one another and said no.”

Other administrative decisions were far more serious and immediate. The infamous Blizzard of 1978 struck on Jan. 25, the day after the Pacers had played Cleveland at MSA. The Pacers were due to fly out that day for a game at Cleveland to be played the following day, and gathered at the airport. The weather forecast was increasingly ominous, however, so Nancy called the league office. She was told the team had to get on the plane if it left for Cleveland, and that a $50,000 fine would be levied on the franchise if it didn't show for the game. Nancy feared – correctly, it turned out – the team would be stuck in Cleveland for a few days if the blizzard turned out to be as bad as predicted, at a great financial cost to the franchise. Defying the league's advice, she called the traveling party back from the airport. The game was later postponed and rescheduled.

Bill York, the head of the Pacers stat crew from the founding of the franchise in 1967, as well as the supervisor of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway media room for many years, isn't surprised by that story. He compares Nancy to Tony Hulman, the former owner of the Speedway. She, like he, solved problems efficiently by bringing questions to department heads, listening to their ideas, and then acting accordingly and quickly. No ego hangups, no office politics, no slacking, just clear-headed thinking for the good of the organization.

“She and Sandy Knapp ran everything,” York says of the Pacers' early NBA years. “Nobody questioned what they did. And all of her ideas seemed to be good ideas.”

Throughout the ABA seasons, when she contributed in an unofficial capacity, and then in the early NBA years, when she was on the payroll, Nancy and Slick were responsible for establishing and maintaining a family atmosphere that was unique to the Pacers. She took personal interest in the players and their families. She and Slick had a couple of parties each year at their home for the players, stat crew and front office members, or they attended parties hosted by others. They were events where, as Hillman says, “you could get to know someone in street clothes.” Even today, she remains closely connected to the players from those early teams, and their families. Whenever a former Pacers player dies – such as Roundfield last year and John Barnhill a month ago – she is among the first to know and to reach out to that player's wife or other family members.

Many people deserve credit for the fact the Pacers franchise still exists in Indianapolis. The original owners got it off the ground and nursed it along in its infancy, barely making ends meet. A man in Lafayette, Lyn Treece, put up $100,000 to buy Mel Daniels from the Minnesota Muskies, which, combined with the addition of Slick's coaching, transformed the team from average to champions. Mel and Herb Simon bought the franchise to keep it from moving to Sacramento in 1983.

Nancy Leonard belongs in the group of saviors as well, both for initiating and directing the life-saving telethon, nursing the operation along in the early years in both paid and unpaid capacities and helping to establish a family atmosphere unique to professional basketball. But jobs in professional sports tend to be transient. The Leonards already knew that, and had in fact enjoyed an improbable 12-year run with the Pacers, but the team's financial strains and the inevitable detrimental impact on the won-loss record was bound to bring changes.

Slick and Bill Eason, who had put up the $3 million entry fee into the NBA, had once flown to Florida to meet with former Kentucky Colonels owner John Y. Brown, who had received $3 million in the “merger” agreement between the NBA and ABA, to try to convince him to buy the Pacers, without success. When the franchise eventually landed in the hands of Californian Sam Nassi, along with Jerry Buss, everything changed. Executives were brought in from other cities, and the once-proud family-run organization became a mini-corporation, run by out-of-towners who thought they knew better.

It was the antithesis of how the Leonards had done it, and the two sides clashed. Slick recalls becoming so angry once that he backed up one of the execs against a wall and physically threatened him. He was more relieved than anything to have to leave the organization in 1980, and Nancy, of course, went with him. They lived apart from basketball for awhile, just as they had done before the ABA was formed, and tended to their family and business interests.

When Slick was brought back as a broadcast analyst in the mid-1980s, though, Nancy happily returned, too. This time as a fan. He established a new career on the radio, and his signature “Boom Baby!” declaration after every Pacers three-pointer has become part of the state's basketball lexicon. She remains a presence, too. But while he tends to keep a low profile, she works the room.

“She knows 20 times more people down there than I do,” he says.

Her pregame routine starts with a dinner salad in the Best Locker Room, always at the same table – usually with longtime friend Nancy Keene, but sometimes with a grandchild or other friend. She then takes a pass through the media room to visit with old friends and pick up the game notes that are distributed to reporters. She also stops in one of the private rooms on the floor level reserved for family members and friends of the players and other team officials. Eventually, she takes her seat in the front row behind the scorer's table at midcourt.

