From the Outside

by Ray Allen

  George taught me to see the entire game. When we went over film in the locker room, he explained precisely what I did wrong and what I needed to do better the next time. It seems obvious, I know, but you would be amazed at how many coaches force players to watch hours of tape without helping them see their mistakes.

  Nor was George hesitant to bring in other experts to help out, like Gerald Oliver, a friend from his days in the Continental Basketball Association (CBA), pro basketball’s minor leagues.

  G.O., as we called Oliver, was a good ol’ country boy who knew as much about shooting as anyone I’d ever met. If learning from the coaches in California and Karl Hobbs at UConn was the equivalent of an undergraduate seminar in Shooting 101, G.O. was where I went to earn my master’s. He’d sit 20 rows up in the stands, or higher, when I was on the court alone, practicing my shot a couple of hours before tip-off. Lots of times I didn’t know he was there. He taught me how imperative it was to reach the same level every time—meaning, how high I was off the ground when the ball left my hand.

  I tried to reach that level, game after game, year after year. I didn’t always achieve it. Your legs get fatigued, and the same commitment you had in the first quarter may not be there in the fourth. Fortunately, more often than not, I got there—and stayed there—when it mattered most. Like Game 6 against the Spurs.

  “Let me tell ya something, buddy,” G.O. said on more than a few occasions. “I didn’t watch whether the ball went through, but you’re going to have a good game tonight. I watched your lift, and you were consistent the whole time.”

  More important, I learned to figure out when I wasn’t consistent and what adjustments I needed to make.

  Eventually, G.O. stopped showing up; he had taught me everything he could, and it was my job to pass the knowledge on to others.

  We got off to a good start in the shortened 1998–1999 season, taking five of our first six, three of the wins coming on the road.

  Then, in early March, we won six in a row, including victories over the Bulls, Knicks, and Sonics, in one of the dreaded back-to-back-to-backs. Being just 23 years old, I wasn’t as bothered by playing for three straight nights as much as some of the veterans, and with Terrell back in sync, I was scoring my share of points.

  I was also scoring at the bargaining table.

  As a member of the National Basketball Players Association’s executive committee, I sat in on every meeting during the lockout, learning a great deal about the business side of the game. So when I met with the senator to seek a contract extension, I didn’t bring an agent. Under the new agreement, there was a maximum salary a third-year player could make. What would be the point of handing over 4 percent of that amount to an agent?

  Of course, I still needed an attorney to read the contract. I hired Johnnie Cochran, who you might have heard of; he defended O. J. Simpson in his 1995 double-murder trial. Man, did Johnnie know how to take over a room, and a jury, as we know. The extension was for six years and $70.9 million. I never played the game for money, but it was nice to be rewarded for the hard work.

  The same went for the team itself. For the first time since I entered the league in ’96, we featured the right blend of scoring, rebounding, and defense. There seemed no need to change a thing.

  But on March 11, we dealt Terrell Brandon, Tyrone Hill, and Elliot Perry, in a three-team trade involving New Jersey and Minnesota.

  The biggest prize we received in return was point guard Sam Cassell. As talented as Terrell was—in a 1997 cover story, Sports Illustrated called him the best point guard in the NBA—I guess that wasn’t enough for George. He preferred fiery, take-charge individuals. Like himself.

  Sam, who played a key role on the Houston Rockets squads that won back-to-back titles in the mid-1990s, was that, and much more. He was not hesitant to give it right back to George whenever he got on his case. What I didn’t realize back then was that George was more in love with the players in the league he didn’t have than the players he did.

  Sam, coming off an injury, needed some time to round into shape, but when he did, he helped us finish the season at 28-22 to gain the No. 7 seed in the Eastern Conference.

  We were going to the playoffs. At last.

  Too bad we didn’t stick around for long, losing three straight to the Indiana Pacers, one on a tip-in with less than a second to go in OT. Regardless, we learned a great deal from just being in games in which something larger was at stake. The fans in Milwaukee were excited about the future.

  The next year, after going 42-40, we met Indiana again in the opening round, and lost again.

