by Ray Allen
I would’ve also looked for more support from my teammates. Others, I’m sure, felt the way as the player who warned me did. If we stuck together, we could’ve forced George to stop playing us off against one another. As I knew from my days at UConn, a team that acts as one is something to behold.
Several weeks after my chat with the senator, the team went on the road. There were about 30 games to go; anything could still happen.
Anything indeed.
I was stretching on the court at the arena in Seattle the day before a game with the Sonics when, every time I turned my back, the cameramen in the tunnel shined their lights on me. I had never seen so many cameras at a practice.
“What’s going on?” I asked them.
“There’s been a trade,” they said.
“Who got traded?”
They pointed at me.
“Say what?”
I went over to gather more information, and as I did, I noticed George walking off the floor at the other end of the court, as if trying to escape. He had known the whole day this deal was in the works, yet he hadn’t said a word to me, either on the bus ride from the hotel or once we arrived at the arena. The Bucks were acquiring Gary Payton, one of the premier guards in the game, and swingman Desmond Mason. George told the senator that Michael Redd, my backup, could do everything I did. The senator believed him.
I was shocked. All the speculation leading up to the trade deadline was that Tim Thomas, nearing the end of his contract, was the one on the block, not me. Reporters even asked me what I thought Tim must be going through. Traded or not, I said, he would still get paid. It wasn’t as if he’d be sent to prison.
Everything happened quickly from that point on. I went back to the hotel with Kevin Ollie, my buddy from Connecticut, who was also going to the Sonics.
An hour or so later, Nate McMillan, the Seattle coach, picked KO and me up and drove us to meet Howard Schultz, the owner and former CEO of Starbucks, at his house. House? The place was more like a mountain. You didn’t know where it began and where it ended.
Howard offered us some coffee. Of course he did. He told us he had a five-year plan to win the championship, and the Sonics were currently in year two. I loved what he was saying, in one sense: you always want to play for an owner who reaches for the stars. In another, though, I found it almost laughable. You can’t put a timetable on winning the title. There are too many unknowns.
My emotions were mixed. I was relieved to be getting away from such a toxic environment, where I had to look over my shoulder every five seconds to find out what George might be saying about me to the media.
On the other hand, I’d grown quite fond of Milwaukee. I’d put everything I had into the franchise, and we had begun to build something special, until, the very next season, it fell apart. We could have won a title, maybe two.
Likewise, George should have been given his due for being an excellent teacher and strategist. He could’ve created a dynasty wherever he coached. If he hadn’t gotten in his own way.
More than anything, I was upset with how the trade went down. If George didn’t have the guts to give me a heads-up, Ernie, or the senator, should have done it. A player should never receive news like that from the media.
By the way, I didn’t speak to George before I left and haven’t spoken to him since. The afternoon of the trade, before KO and I went to meet Howard, I was riding up in the escalator at the hotel while George was riding down. He couldn’t make eye contact. That’s when I knew it was him who got rid of me.
The deal, if I can be objective for a moment, was a disaster for the Bucks. Payton, a free agent, signed with the Lakers after appearing in just 28 games for Milwaukee, which was knocked out in the first round of the playoffs by the New Jersey Nets. The players I spoke to around the league couldn’t figure out what the Bucks were thinking.
“That’s bullshit,” Shaq told me before my debut as a Sonic, in Los Angeles.
It didn’t improve my mood any when, the following night, during my first game at KeyArena, the fans who worshiped Payton held up signs to show how they felt about the deal.
One sign read: FEBRUARY 20, 2003, THE DAY THE SONICS DIED. Ouch.
I was booed when the trade was announced in Milwaukee in 1996, and now here I was again, landing in a city where fans preferred someone else. The only way to respond was to work as hard as usual. If not harder.
I won them over the first time. There was no guarantee I would win them over again.
10
Soaring in Seattle
Once I recovered from the initial shock, I looked forward to starting over in a different part of the country. Moving around, as you know, was nothing new for me. What was new was the role of leader I was expected to take on. It was my time.
That hadn’t been the case in Milwaukee.
Think about it: What veterans would take any advice from some punk in his early twenties? What could he possibly know that they didn’t? So, for the most part, I kept my mouth shut. Besides, Sam Cassell did enough talking for the rest of us.
It was more than my youth, to be honest, that had prevented me from seizing a more prominent role. Even when I was the best player on the team, in high school or college, I wasn’t very vocal.
Nor did it change much after I was in He Got Game. The guard I took down to be Jesus Shuttlesworth, except with close friends and family, went back up when I became Ray Allen again. I would try to set an example, on the court and in the locker room, but I wouldn’t hover over guys, trying to get them to do their jobs.
When I arrived in Seattle, no one had to tell me what to do. I could see for myself the team needed a leader now that Gary was gone. You’ve traded away an obvious Hall of Famer. You better get a leader in return.
Understandably, though, the players seemed a little nervous about the type of leader I might be. Knowing what Gary was like—he and I had our disagreements at the 2000 Olympics—I had a clear sense of where they were coming from. Would I be as demanding? And is that how every franchise player acts?
