by Ray Allen
But before I knew it, we were driving over the George Washington Bridge, heading to New Jersey, where Seton Hall is located. I kept looking behind me at the skyline until we arrived at the hotel in Secaucus. Seeing the city would have to wait.
I was scared to death leading up to the game. This was the Big East, the big-time, the stage I asked for, and now it was . . . here!
Yet once I stepped onto the court, the anxieties disappeared. The court was the same as any, and my responsibilities the same: get open, make shots, and stop the man I was guarding. Mission accomplished. The final: Connecticut 82, Seton Hall 66. I scored 17 points, 13 in the second half.
By late December, we were 7-0, ranked number 14. I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why this team had struggled so much the season before. The only theory that made sense was that our year’s leaders, Kevin Ollie, Donyell Marshall, and Donny Marshall (no relation), were more determined than the year before’s.
“We’re not losing anymore,” they vowed. “We know our way around, and we’re going to make something out of these last two years of college.”
In any case, off to Hawaii we went for a holiday tournament to extend our winning streak. To move up higher in the rankings. To enjoy a little sunshine. To . . .
Fall flat on our face.
After knocking off the University of Texas–Arlington, we lost to that powerhouse from the Mid-American Conference, Ohio University, 85–76. Having Donny kicked out with seven minutes left in the first half didn’t help our cause, but that was no excuse. We stunk up the joint, simple as that—missing open shots, committing turnovers, getting out-hustled for every loose ball.
Not to let us off the hook, but Ohio was a much better team than people realized. They had a good point guard and a six-foot-eight, 250-pound power forward, Gary Trent, known as “the Shaq of the MAC.” The nickname was appropriate; he was an absolute beast. We tried everything we could, including hacking the guy. Nothing worked. The loss, as it turned out, was what we needed. We’d become a little cocky. I don’t recall us even having a scouting report on them.
The next day in Hawaii, we started another streak, with a win over Tennessee Tech. This streak would reach 10, carrying us to number 5, before a loss at Syracuse in early February. Seven of the 10 came in the Big East, including a win over St. John’s in the Gahhhhhh-den. At last, I was able to spend time in the city that never sleeps.
The rest of the guys also couldn’t wait to do some exploring—not, however, until we heard from our camp counselor, Coach Calhoun, who summoned us to his hotel room.
“This is the best city in the world,” Coach told us. “It’s going to be one of the greatest experiences of your life.”
With $60 in our pockets, the cash each of us were given for the road trip, Donny, our center Travis Knight, a few others, and I found our way to Times Square. Seeing the hordes of people and the bright lights, I can say without exaggeration, was one of the first times I felt truly alive.
There, we came upon the type of character you could find only in New York. He was operating a shell game, you know, where you hide a small ball under a cap. One look at the group of us—deer-in-the-headlights teenagers from the boonies—and the dollar signs in his head lit up.
Especially when he saw Travis, a white dude.
“Does anyone know where the ball is?” the guy asked.
Travis bit.
“I know where it is,” he said.
Travis pointed, and the ball was right where he said it was. He thought he was so smart. The guy, of course, had the big fella on the hook now. He moved the caps around and asked again:
“Do you know where the ball is?”
Travis didn’t hesitate. “I know.”
Except this time, before he would lift the caps, he asked Travis to show him he had $60 and place it where he thought the ball was.
“No, no, no, I’m out of this,” he insisted.
We insisted otherwise—well, Donny did. He somehow got Travis to open his wallet, and when he did, Donny took the $60 and placed it on the table. I don’t have to tell you that was the last Travis ever saw of that $60. The ball, obviously, was under a different cap. Travis looked as if he was going to cry. Welcome to New York City, boys.
Hey, at least Travis, and the rest of us, avoided any real trouble that day and left the city in an excellent mood, with the St. John’s victory. We kept rolling from there, and although we were knocked off by Providence in the Big East semis, we finished 27-4 and were awarded the No. 2 seed in the NCAA Tournament East Regional. A national championship was not out of the question.
