From the Outside

by Ray Allen

  Being prepared isn’t just about getting your shots up and running on the treadmill; it’s also about keeping track of your sleep and diet.

  You can lie to yourself, but you cannot lie to your body. Your body remembers what you ate and how much sleep you got. Sure, you may get away with it for a game or two, or a whole season, if you’re lucky, but it will catch up to you. It catches up to everyone. That goes for those who had outstanding, even borderline Hall of Fame careers.

  I could always tell whenever the guys I played against weren’t as prepared as they should have been. I’d be kicking it into another gear, or rare air, as I referred to it, while they’d be running out of gas chasing me from one side of the court to the other. And by sticking to a routine, I got to the point after a few years in the league where I knew any shot I took in the fourth quarter had a good chance of going in.

  It’s convenient to come up with excuses, and not just in basketball, and ignore the fact that the potential for your greatness is always in your control. I can’t tell you how many players said they would join me for a workout, only to complain that their alarm did not go off or the traffic was bad. I don’t want to hear it. You should know the traffic is bad at that time of day. Next time, leave a little earlier. Because, in the end, you show up or you don’t.

  And any time someone said: “God blessed you with this gift but he hasn’t blessed me,” it felt like a slap in the face. The gift, I told them, is the work I put in, day after day. I didn’t grow up with a basketball in my hand given to me by God. God doesn’t care if I can shoot a basketball. That’s not what he has in store for me. He wants me to work as hard as I can to make myself, and everyone around me, better. He wants that for all of us.

  People talk about who is blessed, and who isn’t, to take themselves off the hook. Why should I work harder? It won’t do me any good. I even heard players in the NBA say that. I was never surprised when they were out of the game within a year or two.

  On the other hand, I saw guys who worked extremely hard, and that’s why they stuck around the league for years. A prime example is Ben Wallace, the undersized center who played for the Pistons in the early to mid-2000s. Ben was not a real scoring threat, but by giving a total effort, night after night, he became one of the premier defensive players in the game. He accepted his role: clear the boards and get the ball to the playmakers. No wonder he earned the respect of his peers—and a ring, in 2004.

  At times, I would show up to the gym too early, before the locker room was open. I’d have to find a security guard who would track down the ball kid, who had the key to the joint. Whatever it took.

  Once, in Chicago, because the bus had yet to arrive with our workout clothes, it appeared I would have to wait a while. A locker room attendant then came up with a suggestion.

  “Michael Jordan’s in there,” he said. “Maybe you could use some of his stuff. He’s got a ton.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, but you got to ask him.”

  I somehow got up the nerve, although I expected him to say no. I would not have blamed him. I was, last time I checked, a member of the opposing team.

  How wrong I was. Michael couldn’t have been more gracious, showing me a closet filled with nothing but shoes. The attendant was not exaggerating. There must have been 200, maybe 300, pairs in there. Funny, but I’d been in the league more than a year by then, and I was still amazed he knew who I was.

  Sometimes, if I was aware that our opponent was planning to have a shootaround, I showed up even earlier, although that didn’t always go over very well. It didn’t matter that I had every right to be there. They treated me like I was a kid off the streets, not a player in the NBA.

  “Hey, you can’t be on the floor,” somebody who worked for another team told me once. “We’re going to have practice.”

  “I’ll be here for 20 minutes and then I’ll be gone,” I pleaded.

  He wouldn’t budge.

  Another time, when I was on the Heat and we were in Milwaukee for a playoff game, a Bucks representative kicked me and several teammates off the floor, though no one else was around. I argued, to no avail, and then it occurred to me: Why weren’t any of their players on the court to prepare for such an important game?

  Nothing put me more at ease than having the floor to myself. It gave me time to think. Not about the team we’d be facing that night, or the player I would be guarding—that would come later—but about my routine:

  Was I getting enough lift in my legs? Should I shoot more? Run more? Was I missing anything?

  By the time my teammates would show up for the shootaround I was ready, and by no longer focusing on myself, I could focus on them. Any team, and it doesn’t matter which sport, succeeds to the degree that each member helps the others.

  As the 1997–98 season unfolded, we were looking forward to getting help from Terrell Brandon, the All-Star point guard we acquired from the Cavaliers in the Vin Baker trade. He didn’t let us down.

  The season before, we had ranked near the bottom of the league in assists. With his skill at finding the open man, we became better in that area. In the end, though, we won only three more games—in large part because Terrell sprained his ankle in early February and appeared in just 50 games. If Terrell hadn’t been hurt, we might have made the playoffs. Before losing nine in a row in March, we were a respectable 29-29. It didn’t help that Glenn, our top scorer, and Tyrone Hill, our top rebounder, who we also got in the Baker deal, missed a bunch of games as well.

  Nonetheless, someone had to go. That someone turned out to be, as it often is in these situations, our coach.

  I felt bad for Chris, despite how tough he was on me early on. He had been given just two years to turn around a franchise that hadn’t reached the postseason since 1991. As soon as I heard the news, I thought to myself, The NBA sure is cutthroat. I had never seen anyone fired before, from anything.

