by Ray Allen
I wasn’t angry with her, as I was with my dad. She was a mother who didn’t want her son to be far away. At the same time, parents, in my view, must always put what’s best for their child first, whether the kid hopes to play in the NBA or be a violinist for the Boston Pops.
Rosalind also didn’t want me to be far away. The two of us were as tight as ever. I hope I don’t come across too insensitive, but how she felt did not factor into the decision for one second. I needed to do what I believed was the right thing for my future. Besides, in the long run, the better I did wherever I went, the better I could provide for her and Tierra.
I felt a tremendous sense of relief when the recruiting process was over. Not a day had passed in months when someone—a stranger, friend, teacher, family member, anyone—didn’t ask where I would be going to college. You will be the first to know, I’d promise.
I could now focus on other concerns, such as trying to make it through my last year of high school. Up to that point, I had avoided any potential pitfalls that might prevent me from graduating and getting out of that place. That didn’t stop me from worrying.
Until the last minute, literally.
On the morning of graduation, I went with a teammate to a practice ceremony at the Sumter County Exhibition Center. Miss practice, they told us, and you won’t walk with your class. I even stayed the night before at a house by the arena, where my teammate’s sister lived. We didn’t want to take any chances.
So, wouldn’t you know it, we got into a car accident on the way to the auditorium. A woman born in 1918—that has stuck in my mind for some reason—was the one at fault, but we still had to remain at the scene to fill out a police report and never made it to the practice.
As my friend and I waited for the officers to let us go, my fears got the worst of me: Will this accident keep me from going to the University of Connecticut? From making a life for myself?
Get a grip, I told myself. A minor car accident won’t keep you from graduating. It just shows you the strange places your mind can go when you want something as badly as I did. Needless to say, I got my diploma.
Summer came and went. My five years in South Carolina, which sometimes felt like 50, were coming to an end, and I was ready to go.
And yet, I wouldn’t be the person I am today if I hadn’t gone through the struggles I had in those five years. It wasn’t just about deciding to be a success instead of the failure others said I would be. It had to do with something more important.
When I first got to Ebenezer, I took it personally when other black kids criticized me for talking like a white kid. But over time I realized the problem wasn’t me but them. If I’d let myself believe them, I might have become as hateful as some of them were, and possibly stayed that way for the rest of my life.
Now, whenever I run into the type of hatred and ignorance I dealt with 30 years ago—and believe me, I run into it a lot—it bothers me but I don’t take it personally.
I was playing golf several years ago at a course in Connecticut I had gone to many times, when a guy I didn’t know very well said to me: “How do you like playing the white man’s game?”
I wasn’t shocked. Just as I’m not shocked when I walk down the street and hear people lock their car doors because a black man is passing by. This has happened to me more times than I can ever remember.
Just as I’m not shocked when people pay me what they think is a compliment: “You speak so well,” or, “You have such a great vocabulary.”
Instead of becoming angry, I try to make a point.
“If I were a white person, would you say that to me?” I ask them.
There’s usually no response. Seeing the look on their face, however, I know I have given them something to think about.
But back then, I wasn’t so aware of all this. I was only starting to immerse myself in the types of challenges that would befall a young black basketball player.
There would be many more to come.
5
What Was in Storrs for Me
I showed up on campus early, a week or so before the others.
That’s always been my habit. Be the first to check out the new scene, and you’ll have it down while everyone else is still struggling to find their way.
Take practice at UConn, which started at 3:30. I was there early enough to get my ankles taped, stretch, and get a few shots up. And being there long before you have to be there, I would realize later on, shows how serious you are, which, in turn, makes the coaches notice.
Same goes for arriving at Storrs. In those initial days, I got lost on more than a few occasions, but that was how I got my bearings, and it wasn’t long before I felt as if I had been on campus forever. I knew where to eat and shop and where my classes were. I was determined not to be the typical freshman who stumbles around the first day of class, checking his map over and over.
That’s not to suggest I didn’t have concerns about the new life I was embarking on. On the plane to Hartford, having left behind the women most dear to me—Rosalind, Tierra, Mom, and my sisters, Kim, Talisha, and Kristie—I’d sensed, for probably the first time, how lonely I might be. Perhaps going to school so far away wasn’t the smartest decision after all.
Fortunately, when I was greeted at the airport by assistant coach Leitao—carrying only $200 in my pocket and a trash bag filled with my entire wardrobe because I could not afford a suitcase—any concerns went away. It reminds me of the times I stepped to the free-throw line, scared to death I was going to miss. Once the ball was in my hands and I went through my routine, the fear was gone. I got this, I told myself.
One day on campus during those first weeks stands out. There was nothing unusual about the day, really, and come to think of it, that was the point. I woke up around 5:30, lifted weights, took a quick shower, and ate breakfast. Then I did something I had not done before, and I don’t recall what inspired me. I put on a tie and sweater, raced out the door, and arrived in plenty of time for my 9:00 AM speech class.
“Why are you dressed up?” the girl next to me asked.
