by Ray Allen
Down the stretch, neither team was able to take control. With about a minute and a half to go, Parker tied it with a three.
Then came the three straight turnovers, the Spurs now ahead by five, setting the stage for the final, unforgettable 28.2 seconds.
Time-out Heat.
What did Spoelstra say in the huddle? I can’t remember, although I doubt we set up a play. Most times that season, in critical possessions, the plan out of a time-out was the same: give the ball to number 6.
Mike Miller, as you may recall, threw it to LeBron, who missed the first three but nailed the second after Mike got the loose ball. Then came the free throw from Kawhi Leonard to put San Antonio up by three.
Mario Chalmers, our point guard, brought the ball up the full length of the court. It was no secret LeBron was going to take the shot. Still, I was ready.
So what if I had just two points the whole night? In the Big East championship game against Georgetown, I’d missed my previous 14 shots when Coach Calhoun called a play for me in our final possession. All it takes is one.
You know the rest: I made the three, we won Game 6 in OT, and Game 7 two nights later.
What a difference a year makes. One year I’m struggling for playing time and respect. The next, I’m drinking champagne and riding in another parade.
People always want to know which title means more to me, and the truth is, they both mean a great deal. Though after what I had to endure in Boston, there was a sense of vindication in 2013 that I didn’t experience in 2008. I felt that going to Miami was the right decision. The championship confirmed it.
Even so, just like in 2008, winning it all didn’t change my life.
I got to sleep around five in the morning after Game 7, but I was up by eight. I thought right away of the tasks I had put off for months, such as going to the dentist. I called to see if they could squeeze me in.
“You just won a championship,” the receptionist said. “Shouldn’t you be on a yacht somewhere partying?”
By nine, I was in the chair, getting work done on a filling.
Sure, I could have waited a few days, but that has never been my approach in basketball or in life.
Win a game, you should savor the moment, but don’t get too excited; you have to prepare for the next one. So that morning, with no games left, meant seeing the dentist. That is also why I didn’t sit home and watch the highlights on SportsCenter, as members of my family did. Rest on your laurels and you’ll never go any further. Yesterday is over. When I wake up each morning, I ask myself: How can I win this day?
And in those weeks after we won the championship, I had something else to think about: Is it time to retire?
It wasn’t the first time the idea occurred to me. During my last season with the Celtics, I bumped into Steve Kerr, the former Bulls guard and current Golden State coach, in the gym in Miami. Steve was in town to do the commentary for TNT.
“What was your process like?” I asked him. “When did you know you needed to retire?”
“I knew when I couldn’t play without taking anti-inflammatories to allow my body to do it,” he said.
What Steve told me really hit home. I was taking a lot of medication back then, with no sense of the long-term damage the pills might be doing to my body. The ice baths and stretching were no longer as effective, and the pounding my joints took during games and practices was almost unbearable.
Yet I didn’t quit. In the end, I thought: How can I leave these guys? I’d been in a lot of locker rooms—some, as you know, where things got quite nasty. This was by far the best one.
The last team to win three straight championships was the Lakers in 2002. There was no reason we couldn’t do the same. LeBron was still at the top of his game, as were CB and D-Wade. Plus, the bench was as solid as ever.
In early March, we beat the Bobcats to raise our record to 43-14, although Spoelstra was driving us as hard as ever, and we always knew the team’s president, Pat Riley, was a slump away from getting more involved.
The slump came all right: a loss in Houston was followed by four losses in the next five games. Riley came to practice to address the team. We sat against the wall, like in some junior high phys ed class. I don’t remember what he said. Whatever it was, I’m sure he meant well, although we never got back to the level we were at prior to the slump, ending the season 54-28.
No matter. Knowing that we would make the playoffs, there was little to play for. Besides, the guys were exhausted. People always used to tell me: “You are so lucky to be in the NBA.”
I would never disagree with that, but for us, this was also a job, and every job gets monotonous.
In any case, once the playoffs started, we were a different team. No longer were we flying from one city to the next and staying up all hours of the night. We stayed in one place, in pursuit of one goal—another title. First, the Bobcats fell in four. The Nets in five. The Pacers in six. The biggest challenge would come next: a rematch against the Spurs. This time, however, they would have the home court.
Not for long.
After losing the opener by 15 we fought back with a 98–96 victory in Game 2 to take the home court away from them. Now if we could just win the next two in our building, we . . .
Forget it. The next two were as ugly as the scores indicated: 111–92 in Game 3 and 107–86 in Game 4.
The Spurs were especially efficient coming out of a time-out. Popovich would get them a high-percentage shot every time, and it was not just their stars who beat us; they got major contributions from guards Danny Green and Patty Mills. The series came to a merciful end in Game 5, 104–87, Leonard with 22 points and 10 boards.
I started that game, by the way. I was one for eight, the basket coming with five minutes to go in the first quarter. A three.
The guys were pretty down afterward. We didn’t expect to lose, and definitely not in five games. I sat in the locker room next to LeBron, who kept shaking his head.