Even as a fan, she is no less competitive or concerned with decorum at games than when she was in charge of the front office. Just ask Derrick Rose. During Game 3 of the Pacers' first-round playoff series against Chicago at Bankers Life Fieldhouse in 2011, the Bulls points guard responded to a heckler with profanity, within earshot of children, while reporting to the scorer's table. At halftime of Game 4, Nancy was waiting for him in the tunnel leading to the Bulls' locker room, and scolded him loudly as he walked by.

Although her children have long since moved out on their own, she hasn't slowed down much. She has, by her estimation, served on eight to 10 boards for church and charity organizations, and volunteered for several more groups. She's currently on a board for the Methodist church. Many years ago, at Collins' urging, she helped start a home for women in recovery from alcohol addiction called First Step Inc., for which she served as President.

Her primary occupation since leaving the Pacers has been as a real estate agent with F.C. Tucker. Her clients have included several team employees, including coach Frank Vogel, broadcaster Mark Boyle and players such as Jeff Foster, Brad Miller, Anthony Johnson, Al Harrington and Derrick McKey.

Vogel's wife, Jenifer, and Nancy became close friends through the process of finding their home when they moved to Indianapolis in 2007. They still joke about setting up an arranged marriage between the Vogels' daughter and the Leonards' grandson.

“She's a good negotiator and has great savvy in the industry,” Vogel says. “She was really very helpful.”

She has kept the business of family running, too. Slick admits to never having seen one of his paychecks, because Nancy has always taken care of the finances. He can relax, knowing everything is handled.

“I said just so I leave enough that you can live in dignity when I go,” he jokes. “So, boy, she rat-holed everything she could.”

Slick and Nancy have both had serious health issues in recent years. Slick had a heart attack in Portland on a road trip in 2003 and missed several weeks of games. Then in March of 2011, he went into cardiac arrest on the team bus following a win in New York. He was given four electric-shock jolts to his heart before he was revived. Medics usually give up after two and pronounce the patient dead, but the Pacers' assistant trainer, Carl Eaton, ordered them to try again. “He's tough!” Eaton shouted. “Keep trying!” Slick also fell while visiting Larry Bird in 2012, hitting his head on a concrete surface outside of Bird's home in Nashville, Ind., and broke some ribs.

Nancy's scare came in 2009 on the Pacers' return flight from China, where it had played preseason games. Reacting to her prescription meds and the long flight, she passed out. The plane made an emergency landing in Minneapolis, where she was hospitalized. She later had a pacemaker implanted.

The Leonards have no plans to back away now, though, certainly not with the Pacers contending for a title again after all these years, and likely not ever. One of Slick's pieces of advice to players is, “Don't get off the bus.” In other words, stay associated with the game for as long as you can, because nothing else is as exciting. Slick and Nancy are too much a part of the Pacers, and the Pacers are too much a part of them, for either of them to step away voluntarily.

How long can they go? Slick seems invulnerable, and Nancy has bloodlines in her favor. Her grandmother lived to 104, and an uncle to 103. They still live as independently as possible. Not that many years ago, Slick could be found on the roof making repairs. Nancy still gets on her hands and knees on summer days, pulling weeds when the need arises and the weather cooperates.

They will remain a presence at Bankers Life Fieldhouse for as long as they can, hoping for one last championship to complete the cycle.

You just finished Part 3 of a 3-part series on Nancy Leonard's instrumental role in Pacers history.

Note: The contents of this page have not been reviewed or endorsed by the Indiana Pacers. All opinions expressed by Mark Montieth are solely his own and do not reflect the opinions of the Indiana Pacers, their partners, or sponsors.

nancy-leonard-the-driving-force-behind-slick-pacers-part-3

Nancy Leonard: The Driving Force Behind Slick, Pacers (Part 3)

Part 2 of a 3-part series on Nancy Leonard's instrumental role in Pacers history.

Part 3 focuses on Nancy and Slick Leonard's impact during the early NBA years to present. Read Part 3 »

Nancy was a behind-the-scenes influence throughout the Pacers' ABA seasons, helping where needed in an official, unpaid role but, according to those involved with the franchise, not intrusive. She didn't offer her opinion on lineups and strategy, or try to mentor the players. She did travel with the team for occasional road games in the playoffs, and was there for all three of the championship-clinching games – in Los Angeles in 1970, New York in '72 and Louisville in '73. One of her favorite memories is standing in the tunnel that led from the Pacers' locker room to the court before Game 6 in L.A., nervously awaiting tipoff. Roger Brown, the last player out, sauntered by and said, “You look like you're about to go to the death chamber.” Then he went out and scored 45 points to end the series.

The players from that era remember her as an asset rather than a mere onlooker or a distraction, as spouses have been known to be. Daniels recalls seeing her standing and looking like she was ready to rush onto the court after fights broke out, which wasn't an unusual occurrence in those days.

