by Jay Williams
Round three . . . four . . . five . . .
My off-season was shaping up beautifully. Everything seemed to fall into place. When I got back to Durham, though, it was all business. I spent every day working to make a mandatory 500 shots, at least two to three hundred of them from NBA three-point range. It began to feel so natural. And while my attitude toward others never changed–I remained respectful and kind to everyone—I knew that on the court, it was never going to be the same again. In just the last month, I had experienced so many firsts. I’d gone toe-to-toe with G.P., J-Kidd, Vinsanity, K.G., Ray Allen (a.k.a. Jesus Shuttlesworth) . . . I’d played the best basketball of my life with our country’s name across my chest. J-Rich and I talked about what life would be like at the next level—something I had never broached up until that point. I mean, I never had the nerve to use “when” instead of “if” when it came to that subject. My confidence was off the charts.
I wasn’t the only one who improved from year to year. Our core for that upcoming season was impressive, and the media agreed, ranking us No. 2 in the preseason, behind Gilbert Arenas, Richard Jefferson, and the rest of the Arizona Wildcats. After winning ACC Player of the Year and being named a first-team All-American, C-Well was drafted by the Spurs in the second round that summer. Mike Dunleavy, unfortunately, had spent most of his first year battling mono, but now he was healthy, a couple of inches taller and 20 pounds bulkier. Booz had gotten cut by the under–21 USA team—the same one Dunleavy and I had just played for—and literally had a “gut check” about his physical conditioning, so he’d worked his ass off the entire summer. Shane, who was already the best defender in college ball, finally had his offense catch up to his defense. Our glue guy, Nate James, was back for his senior year, ready to play the part of unspoken leader.
And then . . . there was . . . Chris Duhon.
Where do I begin with my boy Chris?
My freshman year, before I ever played my first game for Duke, I met this skinny, baby-faced-looking kid from Slidell, Louisiana, who was in town on a recruiting trip. Chris was a senior in high school at the time, and had narrowed his search to either us or Kentucky. He was rated the top point guard in the country, which made me wary from the jump. I remember Coach K pulling me aside earlier that day, discussing his vision for Chris and me to be the next dynamic duo just like Tommy Amaker and Johnny Dawkins. But I wasn’t hearing it. This was the freshman version of myself who hadn’t even played a college game yet, so naturally I was skeptical. I figured if the “Jason Williams PG experiment” didn’t pan out, K would have his insurance policy in the form of future freshman Chris Duhon.
Coach decided to have Chris join our pickup games that day. I wanted him to pit us against each other so I could put the kid in his place, but K mandated that we play on the same team. The first couple of possessions, I made a point of bringing the ball up the court to show him who’s in charge. A couple of plays later, we were in transition, and after blowing by my guy, I kicked the ball out to him in the corner for a three, which he knocked down effortlessly. As we were heading back on defense, he acknowledged me by saying, “Great pass, man. Let’s get it going.”
We ended up killing everybody out there together. Eventually, it didn’t matter who brought the ball up the court, which one of us was the passer or the shooter. We just flowed, like we’d been doing this together for years. Coach K wasn’t watching, but he knew already. He always did.
That night, at a party on Central Campus, the whole crew was out. Booz, Dun-Dun, Casey, Nick, our homegirl from the women’s team Krista Gingrich . . . Chris was our guest for the evening. He was soft-spoken with us. I chalked it up to him being a fish out of water. But now, almost two decades and an NBA career later, he’s the same old soft-spoken Chris.
He and I talked about running everyone off the court earlier that day, laughing at our instant chemistry. But after a couple of drinks, my insecurity got the better of me . . . again. This time I decided I’d show him up by drinking him under the table. I’m not sure if I grabbed a bottle of Aristocrat or Jose Cuervo—I’m positive it tasted awful—as I challenged Chris to a chugging contest. Without even waiting for a response, I put the bottle to my mouth and took a good three or four gulps without coming up for air. With a definite buzz, I passed it over to Chris, anxious to see the fear in his eyes. He calmly put his hand out, took the bottle, and began to drink. And drink. I’m not sure how much time passed before he stopped downing the bottle, but it was damn long. He then handed the bottle back to me and said, “Your turn.”
