by Lance Allred
Junior year ended, and I continued to play in tournaments with the FranklinCovey team. When June came, I attended the Rick Majerus Big Man–Guard Camp again. Majerus didn’t show up until the final day. He called me out and pulled me over to talk to him: “Lance, I love the fact that you’re trying to go for the dunk. I want aggressive big men, but I also want skilled big men, so take these drills to work on, and improve the other things in your post game.” I simply nodded my head, amazed that he even knew my name. I was speechless. I felt I was standing before genius. I knew he was regarded as one of the best “X and O” men anywhere. He could make those Xs and Os come alive like a general before a map on the eve of battle. He knew the tendencies of every player and had them foiled after watching only one game tape of their team. His whiteboards where lined like hieroglyphics with plays, using Xs for defensive men and Os for offensive, creating a story, a game plan.
When camp was over, Dad came down to the court from where he’d been watching from up high with all the other parents who had come in to watch and pick up their kids. He gave me a hug. “You can’t take him home with you yet,” Coach Rupp said.
Dad smiled and nodded, and I looked at Coach Rupp, who knew something was afoot and wasn’t telling me. Just then, Majerus came out of his locker room and pointed to Coach Rupp: “Kerry, come on inside.”
Coach Rupp began to head to the locker room. Then he stopped, looked back at me, and gestured for me to follow. Like a puppy, I did.
The room was empty. Coach Majerus was sitting down and motioned for us to follow suit. He shook my hand and in vintage Rick Majerus style got right to the point: “There’s a scholarship for you here if you want it.”
The University of Utah wanted me.
My mouth went dry, and it felt like there was cotton in my throat. All I could do was nod to show that I understood.
“I saw you on film when I was recruiting another kid you were playing against. I saw you dive into the stands to save a loose ball. I called up Kerry that night and told him that you had a scholarship.”
That game had been five months ago, and Coach Rupp had known that a scholarship was awaiting me at the University of Utah but had not told me.
“We want you here, Lance,” Majerus continued. “You’re my type of player, and I already know that you’re ahead of the game, as you have been coached by Kerry Rupp, the best coach in high school, and you’ll be ready to step in and play. And I know I could’ve done a better job recruiting you, with all the fuss flying around that we don’t really care about you—but we do. I honored Kerry’s request that we wait before letting it be known to you that we wanted to give you a scholarship here.”
Rupp drove me home. I was doing my best to remain calm, trying to not show too much emotion. I asked, “Coach, how long have you known?”
He tried not to smile when he said, “I had a scholarship for you in February.”
We pulled up to the house, where Dad was watering the lawn. He smiled at me as I got out and ran up to Szen and scratched his head, burying my face in his neck, my heart full of excitement and joy that I had achieved a goal that I had committed to when many, even myself, doubted I could reach it.
“He has something to tell you,” Coach Rupp said to my father as he backed out of the driveway.
“What is it?” Dad asked excitedly.
“Come on upstairs. I need to have Mom with us before I tell you.” Szen and I ran into the house and upstairs into the kitchen. I saw Mom and began to cry. I hugged her and just sobbed.
Mom had not seen that they were tears of happiness and accomplishment, and feared they were tears of sorrow. “What is it?” she asked, concerned.
I took a step back and a long breath and wiped my eyes: “Majerus offered me a scholarship!” Mom squealed, clapped her hands, and began to cry, and Dad gave me a big hug. Szen could see how happy I was, and he just wagged his tail and stood right beside us, twisting and turning, showing more energy in his old age than he had in a long time.
“We were wondering when they were finally going to let you know,” Mom said.
I stopped and took a step back: “You knew?”
Mom smiled a little sheepishly, and Dad just stared at me proudly: “Coach Rupp told us a few months back that you had the scholarship, but he asked us not to tell you. He wanted us to know, just to make sure you didn’t give up.”
In late July, having endured a long summer of the recruiting process, traveling, and workouts, I hesitantly asked Coach Rupp, “Would it be OK if I took a weeklong vacation to go back up to Montana?”