“She was Super Mom to all of us,” says Daniels, the two-time league MVP whose jersey is retired by the Pacers. “Not in a nagging sense, just by doing a lot of little things. She was part of us.”

She had no job title then, and most of her contributions went unnoticed to the public. The Pacers, indeed the entire ABA, were in survival mode, and everyone pitched in where they could to keep it alive. Nancy once drove the team mascot, Dancing Harry, to a game in Louisville in a recreational vehicle by herself. She also was instrumental in the formation of the Pacemates, pro basketball's first “cheerleader” squad. Sandy Knapp, who had been promoted from a Pacesetter –  the original group that acted as escorts for honorary ball boys and dignitaries – into the front office had taken the idea to Nancy, who had been a cheerleader sponsor at her first teaching job in Bloomington after graduating from IU. The initial Pacemate practice sessions were conducted in the Leonards' then-unfinished basement, and Nancy coached them.

“She was not going to let them go out on the floor without them being as prepared as possible,” Knapp says.

Nancy's role changed from unofficial and important to official and absolutely vital when the Pacers were absorbed into the NBA in 1976. It came about by accident, really. She's not sure why, but she had attended a meeting of the ownership group after the “merger.” She recalls they had decided not to bring back the previous general manager, and were fretting over how they were going to make the adjustment to the new league. The ABA, having been a loose collection of teams bent on survival, had flown by the seat of its pants, but the NBA was established and corporate. There were books full of rules and regulations for teams to follow, with fines for every malfeasance.

Procedure didn't frighten Nancy Leonard, who had taught school, run a household and helped run a business – sometimes all at once. Slick at various times in the ABA years had opened a boys camp and a restaurant, and she was a partner in the operation of both.

“I don't know what you guys are afraid of,” she blurted out to the owners. “It's just the NBA. We've been in the ABA for all these years. It's basically the same thing. There's rules to follow, you've got drafting, scheduling, ticket sales... it's the same thing.”

A silence fell over the room, and then someone said, “Why don't you do it?”

“They knew they wouldn't have to pay her nothing,” Slick says today.

She was paid, but the salary was hardly up to the standard of other league executives. She was billed as the assistant general manager, and it wasn't an empty title. She was fully in charge of the front office, likely the first woman in the history of professional spots to hold such a responsibility. She downplays it all today, but those around her do not. Slick was the coach and general manager, and made all the basketball decisions. She directed the office of 13 employees and attended league meetings. It might be surprising to some that she was accepted into the formerly male bastion of general managers, but not to those who know her. She tends to command respect.

“Even (crusty Celtics general manager) Red Auerbach was super-nice,” she recalls. “They were all very respectful. I still see a lot of them around.”

She held her own. She also was one of the primary advocates of the three-point shot that had been instrumental to the ABA's success. It was finally instituted in her fourth and final season as an executive. But the job was more difficult than she could have imagined when she had first blurted out “it's just the NBA” to the ownership group. All those rules added up to a lot of work.

As respected as she was, she feared her reception from the all-male group of local media members who had covered the team in the ABA. There were going to be new, more restrictive rules for reporting on the team, and she wondered if they would follow her direction. But she got an early boost from Indianapolis Star sports editor Bob Collins, the lead columnist for the state's largest newspaper. He called her one day and invited her to lunch. “Oh, no, here it comes,” she said to herself. They met at Charlie and Barneys, a restaurant between the Pacers office and the Star.

“I don't want you to worry,” he told her. “You know exactly what you're doing and you'll do a good job. If anybody gives you any trouble at all, call me and I'll take care of it.”

Nobody really gave her trouble. Not more than once, anyway. One of her favorite memories of those years is from a game against Boston at Market Square Arena, perhaps the first NBA regular season game the Pacers played, the season-opener on Oct. 21, 1976. She was sitting underneath the basket in her customary baseline seat beforehand when a referee approached and said Auerbach wanted the music turned down. The Pacers were violating a league rule, he said. It just so happened she had read all the rules and regulations, and knew better. She pulled out her booklet, handed it to the referee and said, “Take this to Red, and if he can show me where there's something in there about music, we'll turn it down.” When the referee walked to the other end of the court and passed along Nancy's message, he threw down the book with disgust. Not another word was said about it.

Amid the chaos and frustration of keeping a poorly-financed franchise alive, the Leonards were raising five chidren, separated by 14 years. The oldest, Terry, now a highly decorated third-grade teacher of more than 30 years in South Bend, helped keep her four younger brothers in line with Nancy-like efficiency, posting a checklist on the refrigerator for the boys to record their chores. A couple of women were hired to help clean the home and transport the kids, but Slick and Nancy were never far from their parental obligations. Nancy was probably the only NBA front office executive who drove an Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagon, not to mention the only one who made Thanksgiving dinner for the family.