Frozen, with my mouth agape, I replied, “Nah. I’m good.”
And that was how it all started.
BEFORE THE SEASON, Coach gathered the team together and encouraged us to share what our dreams were for this year. Mine was to throw the ball up as high as possible, and when it came down, we would be national champions.
In our first game that season, we played Princeton at home. At one point we ran one of our basic sets, where Shane set a ball screen for me up high. The defense switched on the screen, so I was supposed to pass the ball to Shane to exploit the mismatch with a smaller player trying to stop him. But the bigger defender didn’t pick me up right away, and even though I was at least a foot behind the three-point line, I took the shot without hesitation. Splash. I glanced over at Coach K with a look of confidence, almost defiant. A year earlier, I would’ve gone for the “safe” option—passing to Shane coming out of the screen.
But this wasn’t last year.
One of our most memorable exploits from that year came just nine days later when we were in New York City for the preseason NIT. It was Thanksgiving eve and we had just beaten Texas in the semis the day before. We were staying at the Marriot Marquis in Times Square.
From the moment I landed, I had been exchanging texts with a girl named Noelle. She and I had met in high school when we were both playing AAU ball. I was 16 at the time. She was my first kiss—I was a late bloomer, clearly. She was now a junior on the women’s basketball team at Wagner College, in Staten Island. Noelle was tall, fair-skinned, with this wild, curly hair that would fall beneath her shoulders anytime she had it straightened. She was the product of a white, Irish Catholic mother and an African American father, both from Jersey City. She was stunning.
After our Thanksgiving feast with the team, I sent a text to Noelle asking how to get to Staten Island. She didn’t take me seriously but humored me anyway with the details. She was having a party that night with the rest of her team. Noelle kept challenging me, saying there was no way I’d actually travel that far to see her.
She didn’t understand how much I’d changed by then.
At the dinner, I asked Chris and Andre Buckner if they wanted to roll out. It was only a week or so into the season and Chris was already my wingman, so he was always down for whatever. Andre was from Hopkinsville, Kentucky. He needed some big city fun. And so it was on.
After bed checks, at around 10:30, our clandestine mission began. Two taxi rides and a Staten Island Ferry later, we had arrived.
From the moment we walked in the door, the party started. Chris was hanging with Noelle’s roommate, Whitney, and Andre was making headway with this other girl on the team named Erin. We downed every different kind of liquor they had while playing drinking games against their men’s team. I remember looking over at Chris and Dre-Buck, thinking this was the best night of their lives up to that point.
Meanwhile, I was starting to fall hard for Noelle. She and I took things to another level courtesy of that night.
To say we were drunk would be an understatement. We would’ve ended up missing the 4:15 A.M. ferry back to Manhattan had it not been for Noelle. We were three hot messes sitting on a rocking commuter boat, hoping the cold November air would sober us up. Chris and I both started to get seasick. Andre, apparently, was in a lot better shape, cracking jokes and doing funny impersonations. I still don’t know how we were able to make it back to our rooms that morning.
The
midday shootaround was a disaster for Chris and me. It would’ve been impossible for the coaches not to smell the alcohol coming off our bodies. I was throwing errant passes, while Chris kept dribbling the ball off his foot. We were asking for Gatorade every two minutes. Meanwhile, Andre looked like he’d slept 12 hours the night before.
“I must be coming down with the flu,” I said, sweating like a pig the whole time.
Late in a very close game against Temple that night, I hit a three-pointer that put us up by just one point. Shortly after, there was this wild scramble for a loose ball. I remember diving for it, and just when I was about to grab it, a player on the other team dove on top of me, forcing the ball to roll away toward Chris. Right then he dove for it, but to no avail, as it continued to make its way toward our bench. I don’t know where I got the energy, but I popped up, sprinted, jumped over Chris, and dove again. This time I was able to gather the ball and call a time-out before my momentum took me out of bounds. It turned out to be a critical play on our way to winning the preseason NIT, 63–61.