“Please, go! Get the hell out of here. I was about to tell you that you needed to take a break. You haven’t had one in over a year.”
It was as close to a vacation as you could get, before the recruiters tracked me down at Yaya’s house and her phone began to ring early in the morning with college coaches. When I came home, my room was piled with letters, and though in my heart I wanted to go to Utah, I also felt it would be foolish to limit my options to only one avenue and not give any others consideration, especially when Stanford came into the picture. I mean, come on: Stanford. I was planning on majoring in history in college, and anybody who knows anything about history knows that the Stanford history department isn’t to be ignored.
I was planning on making my recruiting visits in the fall. I had it narrowed down to Utah, Stanford, Kansas, Purdue, and BYU. Until I got a phone call from Coach Rupp.
“Lance, there’s another big guy who wants to commit to Utah. Coach really likes him, but he likes you more. He will give you twenty-four hours to make a decision.”
I had wanted to keep my options open until I was fully confident that I was making the right decision. But in my heart of hearts I wanted to play at Utah, and so I had to make the move and commit, lest my spot no longer be available. Majerus had to look out for himself and his program. Could he pass up another big guy he liked who wanted to play for him just to wait in uncertainty for me? No.
The next day, I walked with my dad and Coach Rupp into Coach Majerus’s office. “So,” Majerus began, “obviously you know the situation. I like this big that wants to commit, but I like you more and I want you.* I’m choosing you over him. I think you can have a great career here, and you get to stay home and have your family to support you. I’m saying this on the fact that Coach Rupp told me you’re ready to commit.”
“Yes, Coach. I want to play for you and the University of Utah.”
“Coach, if I may,” my father interjected. “We’re entrusting our son to you, in confidence that you’ll help him become the best basketball player, student, and person he can be. We’re not only committing to the University of Utah, we’re committing to you.”
Coach Majerus nodded his head: “And I can promise you that I will do my best to help Lance achieve those things. First and foremost, I will make sure your son gets an education here at this institution, as it’s one of the best public schools in the West.”
We talked a while more, and then I finally asked what had been on my mind for a long time: “Coach, what are the chances of Coach Rupp coming up here with me?” I choked up as I asked. I was excited to play for Majerus, but I was also scared at the thought that my time with Rupp was limited. Though we still had another year together, the idea that our deadline was nearing was haunting. This commitment to Majerus seemed only to solidify the fact that I couldn’t have Rupp in my corner forever.
Coach Majerus answered, “Kerry is the best there is at his level, and he deserves to be successful. When his time comes, it will come. It may not be with me, but it will come.”
Coach Rupp looked at me: “Don’t worry about me, Lance, this is your time. Today is about you and what you have earned.”
I wanted to say so much. This day was as much his as it was mine, and I’d be nothing without him. Not only is basketball about talent and skill; it’s also, and mostly, about timing. Are you in the right place at the right time, and do you have the right coach for you? I
had that time—the perfect synch with Coach Rupp. I’m a basketball player, nothing more. I’m not a baller, nor am I a track star. I’m only a basketball player who needs a system around him to survive. I’m only as successful as my coach. He truly made me into the player I was and influenced who I am today. My scholarship to Utah, as far as I was concerned, was just as much his as it was mine.
A week later, my senior year began.
Life was changing at a rapid pace: college was in sight, I was growing up, and Szen was growing old and tired. A boy’s childhood is measured in dog years as well.
The day came when Dad told me the vet would be coming in a few days to put Szen to sleep. Dad knew it was time. Szen was now thirteen, his sight was going rapidly, and his hips were not functioning anymore. He could barely endure a walk around the block. Szen had stopped coming up the steps to sleep in my room, as it was too hard for him to make the climb.