There is, however, absolutely no margin for error in March Madness. Mess up in any way at the wrong time—a turnover, an ill-advised shot, a failure to box out your man, etc.—and you’re likely to be going home, and I don’t care how much talent you have.
That’s what happened to us in the regional semifinal against Florida. It was a battle the entire way, but with just 3.4 seconds to go, we were in position to win the game and move on. Donyell, our can’t-miss NBA prospect, was about to shoot two free throws, the score tied at 57. A few months earlier, he set a conference record with the most free throws in a game, hitting 20 of 20. Once he knocked down these two, or just one, we’d only have to make sure that nobody pulled a Christian Laettner on us and we’d secure a spot in the Elite Eight.
Donyell missed the first, and the Gators called a time-out. No problem. Icing a big-time player like Donyell wouldn’t do any good.
He missed, naturally, and we lost, 69–60, in overtime. Losing was difficult enough, but then we had to deal with a report in the school newspaper that Donyell had been out partying the night before in Coconut Grove, an upscale Miami neighborhood. Even if it was true, and I’m not suggesting it was, it would not have been why he missed the free throws. Our game didn’t begin until 10, the following night. Donyell just missed them, plain and simple.
Either way, I didn’t let the loss keep me down for long. Given how dedicated our coaches were, I was convinced we’d return in the fall stronger than ever.
Although I came off the bench the entire season, I still received plenty of playing time and ended up as the second-leading scorer, behind Donyell. The effort I gave in practice had paid off, and for that, Coach Calhoun deserves a ton of credit. It wasn’t just what he put us through day after day; it was what he said to me on one particular day that got through like nothing else.
I was walking off the court with a couple of teammates when he pulled me aside. It had been another long, exhausting workout, and I was looking forward to a little downtime.
“Did you make 100 percent of your shots today?” Coach asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you make 100 percent of your shots?”
What was I to tell him? Sure, Coach, I was perfect, just like I’m perfect every day. I’m actually insulted you didn’t notice.
All kidding aside, his point was impossible to miss: if I was so intent on being a special player, in college and, hopefully, at the next level, I would have to make sacrifices others weren’t willing to make.
“No,” I told him. “I didn’t make 100 percent of my shots.”
He grinned and didn’t say another word. I told the guys I’d see them later, went back on the court, and, with a ball boy helping out, took shots for another half-hour. From that day forward, I took shots every day after practice officially ended.
Would I have preferred to go off with my teammates? No question. But I didn’t want to look back someday and ask: What if I had put the extra hours in?
For example, there was my roommate during freshman year, Kirk King, a six-foot-eight forward from Louisiana. Kirk, also a freshman, had a body like a tight end. There was greater anticipation about him coming to Connecticut than there was about me. But while I stayed in the dorm every night, resting or hanging with friends, he often felt the need to be somewhere else, and because of his split focus, there have probably been times when Kirk
, who didn’t make it to the NBA, asks himself: What if? I know that would have haunted me forever.
Of course, there were occasions that first year when I wasn’t pleased with how I handled the ball. So I decided to take the ball with me everywhere. Seriously, it didn’t leave my side. In junior high, you may remember, I dribbled the ball day after day in the yard and across the street. That was nothing compared to what I did this time.
I took the ball to class. To the cafeteria. To bed, I kid you not. I came up with the idea from a movie I saw where a running back prone to fumbling carries the football with him wherever he goes so he’ll become more comfortable with it during games.
It worked. My ball handling improved, which led to me getting off better shots. In the next game, against Hartford, I scored 28 points, a career high, going 11 of 20 from the field. Although it might’ve looked strange to teachers and students alike, what did I care? I was on a mission.
The summer after freshman year, I took part in the US Olympic Festival in St. Louis. I scored 28 in the opener, making four of seven three-pointers, and got 12 rebounds. I was only getting started. We won the silver medal, and I was the festival’s leading scorer, breaking a record set by none other than Shaquille O’Neal. It gave me a huge boost. I was confident that if I had to, I could carry a team.
