Title: “I Knew I Had To Do More”: T.J. McConnell’s Mission Beyond the Court
T.J. McConnell walked into the unfinished shelter on Indianapolis’ east side wearing a Pacers hoodie and worn sneakers. The smell of fresh drywall filled the air, but he barely noticed. He wasn’t there for cameras or applause. He was there because he remembered what cold felt like. What fear felt like. What uncertainty sounded like when your parents whispered in the next room, unsure where rent would come from.
“I’ve seen the effects of homelessness firsthand growing up,” McConnell said quietly to a local reporter tagging along. “And I knew, when I finally had the means, I had to do something real. Not a tweet. Not a check with strings. Something lasting.”
McConnell’s entire $12.9 million from bonuses and sponsorships this season had been committed to a groundbreaking initiative: 150 transitional housing units and 300 emergency shelter beds across Indiana over the next three years.
It wasn’t a publicity stunt. T.J. had done it quietly at first, until word leaked from a nonprofit partner during a local city council meeting. The room had gone silent when his name and the figure were mentioned.
“What kind of athlete does that?” one council member reportedly whispered. “All of it?”
Yes. All of it.
The initiative, called “More Than Minutes,” was launched in partnership with four Indiana-based nonprofits, combining trauma-informed shelter services, mental health care, job placement, and education programs—all designed not just to house people, but to help them stand again.
“He didn’t just give money,” said Tamika Lewis, director of Hope House Indy. “He sat in on design meetings. He asked about meal plans. He read the policy drafts. He asked how safe the women’s wing would be at night.”
McConnell’s roots shaped his vision. Born in Pittsburgh, raised in a working-class household that scraped by at times, he saw friends crash on couches, sleep in cars, or disappear from school altogether. The NBA had given him a platform. He saw it as a responsibility.
During the groundbreaking ceremony for the first facility—named “The Foundation House”—McConnell stood behind the podium, hands tucked into his jacket.
“We all celebrate what happens in the arena. But this—this is where winning really starts,” he said, nodding toward the excavators behind him. “If we can give someone a door to close at night, a safe place to rest, maybe they’ll believe in tomorrow again.”
His voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t pause.
Already, the project had secured city permits and land for the next two facilities, thanks in part to McConnell leveraging his influence with donors and civic leaders. Some said the effort was reshaping how local governments and pro athletes collaborated on community issues.
Back at the shelter site, McConnell helped carry a stack of insulation boards to a construction worker.
“You don’t need to do this,” the worker chuckled.
McConnell smiled. “Neither do you. But we are.”
He paused, looking out at the rising framework.
“Everyone deserves a shot at safety, at dignity,” he said. “This—this is how we change the game.”
Let me know if you’d like a version told from the perspective of someone impacted by the initiative.