In a few weeks, he’d have a decision to make—whether or not to stay in Miami—and the whole sporting world would be watching, as it had in 2010.
The whole sporting world, I don’t have to tell you, would not be watching to see what I’d decide.
Once LeBron chose the Cavs, I knew I would not be returning to Miami. The question was: Would I follow him to Cleveland? He did his best to convince me, and I think he probably got tired of trying. If only management valued me as much as he did; the Cavs offered me next to nothing.
Minnesota and Memphis showed interest, as did Milwaukee, but the only team to offer a contract above the league minimum was the Houston Rockets. No thanks. The Rockets claimed they wanted to win a championship, but I knew they did not have a chance.
So, when the training camps started in early October, I stayed in Miami with Shannon and the kids. I was still open to the possibility of joining a team later in the season, maybe around the All-Star break, but no situation was right, and before long the Cavaliers were playing the Warriors in the 2015 Finals. That was the first time I wished I was still out there.
I didn’t miss the practices, the shootarounds, the long plane rides, or the pain in my ankles every morning when I got up.
I did miss giving everything I had for something larger than myself. I will always miss that.
Soon, another season was under way, and I couldn’t let go just yet. I waited to see if the right situation might pop up this time, but it didn’t. In the fall of 2016, I announced my retirement.
It hit me harder than I thought it would, especially since I had not played a game in more than two years. Knowing it was now official made the reality of it all sink in. Such is the price for investing so much, for so long.
I’ll always remember the day I realized, for probably the first time, that I could make it in the NBA. I was a freshman at UConn and we were at practice when Tate George, who made the heroic shot in the NCAA Tournament against Clemson in 1990, addressed the team. By this point, Tate, who came to the gym
to get some work in, had played for three years in the league, with the New Jersey Nets. He had our attention.
“I’m not the most innately talented guy,” he told us, “but I have been part of winning teams, and if you win, you will have a chance.”
I watched him closely that afternoon. He was right. He wasn’t the greatest athlete or the greatest shooter. Yet, there he was, exactly where I wanted to be.
He watched me as well.
“The freshman is better than I was,” Tate said to a few others.
If he really feels that way, I thought, I better work as hard as I can to make the most of my opportunity.
I believe I did.
Epilogue
Passing the Baton
One afternoon when I arrived in the lot at KeyArena, I was surprised to see a car in the spot I had parked in every game day since joining the Sonics in 2003. Fine, it wasn’t, officially, my spot; my name wasn’t on the pavement. Still, I was always the first player to show up, often before our trainer, and that was the spot I picked, closest to the entrance. It was mine, and everyone knew it.
Recognizing the car, I went straight to the locker room to find my teammate Antonio Daniels.
“Dude, why did you park in my spot?” I asked him.
Antonio pleaded ignorance.
It was time for my workout. The two of us would have to talk about this later.
That night—I believe we were playing the Knicks—I scored about 40 points. I couldn’t miss. In the locker room afterward, Antonio couldn’t resist. “And I parked in your spot,” he said, laughing. “Maybe I should park in your spot more often.”
“Shut up,” I said jokingly, “and never park in my spot again.”
He didn’t, and neither did anyone else.
I know what you are thinking: Why would I care so much about a silly parking spot?
Because one day it’s a parking spot, and the next, Antonio is taking shots with me in the gym, affecting how I go through my normal workout. Before you know it, my entire routine is off, and my routine, remember, is what helped me build my confidence during my 18 years in the league, one step at a time. Show me the person who sticks to his routine, day after day, and I know he’s the one you can depend on.
On a basketball team. In a law firm. In any group of people in pursuit of a common goal.
And in those 18 years, I felt a huge sense of responsibility every time I stepped on the floor.
Not just to the franchise I played for, or my teammates, my coach, or the fans. I felt a responsibility to the game, to those who came before me and to those who would come after.
I felt it my rookie year, when I was so warmly welcomed by Michael Jordan and Mitch Richmond and others who had been around for a while.
Take care of this, they seemed to be telling me, without saying those exact words. When it’s time for us to go, we will pass the baton to you. Make sure to leave the game in better shape than when you got here, and make sure you give the same speech to the next generation of players.
No one, after all, is bigger than the game. Not Wilt, Dr. J, Michael, Larry, Magic, LeBron . . . no one. Each of us had to overcome something to get as far as we did: our background, our limitations, our doubts. Something that stopped many others and probably should have stopped us, but didn’t.
A lot of times, when I was ready to give up for the day, I thought of Michael and Reggie or anyone else I measured myself against: They’re not giving up. They’re still taking shots. They’re still on the treadmill. I’m not giving up either.
You don’t become a champion the day you beat the other team. You become a champion the day you commit to giving your best no matter what the obstacles may be. Will you be judged? You better believe it, and the judgment might be harsher than you deserve. But that’s no excuse to give anything less.
You see, I could have been like some of those kids I grew up with in South Carolina, who never thought they could make it as a professional athlete; there were, after all, no examples around town to show them the way. Instead, I realized early on that while life isn’t always fair, you can’t allow yourself to think that you’re a victim. Or that is precisely what you will be.