I wouldn’t have to. Not yet, anyway. While we lost Donyell, who skipped his senior season to turn pro, we were loaded, with Kevin and Donny now seniors. I was expected, however, to take on more of the scoring burden, a challenge I looked forward to.
Speaking of challenges, we got a big one in our second game, against the Duke Blue Devils. We were the underdog. They were Duke. We were Connecticut. Nothing more needs to be said.
Except this: UConn 90, Duke 86. I led us with 26 points, Kevin adding 24. We were a step ahead of them the whole way.
If only that week had gone more smoothly for me away from the court.
Since the game, at the Palace of Auburn Hills in Michigan, was set for a Tuesday, we left Storrs on Monday, which meant I would have to miss a biology exam. No problem. I’d make it up when I got back.
Big problem.
The teacher told me I couldn’t make it up no matter what my excuse was, and by flunking the exam, which was a large percentage of the grade, I flunked the class. Worse yet, I was put on academic probation. Never could I have imagined this would happen to me. I put a lot of time into my studies. I wasn’t worried they’d take away my scholarship, although I understood I was being watched closely, and if I didn’t keep my grades up, I could be in trouble. To be safe, I made arrangements to take several classes in the summer.
Meanwhile, the win against Duke was not an aberration. Over the next couple of months, we didn’t lose once, rising to number 2 in the country. We were proud of ourselves but didn’t get too carried away. I never heard any of us talk about being the first team since Bobby Knight’s Indiana squad in 1975–1976 to go undefeated. We knew we could lose to anyone, at any time.
It happened in January, when Kansas crushed us, 88–59, in Kansas City. They grabbed a 20-point lead at halftime and didn’t look back. We shot a horrible 26 percent from the field, and our press, for a change, didn’t disrupt the other team’s rhythm one bit.
So we lost. Every team loses. Not every team, however, has Jim Calhoun as its coach, and Jim Calhoun hated losing as much as anyone I’ve been around.
Coach took it as a personal insult. To that man, everything was about competing, and not just in the games. In practice, he set up one-on-one free-throw shooting contests, the first player to 20 being the winner. I can’t overstate how much I wanted to beat my opponent. Because if I didn’t, Coach would banish me to the opposite end of the court with the other losers. It was not a good feeling. The winners would remain with him.
If that weren’t humiliating enough, then came the inevitable ribbing. Coach was a master at that.
“I see you couldn’t beat KO [Kevin Ollie] today, huh?” he would say. “That’s not like you to be down there with the others. You’re not supposed to lose.”
His objective was to teach us to take losing as personally as he did. And guess what? He succeeded.
For my teammates, the first practice after the Kansas defeat was a killer. I got off rather easy: I had twisted my ankle, so instead of practicing, I received treatment in the training room. Hearing Coach yelling at everyone in the gym, I had never been so grateful to be away from the action.
The tough love worked. We won eight of our last 10 to finish 23-3 and found ourselves, if briefly, ranked number 1. Although Villanova beat us handily in the Big East tournament final, we felt good about our chances heading into the tournament that mattered most, the Big Dance.
Except, once again, we came up short, losing to UCLA, 102–96, in the Elite Eight. The loss wasn’t as painful as the one to Florida the season before and the fact that the Bruins went on to win the national championship made it hurt even less. I also had nothing to be ashamed of. I scored 36 points, 18 in each half, in what was, to that point, the biggest game of my life.
In the weeks that followed, I began to hear whispers that I should forgo my last two years of college and make myself eligible for the NBA Draft. One story floating out there was that I would be a definite lottery pick if I declared. Whether that was true or not, the idea of going pro did not enter my mind for a second, no matter the amount of money I stood to earn. I was having too much fun to think about leaving the college environment just yet. I would have the rest of my life to be in the “real world.”