Sure, there was the time she was working at the office downtown and forgot to pick up her son, Tommy, at grade school, leaving him sitting out front of the school until 6 p.m. in that cell phone-less era. But that was by far the exception. Terry and the personal secretaries kept things flowing during the daytime, and Slick and Nancy handled things in the evenings and on non-game nights. It was busy, even chaotic at times, but it worked.

Nancy made sure of that. Slick might have been the ultimate macho coach who threatened players in practice, threw ball racks at referees during games and lifted slow-triggered timekeepers out of their seat at the scorer's table. But at home, she  was usually the coach, the woman who made dinner, balanced the books and made the family trains run on time.

“They each had their strong points and that's the role they played,” Terry says. “Neither one tried to step into the other's major interest. She made it look effortless, looking back on it. She has a lot of energy anyway. She's just as competitive as my dad is, so she had the perfect personality to keep those plates spinning in the air.

“We lived a very normal life. Our life was no different than the lives of our friends. If you walked into our house, it wasn't the atmosphere I would imagine in the homes of some professional athletes now.”

Evidence of that was their listed telephone number. Although Slick was as big a sports celebrity as the city had during the 1970s, and Nancy had become recognized in her own right, they wanted their friends from out of town, and their kids' friends at school, to be able to reach the household if necessary.

“We didn't think we were such a big deal,” she says.

If she had simply worked behind the scenes and served as an assistant general manager for four years, her contributions would be significant. It can be legitimately claimed, however, that the Pacers owe their very existence in Indianapolis to her.

Slick led the Pacers to seven winning seasons and playoff appearances, five trips to the league finals and three championships in his first seven seasons as coach. The last one in the ABA, however, brought a losing record (39-45) as the core players who had starred on the championship teams grew old and departed or were traded away.

The move to a new league energized the fan base, but only temporarily. The attendance average jumped from 7,615 in the final ABA season to 10,129 in the inaugural NBA season, but the cost of doing business had gone up dramatically in Market Square Arena and the local ownership group at the time, officially known as Pacers L.P., was struggling to keep it together.

Upon the conclusion of the first NBA season, when the Pacers finished 36-46, the ownership group announced it needed to sell 8,000 season tickets before the following season to have the operating capital to stay afloat. According to those who worked for the franchise then, it was a genuine crisis rather than a marketing ploy. The team's credit card had not been paid off, and was no longer being accepted. Front office employees had gone without paychecks for between four and six weeks and were working in what Knapp describes as a climate of “constant tension and anxiety.” Slick was brought in to give a locker room-like pep talk. Knapp, recalling it as “a straight shot of adrenaline,” recorded it in case it needed to be replayed to re-energize the troops. Even the players had agreed to accept a delay in being paid – all but one, that is. Len Elmore's agent insisted that he be paid on time, or he would become a free agent because of the breach of contract.

The owners were in desperate need of cash, and had the promise of an additional $750,000 investment if the fans would make a financial show of faith. That, combined with the income of the ticket sales would raise about $3 million to guarantee the team's operation for the following season. According to the local newspapers, the marketing department had sold 5,720 season tickets in the three months since the season ended, but it needed another push to reach the magical 8,000 figure.

From her participation in the league meetings, Nancy knew of the growth that was coming to the NBA because of better television contracts and expansion. She also knew Indianapolis would never get another NBA team if it lost the Pacers. Her last and best hope was to simply put the team's urgent needs before the public and ask for help. The best way to do that was to conduct a telethon to raise money and sell tickets. But it needed to happen quickly, and the obvious time to do it was over the July 4 holiday, when people were off work. Only problem was, the end of June was approaching. She would have seven days to put it all together.

She gathered her 13-person staff and laid it out.

“Hey, guys, we're in trouble,” she said. “We can't lollygag around until August or September, we have to sell season tickets now.”

It was a defining moment for the Pacers, and for Nancy Leonard. All those years of attending basketball games with Slick had helped hone her competitive instincts, but she had them all along. Back in high school, she had been the only girl in the band's cornet section. Determined not to be outdone by the boys, she made it a point of earning the first-chair honor. This was merely another challenge. Running a busy household had been provided training as well. She knew how to meet a challenge.

“I just asserted myself,” she says. “We didn't have a choice.”