  The new coach would be George Karl, who had parted ways with the Seattle Sonics a couple of months before. He was the man I wanted from the moment I learned Chris was out.

  The Sonics won at least 55 games in each of his six full seasons. Only the Bulls, which beat them in six games in the 1996 Finals, won more during that stretch. George had apparently gotten on the wrong side of the owner, Barry Ackerley, and the general manager, Wally Walker. So what? Frankly, it’s a wonder coaches and the people above them coexist as long as they do. I felt so strongly about George that I flew to DC to make the case in person to Senator Kohl.

  Meeting with the senator was memorable, it being my first visit to the Capitol building. He and I had gotten along wonderfully from the beginning. As a matter of fact, whenever he was in Milwaukee, we met for lunch at a hotel downtown. I was 100 percent honest with him about any issues with the team, and he appreciated that.

  No, he wasn’t an expert in the nuances and subtleties of the game but being such an astute businessman and politician, he surrounded himself with the best people and always asked the appropriate questions. That’s why it always seemed odd to me whenever other players in the league saw their owner as the enemy. I never felt that way about Senator Kohl.

  I told him George was the coach we needed if we were serious about becoming one of the elite teams. The senator didn’t say much, although I got the impression that George’s name had come up before. I was certain that, if we didn’t hire him, someone else would.

  Shortly afterward, George was brought on, and I couldn’t wait to work with him. Except I would have to.

  In the summer of 1998, the players and owners were at war once again, and no one would get on the court until it was resolved. The conflict was over the almighty dollar—is there ever anything else?—the owners trying to increase their share of the basketball-related income (gate receipts, broadcast rights, etc.), the players trying to keep their share at the current level.

  It was more complicated than that, obviously, but when July 1 arrived and there was still no clear end in sight, the owners
imposed a lockout. They were waging another war, for public opinion, which they won without much trouble. They cast us as the bad guys, knowing that fans wouldn’t see any difference between a strike and a lockout. We came to the arena one day to show people we were ready to get to work, that it was the owners who were keeping us out.

  Some good that did. If only social media had been around back then. We could have taken our case directly to the fans, instead of relying on the mainstream press. I have no doubt we would have received a lot more support. Did racism play a role? How could it not? When owners, who are white, seek more money, they are “shrewd.” When players, who are predominantly black, seek more money, they are “greedy.” Words tell you a lot.

  While both sides stubbornly dug in, fall turning into winter, I remained in Connecticut, working out with my college buddies Donny Marshall and Kevin Ollie. It felt like old times.

  Finally, in January 1999, the two sides reached an agreement. The season was cut to 50 games, with every team forced to play on a number of back-to-back-to-back nights. I can’t overstate how tiring that is, especially for the older players. Hey, at least we would have a season, and before I knew it I was back in Milwaukee. So much about the place would be the same: the sense of isolation, the snow, the Bucks overshadowed by Brett Favre and the Packers.

  But there was hope. The George Karl era—when drama, on and off the court, was something you could count on—was about to get under way.

  Say what you want about the man. He was never boring.

  8

  Jesus and George

  Come to think of it, I was used to a little drama of my own by the time George took over, mine taking place in reel—not real—life.

  It began in January 1997, when we played the Knicks in New York. Allan Houston, one of the best shooting guards in the game, was having a strong first half at my expense. I was usually successful at tuning out any comments from the fans sitting in the courtside seats, but one comment got through loud and clear:

  “Are you going to guard Allan tonight?” some wiseguy yelled.

  The voice belonged to film director Spike Lee (Do the Right Thing, Jungle Fever), a die-hard Knicks fan. Even if you’ve never seen a Spike Lee film, if you’ve watched a Knicks game on television, you know who I’m talking about. Whenever the official makes a questionable call against the Knicks, the camera will go right to Spike, wearing a team jersey, giving the guy more abuse than the coaches do.

  I didn’t say a word. Start responding to hecklers, playful or not, and you’ll never stop.

  A few months later, on our next visit to the Garden, Spike kept trying to get my attention, but I kept ignoring him. Allan was playing well again, and Spike, I figured, would give me another hard time.

  At halftime, he finally walked over to me.

  “I’m doing a film and I want to know if you’d be interested in coming to New York to audition for it,” he said. Not what I expected to hear.

  I was interested, of course, but I didn’t get too excited. Spike planned to audition a number of players he’d run into at the Garden.

  In April, a few days after the season ended, I went to New York to give it a shot. That was the only upside of us missing the playoffs. If we had made it, I wouldn’t have been able to try out for two weeks, maybe longer. Spike couldn’t wait forever. I wasn’t Marlon Brando.

  I would be auditioning to play Jesus Shuttlesworth, a high school basketball phenom who has to choose which college scholarship to accept. Remind you of anyone?

  His story, however, was more complicated. His father was in prison for accidentally killing his wife, though he would now have a chance to get his sentence reduced if Jesus were to pick the governor’s alma mater.

  For once, I didn’t do any preparation. There was no point. I had no concept of what this Jesus guy was supposed to be like. So I read with a couple of different actresses. We did a love scene—we went over lines, that’s it, I swear—and I was out of there. Good thing I had no plans to give up my day job.