The next day, while watching tape of the game, Coach K stopped and started to point out the things we had done well, to reinforce good habits. He commended Shane for this, Nate for that. And when we got to the loose-ball fiasco that Chris and I were a part of, K played it in real speed, rewound it, replayed it in slow motion, and then paused it after I called the time-out.
“See that!” he said, shaking the pointer at the screen in approval. “What you guys did there—that won the game. Keep doing that!”
Chris and I glanced at each other, shrugging our shoulders, with a look that said, If that’s what Coach wants. . .
Everyone considers North Carolina to be Duke’s biggest rival, but from 1999 to 2002 it was Maryland. There was no place I hated playing more than Cole Field House. My roommate in Brazil the previous summer had become my archnemesis. Steve Blake ended up becoming one of Maryland’s all-time great point guards, and he’s still playing in the NBA all these years later. He was 6’3” with a wingspan of 6’5”. He gave me some breathing room on defense, but used his length and height advantage to contest my jump shot. The media loved to hype our matchup whenever our teams met. I was essentially battling two things: Steve’s incredible defense and my need to prove to him, and everyone else, that he wasn’t going to stop me. And if there was a third obstacle to consider, it was their fans.
We were ranked second in the nation, and Maryland was eighth, when we met on January 27, 2001, in Cole. For the first 39 minutes, we played terribly, while the Terps played a fantastic game against us from beginning to end.
Well, almost to the end.
The pivotal moment in the game was when Steve Blake fouled out. When I saw him on the sidelines, I felt like I had a fresh chamber of oxygen to inhale. With their best defender out of the game, I became a dog off the leash.
And so began what was to become the Miracle Minute.
Down ten with a minute to go, I brought the ball upcourt, juked right at the top of the key, and drove left down the middle of the lane for an uncontested layup.
53.5 seconds left. Down by eight.
We immediately went into our 41 press, which meant full-court pressure and ball denial. Our main objective was to force their inbounds pass to the corners of the court, where the sideline and baseline could be used as extra defenders for trapping. The ball went to Drew Nicholas, and Shane and I instantly trapped him in the left corner. When Drew tried to shield the ball by putting it on the right side of his body, I swiped at it. The ball popped up off him and jumped right into my hands. My immediate reaction was to dribble once to the three-point arc and let it fly. I hadn’t shot well all game, and that was the first jump shot that felt just right. In hindsight, I’m convinced I fouled him, but the ref closest to the play had his view blocked by Shane.
48.7 seconds left. Down by five.
Maryland called time-out. In our huddle, there was not much talk, just the look in Coach K’s eyes that said we were going to win. When I hit that three, everyone on our bench popped up out of their seats, revitalized, just as I had been only seconds earlier, watching Blake take a permanent seat. He drew up a play and made a substitution, putting Andre Buckner in for Dun-Dun, which gave us a smaller lineup so we could be quicker defensively and try for another steal. It seemed to backfire when Andre fouled Drew Nicholas before the ball was even inbounded, which sent Drew to the free-throw line for two shots.
Drew missed the first free throw, and this was where the plot thickened. Most people think we Dukies are altar boys, but I had taken Gary Payton’s “seminar” on how best to rattle your opponent. Chris and I started talking to Drew while he was preparing for his second free throw. It was Chris’s job to box out Nicholas on the line, and I was directly behind Drew, leaning forward, making sure he could hear my every word. What happened next was pure comedy.
Chris began. “Jay, this shit is coming up short.”
“No way, bro, this is going way long. This mothafucka gonna brick this shit.”
“Nah, his soft ass is gonna air-ball this for sure.” Chris was a natural.
“Yo, when I rebound this shit, we’re out,” I said. “We’re about to win this fucking game. Yeah, Drew. How you gonna feel when you lose this game?”