One of the first calls to organize the telethon went to Dr. Charles Rushmore, who worked for Indiana Bell and had experience with the Jerry Lewis Labor Day telethon. He said it couldn't be done, that the standard prep time for telethons was six months, but he agreed to help where he could. Another call went to Don Tillman, the programming director at WTTV-Channel 4, the local independent station that could clear room on its programming schedule on short notice. He agreed to air the event and provide all the necessary equipment at no charge.

“These two men gave us a crash course in Telethon 101,” Knapp recalls.

Every member of the Pacers front office went into a panic-driven fury, making arrangements and asking for help from local merchants and media outlets. The 500 Ballroom at the Convention Center was obtained at no cost. Local musical groups and other entertainers were rounded up to perform, at no charge. Arby's donated food for the workers. Front office members and volunteers manned the telephones to take pledges from callers. The team's trainer, David Craig, cut short his vacation and drove back overnight from Maine to take calls and pitch in where needed. Some of the players manned the phones for stretches of time, including Dave Robisch and Billy Knight.

All of the money raised was to be placed in an escrow account and would be returned if the pledges fell short of the goal. The cash collected would be used to purchase tickets to be given to charities. Rookie camp, meanwhile, was delayed until the franchise's fate was determined.

“I guess that sometime on July 4th I'll know whether it's time to drink champagne or just cry,” Slick told an Associated Press reporter before it began.

The Save the Pacers Telethon ran from 10 p.m. on July 3 to 2:30 p.m. on the Fourth. Channel 4 broadcast the entirety of it, and Channels 6 and 13 broadcast portions of it. Think of that: three local stations, all carrying the same program. On-air personalities from all three stations, as well as Channel 8, helped emcee the proceedings at various times. Taped pleas from the likes of Governor Otis Bowen, Indiana coach Bob Knight, Purdue coach Fred Schaus, ABC sportscaster Chris Schenkel and former Pacers star George McGinnis – who had jumped to the NBA two years earlier because of the franchise's inability to pay his market value – were played for the television viewing audience.

Slick led the charge publicly, pep-talking the viewers into donating. Nancy supervised behind the scenes. Most of the calls brought donations of $10 or $20. Some people brought in cash personally, and telethon officials were shown on television pulling bills out of a large glass bowl and counting them on the floor of the ballroom. A few kids literally offered their piggy banks, or went through their neighborhoods to collect donations. Nickels, dimes, anything. A newspaper account later estimated the in-person cash donation at $30,000.

“It was a remarkable experience, to tell you the truth,” Knapp says. “I've never been part of such an emotional roller coaster. It felt like time was standing still. It was suspended somehow. You worked so many hours, you were physically exhausted and emotionally drained. Everything felt like it was technicolor. Your senses were on fire.”

They appeared to be close to reaching their goal with a couple of hours still to go when an accounting error was discovered. Slick took the microphone at 12:40 p.m. to make the announcement.

“We had a tabulation error of 822 season tickets – and we just found it,” he said, as if addressing his team in a late-game timeout huddle. “Our actual count is 6,730, as of 12:25. We've got an hour and 50 minutes to go.”

According to a Channel 13 broadcast report, some fans in the ballroom thought that bit of drama might have been staged to attract more donations, but its reporter stated Pacers officials seemed genuinely concerned. Tom Binford, a member of the ownership group but best known locally as the Chief Steward of the Indianapolis 500 and President and CEO of Indiana National Bank, went on television to ask businesses for larger donations. Business owners were citizens too, he said, and they also benefited from the economic stimulus the Pacers provided.

Finally, five or 10 minutes before the telethon was to go off the air, Nancy stepped forward with an announcement.

“Bob,” she said, her voice cracking from fatigue and emotion. “We're at 8,028.”

The fans in attendance “burst into bedlam,” as the next day's newspaper account put it. A uniformed Pacemate did what a uniformed Pacemate was supposed to do – clap and kick her feet into the air. Mayor William Hudnut, standing behind the Leonards, smiled broadly and clapped his hands above his head. Slick, at Nancy's urging, sang Back Home Again in Indiana.

The Pacers would stay in Indianapolis. For at least another year.

It had been a grassroots movement that reached all the way to the city's heart and soul, including its youngest fans. According to newspaper accounts, 11-year-old John Hargreaves from Plainfield had gone through his neighborhood with two friends and collected $18 door-to-door. Seven-year-old Carl Cushingberry had collected $15. A nine-year-old girl, Teresa Lynn, gave Slick a note that included $5.

“That was when I cried,” Nancy says today. “We were right at the number and these kids start coming in with coffee cans. They had gone up and down the street and collected coins. That kind of told me what the community thought about the Pacers, even people who couldn't buy season tickets.”

You just finished Part 2 of a 3-part series on Nancy Leonard's instrumental role in Pacers history.