I had been ignoring these changes in Szen. The winter before, Szen had wanted to stay outside for a while, and I had impatiently grabbed him by the collar and forced him inside. Szen hated the new house in Salt Lake; he hated being inside all day. He wanted to be back on open land, where he could stay outside all day and not be chained up or forced inside. Mom told me that I needed to be gentle with him now, as he was getting old and it was hard for him to move. It hurt that she had needed to tell me that, as I had always been my best with Szen, and this time I had gotten impatient with him. I guess I was just unable to accept the fact that my Szen was getting old. I didn’t want to accept that I was no longer a kid, that my childhood was ending. Szen marked my childhood. I gauged it by him.
When the day came, I skipped the last two periods of school and came home and took Szen and Pongo across the street to the park. I lay with Szen in the grass for two hours, lazily petting his beautiful coat for the last time. He was too tired to sniff around like he used to and—alpha dog that he was—mark his territory. He was happy just to lie with me.
He was my best friend. He was my buddy. It hurt so much to see him going from my life. He understood that we were saying good-bye as he pushed at my face with his paw. He saw that I was already mourning him.
Mom and Dad came home and joined us in the park. Mom brought over pot roast and let Szen and Pongo jump around for it. The vet, who had been kind enough to agree to come to our house, finally pulled up. Szen was such a smart dog. He knew his time had come. He knew we were saying good-bye. His wise, kind eyes stared at me with fear but also resolve as he bade me farewell. If he could have had his way, he would have stayed with me forever. And I felt the same. And then, just as an eye blinks, my friend was gone.
The vet left in silence, allowing me time with my dog. Dad got up and let me have a few moments with him as well. And I just cried.
I immediately regretted what I had done, wishing I could have my dog back, that I could have let him live and die naturally. But really I knew that would’ve been selfish, as his quality of life had diminished so terribly those last few months.
After about fifteen minutes, Dad told me it was time to go, patting me on the shoulder. We carried Szen to the grave we had dug for him in the back. We placed Szen, wrapped in his blanket, in his resting place. Dad gave me the shovel and let me cover Szen with the first layer of dirt. He then took back the shovel, hugged me, and just let me cry. I never cried harder in my life. It was my first taste of death.
As he left, Szen taught me one more lesson about life. And it was his greatest lesson: always leave things on good terms; always treat your loved ones as though this day will be the last. I was angry at myself for the times throughout Szen’s life, especially those last years, when I could’ve been nicer or more patient with him. As I became a teenager and started playing basketball, Szen had become less of a priority—not consciously by any means; it was just that life was changing for me.
I can recall just a few memories of life before I had my dog. Szen was in nearly all my memories, and now I was having to face the fact that he would no longer be in my life and I’d be making new memories without him.
It was that moment of good-bye, that memory of good-bye, that haunts me. The pain of knowing that change was coming. Yet Szen understood and was gracious.
Saying good-bye to Szen was the most painful experience I ever had. The fact that I ended my dog’s life, and that he loved me and trusted me, is something that haunts me to this day. He was more than my dog. He had been more than my friend: he had been my protector. The mean dogs, the late-night indistinguishable sounds that he growled away, my depressions and feelings of isolation as a child—Szen had protected me from all of them.
When our senior season started and opening week came for practice, I pulled my hip flexor again. It was the very same injury that had finished my junior season prematurely, and it was now coming back to delay my senior year. It had remained dormant the entire off-season throughout the camps and recruiting tournaments, where I must have logged in well over a thousand miles running.
The preseason rankings had come, and we were ranked number two behind the defending champs, Provo. I was eager to get out there and confirm the expectations that were placed on our team.
After missing two weeks of practice and the first couple of games, I finally was able to come back. The team had split their first two games without me, and when I came back…we lost three straight. Sure, I scored thirty points apiece in two of those three games, and that was nice, and cute for the papers, but we were still losing.
As a senior and co-captain of that team, I took full responsibility for our losses.
When we kept losing, rumors and biting comments began to crop up that I didn’t care about the team and was happy just to get my stats, that I was already up at Utah emotionally. It hurt. I didn’t go out and party, and I wasn’t dating girls. No, I went home every night and I watched film.