Sure enough, the shot hit the front of the rim, where Booz stretched for dear life to win the rebound. With his left hand extended, Booz tipped the ball free toward the Maryland bench, where the most athletic player on the floor—Chris Duhon—was able to chase it down. Chris grabbed the loose ball, took one dribble, and passed it to me.
The play Coach K had drawn up during the previous time-out was called L.A.—our high screen-and-roll series with Shane and me. It was almost impossible to stop. Shane would set a screen for me at the top of the three-point line, Dun-Dun was in the far right-hand corner, Chris in the left-hand corner, and Booz on the opposite block from where I would come off the screen. It was like being at a buffet, I had so many choices. It was every guard’s dream.
Option A: If I was being guarded tightly, and my defender decided to go under the screen, I had the green light to shoot the ball.
Option B: If my defender tried to go over the top of the screen—squeezing between Shane and me—I would stop, dip my left shoulder into his chest, and then proceed to turn the corner and either get to the basket or draw Boozer’s man to me for an easy pass and dunk.
Option C: If my defender and Shane’s man decided to double-team me off the ball screen, Shane would pop to the three-point line, where I’d throw it back to him for the open shot.
Option D: If my defender was able to get over the top of the screen, he would still be a step behind as I drove to the basket, forcing someone—usually Dun-Dun’s man or Chris’s man—to help, which would leave one of them wide-open for a kick-out three.
Option E: If the defense were able to hold Shane, Chris, Dun-Dun, and me in check, then that would leave Booz on the low post for a one-on-one isolation play.
I still find it amusing that our last option was to dump the ball into a future two-time NBA All-Star.
I rushed the ball up the court like my life depended on it. Shane and I were in lockstep—just as we had been all season long—and as I took one look at Danny Miller, I knew exactly what I was going to do next.
Every time Shane set a screen for me, it was my job to pay attention to how his defender would react. Shane’s job was to take my defender out of the equation.
His defender was none other than Danny Miller, who’d played for the same AAU coach I did back in Jersey. I knew Danny’s game well. Let’s just say Danny was always more preoccupied with his offense than with his defense. Poor Coach Gary Williams didn’t have as good a scouting report on his own player as I did. So as Shane set the screen, I saw Danny start to backpedal, standing straight up with his hands down by his sides. I took one dribble off the screen and elevated. Danny must’ve been six feet away instead of six inches. He never had a chance. I held my follow-th
rough motion as I, and 15,000 fellow onlookers, watched the ball float through the net.
40.4 seconds left. Down by two.
Maryland called their final time-out after Tahj Holden couldn’t find anyone to inbound the ball to. We sprinted over to the bench, and I sat down to catch my breath. When I looked up, everyone was huddled together, arms wrapped so tightly around one another that it felt like I was in an igloo. Coach K knelt down on his right knee and began to shout. “We’re going to win this fucking game! Do you hear me?” He then slowed his speech down. “We . . . are going . . . to win . . . this fucking . . . game.”
We were locked in. It was probably the only time we had ever walked back on the floor not saying a word to each other. Not even Shane had anything to add. We knew what we had to do—what we were going to do.
When Juan Dixon received the corner inbounds pass, Nate was draped all over him as Juan bobbled the ball. In a flash, Juan was triple-teamed on the sideline, directly in front of our bench, exactly where Drew Nicholas had turned the ball over a few plays earlier. Frantic, he was trying to pivot his way out of the trap when Nate went in for the steal and snagged it away. Our 41 press had paid off once again.
Nate then kicked the ball out to Chris, who waited for me to pop out from the other side of the court. I got the ball and, without hesitation, tried to attack the rim but slipped on the drive. Somehow, thankfully, I was able to maintain my dribble on one knee as I scanned the floor to find someone to bail me out. I almost threw the game away before spotting Shane open at the top. Shane took one dribble and passed it to Chris on the opposite wing behind the three-point line for a shot. With two men closing in, Chris head-faked and found Dun-Dun for an open three. He missed the shot, but our savior Nate James was there for a put-back. He missed it but got fouled on the play. Nate went to the line for two shots.