  At least we made it a series this time, falling in five, and by only one point in the deciding game. George was frustrated, and with good reason. When you invest that much effort, it hurts more than you can imagine. But there was no shame in losing to Indiana, who would go on to the Finals that season, falling to the Lakers in six. The Pacers were loaded: Rik Smits, Jalen Rose, Dale Davis, and the premier shooter in the game, Reggie Miller.

  Reggie, who scored 41 points in Game 5 of our series—18 in the final quarter!—was a nightmare cover for me. He ran off screens, and grabbed you, and threw you in one direction while he took off in the other. I could not stay in front of him.

  Once, as we waited for a jump ball, I looked at his shoes, which were very similar to mine, except he had his name on them. I thought that was the coolest thing.

  “How did you get those?” I asked.

  “Ten years,” he said, signaling a rite of passage.

  Got it, Reg.

  In the summer of 2000, I had another performance to prepare for. This one would be in Sydney, Australia, where I would play for my country in the Olympics.

  I was as big a fan as anybody of the original dream team in 1992, with Magic, Michael, and Larry, never imagining it could be me out there. Until the week of the 1996 Games in Atlanta. I was working out at the facility in Storrs, getting ready for my rookie year in the league, when someone from the university said to me: “In four years, you will be playing in the Olympics.”

  I let that sink in for a moment, and I liked the way it sounded. At the same time I thought, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I haven’t played my first game in the NBA yet!

  When 2000 rolled around and I made the team, I couldn’t have been more pumped.

  What a team it was: Alonzo Mourning, Tim Hardaway, Jason Kidd, Vince Carter, Antonio McDyess, Gary Payton, Shareef Abdur-Rahim, Vin Baker, Allan Houston, Steve Smith, and my buddy from South Carolina, Kevin Garnett.

  Like the 1992 and 1996 squads, we were supposed to crush everyone we played. Try telling that to the proud men who represented Lithuania, who had a few dreams of their own.

  We beat them by only nine points in our third game, and I say “only” because, prior to that, no opponent had come closer than 22 points against a US team in the Olympics since we began to use professionals in 1992. We even trailed, by a point, with a little under 18 minutes to go. Never had the United States been behind in the second half.

  That was nothing compared to what happened when we played Lithuania a second time, in the semis. The pressure was unlike anything I had ever experienced, and Rudy Tomjanovich, our coach, apparently felt it, as well. Late in the game, we needed stops more than baskets, but when Mourning, our center, fouled out, Rudy T. signaled for me to go in.

  Tim Hardaway couldn’t contain himself. “Why are you putting Ray Allen in when we need rebounding?” he shouted. Rudy T. recognized his error, thank goodness, and sent for the six-foot-nine McDyess instead.

  It didn’t help that the whole continent seemed to be against us. In a pre-Olympics tune-up against Australia’s national team, Vince Carter and Andrew Gaze, one of their heroes, got into a tussle in the early going. As he fell to the floor, Gaze pulled Vince down with him. Vince was irate. He got up and tried to step over Gaze but accidentally stepped on him. The fans thought it was no accident.

  From then on, we were the nasty Americans. They bo
oed us and threw junk onto the court . . . and Australia was one of our allies!

  Anyway, when we got to the final seconds of the second Lithuania game, we were in real trouble. Down by only two, Sarunas Jasikevicius, who had burned us for 27 points already, launched a three from 22 feet. It goes in, we lose. Let me repeat: we lose.

  I don’t have to tell you he missed. The shot would be that historic.

  Two days later, we captured the gold against France, 85–75, Vince and I both scoring 13 points. I cherish that gold medal, and I don’t even want to think how I’d feel today if that ball had gone in.

  Going into the 2000–01 season, my fifth, the expectations were high. For one thing, we couldn’t have had a more capable floor general than Sam Cassell. Sam played with a lot of energy, and his mouth was always going as well. He cracked me up with the stories he told, calling me “RayAllen,” as if my name was one word. You need guys like Sam. The NBA season can be a grind, and although you should focus on what you’re trying to accomplish, you must never forget it’s a game.