It sure is. If winning is your ultimate goal.
Gary, in fact, was one of the toughest competitors I faced. During my 18 years in the NBA, I can’t think of anyone who played a more in-your-face defense than he did, and he was a gamer on the offensive end, too. You could count on him for about 20 points and 10 assists a night. He played with a great deal of intensity, night after night, and was never afraid to take risks, which is probably why he and George got along so well.
I found out more about Gary by watching the tape of a game from earlier in the season. A player on the team the Sonics were facing made a nifty move to get open, and suddenly here comes Gary, running from the other side of the court to double the guy, and I mean running. I couldn’t recall seeing a player make a switch like that.
“What kind of defense do you guys call this?” I asked one of the players.
“Dude,” he said, laughing, “we don’t call that anything. He just made stuff up as he went along.”
I would never be that daring. I believed in systems, for better or worse, from my by-the-book upbringing. I don’t like surprises, especially on defense; your teammates should have a good idea of where you’ll be rotating from in any given set. If anything, Gary may have been too capable. Other guys were not able to blossom because, between the way he played and the sheer force of his personality, there was little room left.
“In order for us to be successful,” I told the team, “it will take everyone to contribute at both ends. I need you to get rebounds, to give us second-chance opportunities, to do the little things to win games.”
In adjusting to the new role, there was a voice in my head; it belonged to George Karl.
I know, it sounds like I must have been haunted, but I wasn’t. Oddly enough, it was a voice of reason. Despite the problems we had, George taught me more about basketball than I could begin to remember. I wouldn’t have been the player I was without him. So, in Seattle, I found a way t
o bring out the good George and leave the bad one behind.
Like when he got on me for joking with Sam in practice. I felt he was overreacting at the time, but as I gave the issue more thought, I saw his point. If I were to fool around too much, guys might get the wrong impression, and as a leader now, with people watching my every move, even in practice, I didn’t want them to think I didn’t take my job seriously.
We knew how to have some fun, too.
On our long plane rides—Seattle felt like it was on another planet, not just a different time zone—five of us used to play a card game called Bourré, similar to Spades, the idea being to take the most tricks in each hand. The pot typically started at $100, and it could go awfully high before you knew where your money went. Winning—or losing—thousands of dollars on one flight wasn’t uncommon.
Once, years later, when I was with the Celtics, the security police at the Toronto airport were taking out the lotion I’d mistakenly left in my bag when it hit me what else I’d left there: $35,000 in cash! Back then, players—yours truly included—routinely carried a lot of cash during road trips. The police found the cash and, because I hadn’t declared it, were about to keep it. I was detained in some office for an hour, maybe longer, while my teammates on the plane were left wondering what happened to me. I hadn’t been detained like that since I stole the box of licorice at Edwards. By the way, they allowed me to keep the cash.
From George, I learned how to let the game come to me, not the other way around. There’s a big difference. In my first two years, under Coach Ford, if I didn’t touch the ball for five or six possessions, I wasn’t very patient when it did come. That’s usually when you make mistakes.
George set me straight: Never attempt a difficult shot during the first and second quarters. Get other players involved in the offense.
Then, if you need a bucket in the third quarter—and definitely in the fourth—feel free to take control.
The guys in Seattle realized what I was up to, so whenever I drew a double team and got them the ball where they wanted it—everybody prefers a different spot—they were ready to make a play for themselves or for a teammate.
From the start, I encouraged them to be more accountable to one another. That’s the coach’s job. In no way was I trying to take it away from Nate, who was more than competent. The fact is, as a player, you get tired of listening to the same voice, especially if that person is constantly telling you what you did wrong.
It doesn’t matter if the coach is Gregg Popovich or Phil Jackson or Steve Kerr. Every voice gets old. Which is when you, if you are the leader you claim to be, have to step up. The guys need to hear a different voice.
Say, for example, someone isn’t working hard enough on his defense.
“You may think you’re hurting the coach,” you tell him, “but you are really hurting your teammates.”
It wasn’t long before I saw steady improvement, on and off the court. A perfect example was Jerome James, our talented seven-foot-one center. Too often, Jerome didn’t show up at practice or games as early as he could have, but he always had an excuse, some more original than others. Once, he said he had to stop to help an old lady cross the street. I swear this is true.
“If you had come in earlier,” I replied, without missing a beat, “you never would have seen the old lady cross the street.”
Jerome also used to wear sweat suits on his way to the locker room before games. Hoping not to sound overbearing, I gave him a little advice.
“How do you think people feel when they see you come dressed like that?” I asked. “Do they think you’re ready to play your best? If you show people you’re serious about your job, it will change how they view you and it will change how you play.”
To his credit, he learned from his mistakes, and so did another player, Rashard Lewis. Though in his fifth season when I joined the Sonics, he was still only 23 and hadn’t come close to reaching his potential. I knew he would get there because Rashard possessed something you can’t teach: desire. I saw my share of players who could have been marked with the “P” for potential that Coach Dickenman from Connecticut once put next to my name, but who didn’t have the desire and never were what they should have been.