I still had a lot to learn. If you go to the NBA, you better be good right away, or you might find yourself out of a job in a year or two. Then what? It boggles my mind whenever I hear of players who declare for the draft even if they’re not projected to be higher than a second-round pick. Imagine what another year in college could do for their games—and for their lives. Because once they leave college, now they’re really on their own.
One afternoon, I was in the gym with a teammate who seemed eager to work out with me. That was, until his girlfriend showed up as we were shooting jumpers.
“Babe, I need you to take me to work,” she told him. “We have to leave now or I’m going to be late.”
Without the slightest resistance, he put the ball on the floor.
“Dude, this is your job,” I said. “You can’t walk out like this.”
And because I’m telling this story, you are right in assuming that he didn’t listen to me. It should also come as no shock that he eventually transferred to another school.
After he left that day, I remained in the gym for another hour or so. You see, it is not enough just to arrive early. You also must stick around until your work is done.
6
Setting the Stage
Two relationships that meant a lot to me both came to an end around the same time, in my sophomore year.
One was the relationship with Rosalind, my first love. She said she wanted to see other people. I knew how she felt.
In college, I met women almost every day who wanted to conquer the world. That wasn’t Rosalind. She was content just where she was, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Except I saw a different future for myself. It was unfortunate Tierra would never have both parents in the same house, but she’d have my unconditional love and support, as well as her mother’s, and that’s a lot more than many kids have.
The other relationship was between Mom and Dad. I was in my dorm room when I heard the news they were filing for divorce, and my initial reaction was: it’s about time. They had tried for years to recapture whatever it was the two of them once had, and they couldn’t try forever. There was no point in taking any sides. Dad wasn’t perfect; neither was Mom.
If you think these changes set me back for a second, you should know better by now. My junior year would be the toughest yet, but my attitude was equally tough: bring it on!
For once, I wanted to be the player other teams designed their defenses a
round. Only then, in how I responded to the attention, would I find out what I was truly made of. If I couldn’t handle the pressure in college, it wouldn’t say a lot for my prospects as a pro.
I wasn’t exactly the man sophomore year. I averaged 21 points, but teams did not set out to stop me specifically; Donny and Doron, each averaging in double figures, also had to be accounted for. I was still sneaking up on people, even in the NCAA Tournament. That wouldn’t be the case my junior year.
I knew I’d have to be even more dedicated to my craft. So I moved from the dorm to an off-campus apartment. I loved dorm life. It was exactly how it looked in the movies, hanging out in one another’s rooms, just talking—about classes, friends, music, whatever came up. I lived on the fourth floor, which was all-male, while the floors above and below us were all-female. Now, however, as I became more known, hanging out wasn’t as simple as it was freshman or sophomore year. Students asked me practically every day to sign one thing or another. That got old fast. I needed my own space.
Mind you, not entirely my own. I had a roommate, Travis Knight. You remember Travis. Last time we saw him he was out 60 bucks, another poor victim of the Big Apple. Travis was a great guy, but let’s just say he wasn’t the neatest person in the world, and I’m obsessed with neatness. If I’m on the golf course and see a gum wrapper on the fairway, I’ll go out of my way to put it in the trash. I’ve never been officially diagnosed, but it wouldn’t shock me to learn I have a mild case of OCD.
Travis drove me crazy. He always left his dirty dishes in the sink.
“Wash your dishes,” I kept telling him, but he didn’t listen. “Next time you do it,” I promised, “I’m going to put the dishes on your bed.”
One evening, he came home with a girl he was trying to impress and found a pile of dishes precisely where I told him they would be. Travis took it like a true sport, though, and never left a dirty dish in the sink again.
My nature was to try to get along with everyone. I didn’t always succeed.
The summer before, I was a member of the US team at the World University Games in Japan. That was some team, with Tim Duncan, Othella Harrington, Chucky Atkins, and Austin Croshere, who would all go on to play in the NBA. Oh, and Allen Iverson, from Georgetown.