  I must have done well enough, because Spike asked me to return a week later for a second audition, and then a third. For the third, he asked Denzel Washington, who had already signed on to play Jesus’s father, to read with me. Having been in the league for a year by this point, I was used to meeting people who were accomplished in their fields.

  Meeting Denzel was different. I was in awe.

  Denzel, a huge Lakers fan, put me at ease right away. He didn’t act as if he was the star and everybody else was there to serve his needs. I can think of some people I’ve come across who could learn a lesson from him. I felt chemistry between the two of us, as did Spike. He called a day or two later.

  “Do you think you can commit to this?” he asked.

  Good question. I had worked as hard as I could for seven straight months, since training camp began, and I needed a break, mentally and physically. Instead, I would now have to take on another tough job, one I’d be doing for the first time. There would go my summer.

  I shared those reservations with Shannon, who, as usual, knocked some sense into me.

  “Who cares about your summer?” she said. “Do you know how many people would sell their souls to the devil to be in a Spike Lee film?”

  It helped when Spike said he would set me up with an apartment in the city and I found a gym at Chelsea Piers to work out every day after we finished on the set. He also told me that I would get my share of days off. It was an offer, to quote Brando from The Godfather, I couldn’t refuse. If I did, I knew I would regret the decision for the rest of my life.

  He Got Game, released in the spring of 1998, was an experience I will always cherish, not merely for a chance to be around Spike, Denzel, and dozens of other talented artists but also for the message it sends to young people in every walk of life: you can achieve your goals as long as you stay true to yourself.

  I also found out that I could show my emotions, and it was okay; life would go on. I had become quite an expert at keeping my guard up, from having been around parents who weren’t very affectionate and kids who made it clear I wasn’t one of them. Believe it or not, I couldn’t even tell somebody I cared about that I missed them. It was not until I began working on the film, trying to get my character to open up, that it hit me: I need to learn how to tell other people how I feel about them.

  Coming to the rescue was Susan Batson, my acting coach, who worked with me day after day for six weeks.

  Any time we dealt with a character Jesus encounters in the script, Susan asked me to compare that person to somebody I knew. If I was supposed to be mad at Denzel, she’d have me reflect on times when I was mad at my real father. I felt like I was in therapy.

  “The audience needs to understand what you’re feeling and thinking, and see it on your face,” Susan explained.

  Before every scene, I glanced at the notes I’d jotted down in a log.

  What helped me tremendously was that I could relate to the responsibilities that Jesus was dealing with. It was up to him to watch over his younger sister, as it had been up to Rosalind and me, with help from Mom, to watch over Tierra. Most kids that age couldn’t begin to imagine what it would feel like to be responsible for another human being. They have enough trouble trying to keep themselves in line.

  Preparing for each day of filming was no different from preparing for a game. Eat the right foods, get enough sleep, and limit the distractions. And, of course, know your lines!

  I didn’t look at any scenes, or “dailies,” as they are known in the biz, while we were still shooting, though Spike did, and liked what I was giving him. It was not until I was in Los Angeles months later that I sat down in a screening room and watched the finished product for the first time. I have never enjoyed looking at myself on the screen, even the highlights on SportsCenter, and I felt just as uneasy this time, although I was impressed by the job Spike did. Not a single moment seemed inauthentic.

  Looking back, I remember thinking how dysfunctional Jesus
’s family was, but as I have gotten older, I see things differently. Teammates complained to me constantly: “My family is so messed up.”

  “Dude,” I’d tell them, “everyone’s family has problems.”

  What He Got Game also showed me is the importance of being a leader in your own family, and whether you are the parent or the child, you always have an opportunity to stand up for what is right. It doesn’t mean others will always follow you. And, by taking a stand, you might put up barriers that will not be easy to break through. But if you stand for nothing, you will fall for anything.

  With the lockout finally over, I was eager to get back on the court. Having more time off than normal was a welcome change, but the career of an NBA player is short enough, and there was so much I wanted to accomplish. You could say the same about George Karl. He was as demanding as anyone I’ve ever known in the game—in any endeavor, really. He made Jim Calhoun seem almost laid-back.

  From day 1, there was a structure under George that we hadn’t seen before. Everyone, from the starters to the last man on the bench, was held accountable. Rookies were required to be at the facility for workouts and lifts before practice. More than any coach I played for, George involved every man in the offense. That kept players engaged for the whole 48 minutes, knowing that, at any moment, Coach might call a play for you.

  One play George drew up was called “the Hammer,” after Darvin Ham, a backup forward. You still see it in the NBA today. Darvin would catch the ball on the block, spin toward the baseline, and then find me in the opposite corner for a three. I would get credit for the bucket, but the play was made by Darvin.

  “Just because I call your number,” George told us, “does not mean it’s time for you to score; it means it’s your time to make a play for the team.”

  Every play has a wide variety of options, the idea being to find the best option, whether it’s a mismatch or a blown assignment by the defense. Fail to do that, and your chances of scoring on that possession go down.