  Sam, having been around longer than the rest of us, knew how to remain calm. When we started the year 3-9, George was beside himself. He complained to the press we were spoiled brats and millionaire babies.

  But Sam was sure we weren’t as bad as our record; we simply had the misfortune of catching hot teams at the worst time.

  “You need to chill the fuck out,” he told George. “You are panicking. The season has barely begun.”

  George thought he scared us with his comments to the reporters. He didn’t. He made us angry, with him, and you never want to get players angry with their coach. Once you go down that path, there is no guarantee you can ever go back.

  Sam was right. We weren’t as bad as our record. From late November through the end of December, we won 13 of 17. One of those wins came against Shaq, Kobe, and the Lakers, the defending champs, in Los Angeles. Joel Przybilla, our seven-foot-one rookie center, wasn’t afraid of Shaq. Without any help, he made him alter his shots. There were centers who had been in the league for years who couldn’t do that.

  We were just getting started.

  In January, we won eight in a row, and finished 52-30 to claim our first division crown since 1986, and the number 2 seed in the East behind the Philadelphia 76ers. After knocking off the Orlando Magic, three games to one, in the opening round, and taking the first two from the Charlotte Hornets, a trip to the conference finals seemed inevitable. But the Hornets held serve to even the series and upset us in Game 5, 94–86, to assume a 3–2 lead. It was now up to the so-called Big Three of Glenn, Sam, and myself to keep our season alive, and that’s what we did, winning Game 6 in Charlotte, 104–97. Sam led the way with 33 points and 11 assists; Glenn added 29, and I had 23. We went on to capture Game 7, 104–95. On to Philadelphia.

  I was excited, and not because I’d get another crack at Iverson. I was excited to have a crack at winning it all, especially after never advancing past the Elite Eight at UConn. I’d won a championship before, in high school, but that was one state out of 50. Winning a title at this level would mean we were the best team in the world.

  The Sixers would present quite a challenge. In addition to Iverson, the league MVP, they had Dikembe Mutombo, the Defensive Player of the Year; Aaron McKie, the Sixth Man of the Year; and a very good point guard, Eric Snow.

  In Philly, we did what we set out to do, splitting the first two games to seize the home court. Unfortunately, we gave it back to them in Game 4, falling by six, when we had an opportunity to go up 3–1.

  Then, in Game 5, after McKie was way short on two free throws with 13.9 seconds remaining, it came down to our final possession, the Sixers leading, 89–88.

  Time-out’s called.

  The last time I was in a similar situation, against a team with Allen Iverson, Coach Calhoun put his faith in me and we won the game.

  This time George designed a play for Glenn, and it made all the sense in the world; he was a phenomenal scorer.

  The ball was inbounded to Sam, who dribbled for a while before passing it to Glenn. With McKie on him, Glenn maneuvered into a good position on the baseline and threw it up from 10 feet. He doesn’t miss that shot.

  He missed that shot.

  I got a hand on the ball and tried to tip it in, but I didn’t come close. Game over.

  The series, thank goodness, was not.

  Two days later, we won Game 6 at home 110–100. I had a career night: 41 points, hitting nine of 13 threes, and going on a 19-0 run of my own in the first half. Now tied at three games apiece, we felt confident we could take the deciding game on their floor. We had won there once and could easily have won twice.

  Then, on Saturday, we received the news that changed everything.

  The day before, in Game 6, Iverson was driving down the lane when Scott Williams, our power forward, elbowed him in the chin.

  Iverson fell to the floor. A hard foul, without question, but it wasn’t a dirty play. Scott was trying to get his hand on his hip, but with Iverson being low to the ground, it caught his chin instead.

  Way to go, Scott, we thought. Way to let the little guy know he can’t barrel his way into the paint and expect to get out unscathed. Besides, the refs didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and Scott went on to score 12 big points for us. He was one of those guys, whenever he took a jump shot, you shouted: “No, no, no, no . . . great shot!”