“Because I’m ready,” I said.
It took going to class, with roughly a dozen other men and women my age, each on a journey of their own, for it to sink in: This is no dream, Ray. You are a college student. You are in control of your destiny.
I worked hard to get to that moment, and yet a part of me had believed it would never happen. Either I’d make some huge mistake, like a few guys I knew in high school, or something outside my control would lead to my downfall. A kid our family knew, in fact, who was the top running back in Sumter, was killed in a car accident several months after he was offered a scholarship to Clemson.
No longer was it about being the first Allen to make it to college; my sister Kim had enrolled at Benedict College in Columbia the year before. Though I did think a lot about all the black people in the history of this country who didn’t get an opportunity like this, and the responsibility I now felt to make the most of it. Which meant, aside from keeping up with my studies, giving everything I could to the game of basketball, the reason I was able to be there in the first place.
The coaches were not kidding when they’d said I’d have to work hard from day one. I’d never trained for basketball before; I didn’t think you had to. You just went out and played. Those days were over.
They liked to run us, and I mean a lot, which made the cross-county meets I ran in high school seem like Sunday strolls. Most grueling was the route known as Cemetery Hill—it went through a cemetery—that we were forced to run every Saturday. No one ever wanted to go on that thing. No one sane, that is. It started with a sharp incline, until it leveled off after about a mile. The farther you went, the steeper the incline got. The coaches were messing with our minds, not just our bodies.
The first time I saw Cemetery Hill I didn’t think it was a big deal. This was during my visit the year before, and I was in a car with Coach Calhoun, watching his players run.
How awesom
e that they are doing this together, I’d thought. Now, that’s a real team! What I did not know was that it was mandatory.
As for Coach Calhoun, think of him as a general on the battlefield. You could almost hear him saying: “Gentlemen, we have an enemy combatant out there, and we got to take him out before he takes us out. Dying is not an option.”
He knew how to get our attention. In the minutes before practice began, we kept our eyes on the clock on the wall. Because when it struck 3:30, and not a minute later, the door would swing wide open and Coach would come through, pad and pen in his hand.
“Guys, we have a lot of work to do,” he’d say. Every single day.
And when he said it, we had better be clapping, ready to give our all, and more. Or else.
“You guys don’t want to be here?” he’d ask if just one person did not appear enthusiastic enough. “Get on the line.”
Get on the line. The four words we dreaded most.
Those four words meant another form of running, as punishing as Cemetery Hill. We referred to it as “28s” because of what we would have to do in 28 seconds or less. There was another term for it—“suicides.” In 28 seconds, we had to run from the baseline to the free-throw line and back to the baseline. Then from the baseline to half-court, and back to the baseline.
Follow me so far?
Then to the far free-throw line and back to the baseline. Then to the far baseline, until you finally finish at the baseline where you started.
In 28 seconds!
Most of the guys were able to do it, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy Coach Calhoun, oh no. Everyone had to do it, or everyone would have to do it again. That was a problem for us, due to Eric Hayward, our six-foot-seven forward. Eric was, to put it delicately, a bit on the deliberate side. Okay, slow. No way could he finish in 28 seconds. So, to get out of the gym before the semester ended, we used to carry him across the line.
We still didn’t always make it in 28 seconds, but that was not the point. We were becoming a team, no longer 14 individuals with 14 agendas, and the angrier we were at him for making us run, the more we bonded with one another. Before long, we realized that we could achieve more than we ever thought was possible. Coach Calhoun was similar to Coach Smith, making sure we didn’t give up when giving up would have been easy. And if there were times I felt he went too far, I didn’t say a word. I was already in a battle, with myself, every day on that court. Give up just once, and I might give up again, and again.
A few did give up, as you would expect, eventually transferring to other schools. I could’ve predicted who they would be by how they complained instead of doing what they were told to do. They assumed that because they were talented, they merely had to show up.
Not under Coach Calhoun.
To be on his good side, no simple feat, you had to work hard in practice, make it to class on time, be at study hall, and, guess what, do it all over again the next day.
That reminds me of my first practice. After it ended, Coach Leitao saw something he didn’t like.
“Coach,” Leitao told Coach Calhoun, “the freshman didn’t sweat. He obviously didn’t work hard enough.”
Was he messing with me? I had worked extremely hard. The reason I didn’t sweat was because the gym was air-conditioned and I was used to the humidity from being in the South. I worked so hard I was dying to get a drink of water, only to be stopped by Kevin Ollie, a teammate.
“Stay away from that water bottle,” Kevin warned. “You can’t just drink water whenever you feel like it. He’s got to tell you that you can get it.”
In any case, I have no idea whether Coach Calhoun ever responded to Coach Leitao about my not sweating enough. I hurried off the court and did not turn back.
Off the court, the closeness I saw between the players during my visit the year before was genuine, and being part of a group for the first time since I was a boy in California meant the world to me. I would do anything for my new friends.