“I want to make the money you make,” Rashard once said to me.
Good for you, I told him. I’ve always believed, if you have a goal, don’t keep it in your head. Put it out to the universe.
Write it on a wall or in your phone or in a notebook, somewhere you can look at it, so it’s no longer a secret you’re protecting, maybe from others but mostly from yourself. You protect it out of fear, thinking if you don’t achieve your goal, you will never have to admit to yourself, or to anyone else, that you failed.
Some say it isn’t wise to put it out to the universe, that it only puts the pressure on yourself. I say: precisely!
There’s nothing wrong, by the way, with having the goal of earning as much money as possible. Athletes, remember, have a small window for success that closes fast. Which is why I empathized with Latrell Sprewell, the controversial All-Star guard from the 1990s and 2000s who was crucified for saying he had a “family to feed” to explain why he was rejecting a contract extension that would, in fact, have resulted in a pay cut.
Get as much as you can; that’s always been my attitude. For anybody who thinks that sounds greedy, I’ve got news for you: the owners signing the paychecks make more than the players. A lot more.
Rashard came in every day to get his shots up, and within no time, he developed into one of the better young players in the league. Put him in the post, you knew he’d get the shot he wanted, and he could hit the three. The payday he craved would come soon enough.
The entire team started to work just as hard. I loved to see the guys grow, day by day, and I came up with a bunch of shooting games after practice to get us even more prepared to compete. Those shooting games were intense. Coach Calhoun would have been impressed.
In one game, Around the World, everybody lined up in the corner and had to hit five straight shots before advancing to the next spot, the elbow three. Whoever made it through the final spot at the opposite corner first would be declared the best shooter that day and, better yet, be the only one who would not have to do any running afterward.
Pity the player who finished last. He had to do suicides, like we did at UConn, running back and forth between the baselines. Finish second to last, and you would have to run from half-court to the backcourt and back to half-court. The pressure you put on yourself to reach the next spot was akin to being in a game, which was the point. You would become so familiar with needing to make a shot to stay alive that you wouldn’t panic in a similar situation when the games were for real.
What mattered more than anything was the trust we came to have in one another, and it resulted from those long road trips. There are only so many card games you can play. We talked for hours and hours about life.
The guys asked for my opinion, and I gave it, and if I didn’t know something, I said I would get back to them. I became the unofficial liaison between the players and Nate, a role I was happy to assume.
Once, after a win in Minnesota, they asked me to reach out to Nate about getting a rare day off. We definitely needed it. Lots of times, we didn’t arrive home until four or five in the morning, and yet we still had to show up for practice at 12:30. Even so, it would require all my powers of persuasion to convince Nate to agree. That’s not how he is wired. When he played for the Sonics, in the ’80s and ’90s, guys routinely went through two-a-days.
“They don’t need a day off,” he told me. “They’re 22 years old.”
To set the practice schedule was his right. He was the coach, and I was a player. A player who should have kept his mouth shut.
“It almost seems like Nate forgot what it was like to be a player,” I said to my teammates jokingly, though a reporter was nearby, so that wasn’t how it came out in the paper.
Nate brought a copy to pr
actice the next day.
“You’re killing me for this?” he said.
I apologized right away. I felt awful.
Call it another wake-up call—I’d require quite a few, it would appear—to remind myself how careful I had to be whenever there was a writer hanging around. Being the face of the franchise, I would make news with almost anything I said.
Look, I don’t begrudge these guys for trying to get a scoop. Only they’d have to get a scoop without any help from me.
At 22-30, the Sonics were going nowhere when I came aboard, trailing the better teams (Dallas, San Antonio, Sacramento, Portland, Minnesota, Utah) in the West by a sizable margin. But after my debut, a 106–101 loss to the Lakers, we won five straight. The playoffs weren’t out of the question.
Except we couldn’t win more than three games in a row the rest of the way, ending up 40-42, four games behind the Phoenix Suns, the number 8 seed. No matter. The future was promising. Besides Rashard and Jerome, Vladimir Radmanovic, a forward from Serbia, was also showing a lot of potential. Vlad had an amazing arc on his jump shots.
If only I had felt better about what was taking place away from the court. There was the issue of food in our locker room, which was not provided unless we asked for it. By contrast, the Mavericks’ Mark Cuban not only made sure his team’s locker room was well stocked, he also took care of the visiting team. Now that’s the kind of owner you want to play for.
Another point of contention was the luggage. Every team gave each player two pieces, complete with the team’s logo and their name. Every team, that is, except ours. The owners felt we could pay for our own luggage. They got us the bags eventually, but they wouldn’t put our names or numbers on them, saying they would be stolen on the curb. Nonsense. I never heard of any team having its bags ripped off.
All this complaining about food and luggage might seem trivial, but it’s not. Our job was to play the game to the best of our abilities, so anything the organization took care of meant there was one less detail we had to be concerned with.