  The league saw it differently, upgrading the foul on Saturday to a “flagrant foul penalty 2.” Bottom line: the league suspended Scott for Game 7 because he had racked up too many penalty points in the playoffs, with flagrants also against Orlando and Charlotte.

  When we got word of this, shortly after landing in Philadelphia, we were outraged. It wasn’t as if the foul affected the outcome of the game; Iverson got up and was his usual pesky, disruptive self. But by suspending Scott, the NBA was, quite possibly, affecting the outcome of a whole series, and you’re talking about a game that could forever shape people’s lives, on both sides.

  So why would the league do that?

  I have a theory, which I put forward at the time and received a lot of heat for, but I still believe it today: the league suspended Scott because it wanted us to lose.

  Or to put it another way: the league wanted the Sixers to win.

  Go back to June 2001, imagine you work for the NBA, and ask yourself: Who would generate higher ratings, and more revenue, in the Finals against the Lakers? Allen Iverson and company from a franchise as steeped in history as the Philadelphia 76ers, where Wilt and Dr. J were legends?

  Or a cast of unknowns from Wisconsin, the Cheese State?

  For the record, I’m not the type who believes in conspiracy theories. Just this one. Need more proof? The Sixers attempted 66 more free throws than we did, almost 10 more per game, and committed nine fewer technicals.

  I rest my case.

  Scott got a lot of rebounds, but more than that, he was an emotional leader, and not having him on the bench—when you are suspended, you can’t be in the building—was as much of a blow as not having him on the floor.

  Still, we had to let go of our anger, and quickly. Game 7 was here, and you never know if an opportunity like this will come again. Dan Marino, the star Miami Dolphins quarterback, was only 23 years old in 1985 when he played in his first Super Bowl. He didn’t play in another.

  We kept the game close, down by six at the half. Then, with about five minutes to go in the third quarter, I collided with Eric Snow while driving to the basket and bruised my left knee. I had to come out. We were down seven at the time, and when I came back with 10 minutes to go in the fourth, the lead was 14. The final: Sixers 108, Bucks 91.

  Iverson dominated with 44 points, while Mutombo finished with 23 points, 19 boards, and seven blocks. You can’t tell me Scott Williams wouldn’t have made a difference, as Philly outrebounded us, 47 to 38.

  The mood in the locker room was as somber as you’d expect. Even Sam didn’t have much to s
ay. The shame of it was that we matched up extremely well against the Lakers, beating them both times in the regular season, and no doubt we would have given them a more competitive series than the Sixers, who lost four in a row after taking the opener. I couldn’t bear to watch one minute of the Finals. That should have been us out there.

  Over the next couple of weeks, as the disappointment began to subside, I took a broader view of what we accomplished. The future could not be brighter.

  Sam, at 31, was getting up there a bit, but Glenn and I were still in our twenties, and Tim Thomas, 24, was on the verge of breaking through. Then there was George Karl, as intelligent and innovative as any coach in the NBA, who’d taken us to the playoffs three straight years. He got us to believe in ourselves, and that’s not as easy as it sounds.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  9

  The Buck Stops Here

  When you win 52 games and come close to reaching the Finals, you don’t let any warning signs get you down.

  One sign came in an article Sports Illustrated did on me in February 2001, the biggest, to that point, of my career. The earlier stories, though positive, had been in the local paper.

  But in the SI piece, I was taken to task for the way I carried myself . . . by my own coach! I could not believe it, and for the first time I wondered: Is this guy really on my side?

  “I call him Barbie Doll because he wants to be pretty,” George told the writer. “He’s a great player, but he cares too much about having style, making highlights, and being cool. Basketball isn’t about being cool. It’s a tough, competitive game and to win, you have to be mean, you have to be an assassin, and that’s not Ray.”

  George, apparently, thought I should have been more upset after two recent games in which the guy I was guarding had a big night. First of all, those guys were great players; they had big nights against everyone. Besides, like any professional, I had a lot of pride, so, of course, I was upset; I just didn’t show it the way others did.