Take the party underneath the Student Union freshman year, which a lot of football players attended. Not good. The football players at UConn always seemed to be envious of the basketball players. There were 14 of us, roughly 50 of them, and we received most of the attention. There was a dispute over—what else?—some girl and being the mature grown-ups we were, we decided to settle it with our fists. I was ready. It wasn’t as if I’d never been in a fight before.
Except my teammates didn’t want my help.
“Get out of here,” they said. “Go back to the dorm.”
“No, no, let’s do it,” I pleaded.
Their reasoning was this: It was one thing if we got in trouble; we were known for not always behaving well. Yet, if Coach found out that Ray, who had a stellar reputation, was involved, he was really going to make us pay. I certainly did not seek any special favors, but then I thought: These guys hold me in high regard and I should respect that.
On the other hand, there was one thing I wouldn’t do with them.
That was drinking. Were there times I wished I could’ve joined them? You bet. Until I saw them hungover the morning after. To their credit, not once did they make me feel bad for staying away. They knew I was doing what was right for me. If I didn’t succeed in basketball, I wanted it to be because I was not good enough, not because I drank too much.
I thought I was good enough, although I couldn’t be certain. Not until the second game of the season, against Virginia in Charlottesville. Virginia, if you remember, was the school that sent a letter indicating they were no longer interested in recruiting me. I was eager to show them what they were missing. Members of my family also made the trip from South Carolina, and I didn’t want to disappoint them.
How motivated I was, though, wouldn’t influence Coach Calhoun one bit in deciding on the amount of playing time I’d have. He had a game to win, a big game. The Cavaliers were ranked number 12 in the nation. We were unranked. Beating them, on their court no less, would make a statement.
Loud and clear: UConn 77, Virginia 36.
No one saw it coming, although I couldn’t be sure if they were that bad or we were that good. We pressed them on every possession, and they couldn’t adjust. I scored 20 points off the bench, while the other reserves also played well, which was a welcome sign. In the first game of the year, against Towson, we won by 40, but that was because our starters dominated. You can’t count on that game after game. Sooner rather than later, the bench would have to come through. I saw no reason why the bench couldn’t be as integral to our success as the starting five. I felt that strongly about every team I was on.
One of those starters was Doron Sheffer, a 21-year-old freshman from Israel. I’ll never forget the first time I saw Doron. I was shooting baskets in the gym when he walked in. He was six-foot-five, the same height I was, and also a guard. My immediate thought: They have me. What do they need this guy for? I wasn’t threatened so much as driven to prove myself. Coach would start the one who was playing the best, and I was confident that would be me.
And though it turned out not to be me, I didn’t mind one bit. Doron made us better, and that’s what mattered. He averaged about 12 points and five assists a game and was the Big East Freshman of the Year. Besides, I was contributing as well, averaging 12.6 points, and when we were on the court at the same time, we clicked. Doron would drive past his defender and throw the ball to me in the perfect spot, and that makes a big difference in getting up a good shot.
I never forgot to work hard, though a reminder here and there didn’t hurt. Like the time I was in the gym the first month and saw Donyell Marshall, our best player, and Scott Burrell, who had left school the year before and had been drafted by the Charlotte Hornets, shoot jumper after jumper. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. They didn’t miss.
How could I be that consistent? I knew the answer, of course. Practice. Practice. Practice.
Another time, I was taking a few shots, some as I stood still, others as I jumped, while Karl Hobbs, one of
our assistant coaches, watched closely.
Until he had seen enough.
“Young fella,” he said, “you just can’t shoot a stand-still shot and not jump because now you’re going to go against seven-footers who will be able to block your shot. You have to shoot the same way every time.”
What Coach Hobbs said helped enormously. From then on, I made sure that I jumped whenever I took a shot. My shots were rarely blocked.
The win in Charlottesville put us at number 21 in the nation. Did we deserve it? It was too soon to tell.
I did, however, find out something else important that night. I found out what people in South Carolina thought of me, and it was what I suspected.
“I didn’t know you were good,” Rosalind said when I saw her briefly afterward. She quickly corrected herself. “I mean, I knew that you were good, but I thought you were good for Sumter, South Carolina, just better than the guys around there. I didn’t know you would be this good at this level.”
People told her I’d be back in four years and that no one from Dalzell ever amounted to anything. She believed them. I wasn’t angry with her, not in the least. Besides, by this point Rosalind and I were beginning to grow apart, even if a formal breakup was a ways off. It wasn’t that we didn’t love each other, but it’s extremely difficult to maintain a long-distance relationship, at that age especially. I could not go 50 yards on campus without running into a girl I wished I could’ve gotten to know better. If only I wasn’t involved with someone else.
As for the team, another key test came on the road, against Seton Hall. I was looking forward to it, but not just the game itself. I was excited about the trip to the game.
Soon after our bus crossed Connecticut into the state of New York, there it was, the Big Apple, as magical as I imagined it. I gazed out the window and couldn’t believe it. There were actual living, breathing New Yorkers on the streets, and I wanted to get out and walk with them and talk to them for a little while, to be one of them.