Which is why today, in my early forties, I could not be more at peace. I am both a coach and an owner—a coach to my five kids, who depend on my leadership every day, and an owner to the employees who work for Grown, the organic fast-food restaurants Shannon and I opened a couple of years ago in Florida and Connecticut. In each role, I often reflect back on those people who encouraged me, in and out of basketball, and on those who tried to hold me back; the lessons from both are endless, and timeless.
As a father, I hope to prevent my four boys—Rayray, 13; Walker, 11; Wynn, 8; and Wystan, 6—and my daughter, Tierra, 25, from making poor decisions, but always keeping in mind that I can’t make decisions for them, as my parents couldn’t for me. And as an owner, I hope my workers know how much I care about them but also that I will hold them accountable, like those who kept me in line.
Tierra was born at a time filled with plenty of uncertainty in my life. I can still see her now, sitting in the stands at a UConn game in her Husky jacket and braids, and hear her sweet voice, “Hi, Daddy,” while she waited patiently for the autograph seekers to clear out. She is strong, brilliant, and beautiful, and has always been my protector. I honor the determined child she was, and the young woman she has become.
She played Division 1 volleyball for four years and graduated from Quinnipiac University with a major in communications and a minor in management. Although she underwent two major heart surgeries for a condition that went undetected until her sophomore year, she never missed a class, or season. I’m so proud to be her dad.
The same goes for my four boys. Our oldest, Rayray, is an intense child, whether competing in track, basketball, or soccer, painting, drawing, writing a song, or building a replica of the Taj Mahal with Legos. He’s incredibly competitive. He hates to lose, or maybe he just loves to win; we haven’t quite figured that out yet. At the same time, he looks to help and encourage everyone around him—in the classroom or on the court. Rayray possesses a kind, loving soul, always sticking up for the underdog.
Then there’s Walker, the showman, and you already know how tough he is. We like to say everything comes easily to Walker, that he excels at anything he tries. But the truth is, he’s worked harder than everyone else simply to survive. He’s our superhero—singer, actor, student, athlete, and a fantastic big brother—who has as much genuine enthusiasm for his siblings’ achievements as his own. Walker has a heart of gold.
Our “unofficial middle child” is Wynn, who looks exactly like me. Shannon calls him “my twynn.” He is smart, funny, shy, cautious, and a rules-follower. Wynn is a natural leader, setting the tone for conversations at the dinner table and in school, where he relishes every opportunity to present to the class. He, too, is quite the competitor. He loves all sports, but will say without hesitation: “Tennis is my life.” Watch out, Federer, our Wynn is coming for that #1 spot!
Last, but certainly not least, is Wystan, the baby of the family, #5. He is joy personified. Wystan embodies a special spirit of wonder, possibility, and an amazing mane of hair! His name means “battlestone” in Welsh and he definitely lives up to it, with no inhibitions. I guess that’s what you get when you are adored as much as he is. He goes out of his way to be a good friend to everyone in his class. We joke that he is the mayor of the boys’ school because it seemed more teachers knew him as a two-year-old visitor than they knew the actual students. We are so proud and excited to see our children’s bright futures unfold and which stars they harness themselves to; for Wystan, we are convinced it will be a supernova.
Shannon and I were going for a drive one day in Connecticut when we passed by a playground. Three kids, about high school age, were playing basketball. I stopped the car:
“You have room for one more?”
They sure did.
I took some shots t
o warm up, and it wasn’t long before they recognized me—from my days at UConn, no doubt; this was the summer after my rookie season in Milwaukee.
Anyway, we played a game of 21, until I had to go. But before I did, I went to the car and handed each of them a pair of sneakers I had in the trunk. Man, I wish you could’ve seen the looks on their faces.
For the longest time, I thought I had stopped for them, to inspire these kids to keep dreaming and to believe in themselves. Truth is, I stopped for myself. For that kid on the playground in Dalzell, who dreamed the same dream these boys did. Who didn’t have an NBA player show up one day. Who kept dreaming nonetheless.
That kid is never far away. More than the thousands of shots I hit in college and the pros, the shots I made in the playgrounds remain the ones that mean the most.
There were no fans or cheerleaders. Just a group of us playing for the pure love of the game. You win, you give everyone high fives and take on the next team. You lose, you sit down. And, believe me, no one ever wanted to sit down.
The best part was that what we did on those playgrounds—and in high school, too—was not captured on video. No, those games instead occupy a much more special place: your imagination. Whenever you did something spectacular, it spread through word of mouth, and before long, it became urban legend.
Several years ago, a stranger reminded me of a play I made in a game against West Florence during my senior year at Hillcrest. I remember it well.
My teammate, who was out of bounds, lobbed the ball to me near the rim, where I was to catch it and slam it home. We ran this play all the time. Only this time, the pass was too high and was certain to bounce off the glass.
Yet, as I jumped, it felt as normal as it could be, as if I had jumped this high my entire life. I caught the ball and threw it down. It was one of the best dunks I ever had.