They were counting on me, and sadly, I wasn’t able to deliver.
I grew so stressed and anxious that I stopped sleeping again. And I got sick. By the end of the senior season, I had contracted pneumonia, mononucleosis, and strep throat all at the same time. I was dog sick. And yet I still played. I didn’t play well, only adding to the criticism and disappointment, but I did play.
I could’ve sat out and thought, “I’m going to protect my stats” or “I’m going to show that the team cannot win without me.” But I wasn’t spiteful. I honored my commitment to my team, and I played. One night, after we lost to Highland, I passed out in the hallway on the way to the locker room. I was taken to the hospital by ambulance. I was so tired, so exhausted. Flashlights were buzzing around me as my eyes, which I couldn’t hold straight, were opened and evaluated. I couldn’t focus and was very dizzy. I stayed in the ER for a few hours, where they gave me a few IVs to counteract the severe dehydration I’d experienced.
We made the playoffs that year, but we lost in the first round and exited with a whimper. I sobbed in that locker room, realizing that my time with Coach Rupp was over. Our paths were separating, at least for now.
In a sad way, I was actually relieved when the season was over, as I now could finally sleep. I’d no longer stay up late blaming myself. I had become so reclusive, lost in critical thought, that many, including my teammates, thought I was being snooty, aloof, and condescending. I didn’t talk to my teammates because I had become completely engulfed in the guilt that I wasn’t able to help bring us to victory; they, on the other hand, took my silence to mean that I thought they were not worth my time.
When it was all over and I was getting some rest, Coach Rupp called me in to visit with him. He told me with concern that I had not been voted MVP by my teammates and that Noah had. It crushed me. While Coach Rupp would award me at the end of the year with the Hunsaker Award for most outstanding player, and I’d be named the Utah Gatorade Player of the Year as well, I felt that my teammates, whom I had fought for, through pain and fatigue, didn’t appreciate what I had at least tried to do for them. Maybe Noah did de
serve it more than I did. He was lighthearted and had such a good perspective on things outside of basketball, which I didn’t, that he was able to be a positive outlet for many of the younger guys. Noah came to me and told me he felt bad that I didn’t get it, which is exactly why he was the one they voted for. He was like that. He really was an incredible person.
I didn’t care about the trophy in a physical sense. What hurt was the disregard or even spite that some of my teammates had for me, blaming me for the disappointing season. But no one blamed me more than myself for the senior year that had turned into a train wreck. There wasn’t a thing my teammates could say about me, to my face or behind my back, that I had not already tossed my way internally.
To this day, I look back on my senior year with regret, feeling that I could’ve done better. I wanted to do better, and there are many things I know now that I could’ve done to really change things around. But because of those disappointments I’ve learned how to deal with such adversity. I only wish I could’ve gotten Coach Rupp his state championship trophy.
Part Three
Sound and Fury
14
My time at the University of Utah was one of the most profound seasons of my life and played a large role in shaping who I am today. As I talk of, and as you come to know, Coach Majerus, I will discuss his strengths and his flaws. Coach Rick Majerus is the most complex figure I have ever encountered. He is a conundrum. He was brilliant and eccentric, yet cold and aloof. He was charitable and caring, yet brutal and hurtful. He was charismatic and endearing, yet terrifying and intimidating. Simply put, he was two people. Almost borderline schizophrenic really, if you saw how he changed, from the way he was at, say, a fun low-key dinner gathering, once he stepped onto a basketball court or behind closed doors. The man could humiliate you to the point of tears in practice and then be stuffing your face with food two hours later, patting you on the back. He could turn a switch in his head that allowed him to compartmentalize things, even his own actions, store them away for another time, and enjoy a present moment with no concern. While his love was conditional—as Majerus had a high rotation rate of players leaving his program, with an average of only one out of every three players from a freshman class graduating as a senior in his program—Majerus did love to dote on the players that were in his good graces at the time.
