From the Outside

by Ray Allen

  Dedication

  For Shannon, Tierra, Rayray, Walker, Wynn, and Wystan. You all kept my eyes on the prize and were my source of inspiration every day.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  A Foreword by Spike Lee

  1. The Shot of a Lifetime

  2. Go South, Young Man

  3. High School and High Hopes

  4. Go North, Young Man

  5. What Was in Storrs for Me

  6. Setting the Stage

  7. The Buck Starts Here

  8. Jesus and George

  9. The Buck Stops Here

  10. Soaring in Seattle

  11. Shipping Up to Boston

  12. Ring in the New Year

  13. So Close, and Yet . . .

  14. The Final Move

  Epilogue Passing the Baton

  Acknowledgments

  Photos Section

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  A Foreword by Spike Lee

  Dilemma. I’m directing my original screenplay He Got Game, which is about the best basketball player in These United States. The baller is Jesus Shuttlesworth, small forward for the Abraham Lincoln Railsplitters from Coney Island in Da Republic of Brooklyn.

  It had been my observation that there was a plethora of basketball movies where their players’ skills were too weak to be believable. My numero uno priority with my film was to cast a true baller who looked young enough to be a high school senior. Henceforth and whatnot, I made a list of candidates, college ballers who would be getting drafted into Da League or ballers who were already in Da League.

  I auditioned a lot of ballers, but the gem was Ray Allen of the Milwaukee Bucks, my 1st and only choice. As I look back on this joint, at Ray’s performance, it still amazes me.

  Peep this: not only had Ray never acted before, but he had to go up against Da Majestic, Da Mighty, and Da Magnificent Mr. Denzel Washington. That’s like goin’ up against Jordan, Magic, and Barkley combined. That is a terrifying task for a 1st-time actor and, as you might have witnessed, Ray Allen was not scared. Ray went in. Ray dove into this strained father-and-son relationship with all the heart and soul that he displayed throughout his entire career. I want to thank Ray for making He Got Game look very good and for bringing Jesus Shuttlesworth to life.

  Spike Lee

  Da Republic of Brooklyn

  NYU Grad Film Tenured Film Professor

  1

  The Shot of a Lifetime

  No one could save us now.

  The three-pointer LeBron James missed with 10 seconds to go meant that, barring a miracle, the San Antonio Spurs only had to secure one final rebound to be the champions, while the Miami Heat, the team I was on, with the Big Three of LeBron, Dwyane Wade, and Chris Bosh, would lose in the NBA Finals for the second time in three years.

  The writers would soon be swarming all over us like vultures. This is what happens when you say that you will capture one championship after another—“not two, not three, not four . . .,” LeBron said when he joined the Heat in 2010—and then don’t.

  The fans in South Beach wouldn’t be any more forgiving. Many, as a matter of fact, had headed for the exits on that June evening in 2013, which pissed my teammates and me off big-time. We busted our butts, night after night, during the grueling 82-game season, and two months of playoffs, and the team had given the city a title the year before.

  Others figured the game was over as well. The yellow rope that would seal an area for Commissioner David Stern to award the Larry O’Brien Championship Trophy had already been placed around the perimeter of the court. Only the identity of the series MVP was yet to come.

  The Spurs were having their way with us—that much was obvious—grabbing a five-point lead with 28.2 seconds to go.

  We were always nervous facing them; no team in the NBA was more efficient. Every player had the potential to hit the three or break his man off the dribble. The magic word was trust. Their coach, Gregg Popovich, trusted his guys. A lot of coaches don’t. They leave their players in the same limited roles, from game 1 to game 82. How do you get better if you’re not given larger responsibilities? How do you become more valuable to the team?

  At the same time, we were making it easier for the Spurs, with turnovers in three straight possessions, two from LeBron! After the third one, and a foul from me that sent Manu Ginobili to the line for two free throws—good thing he made just one—our coach, Erik Spoelstra, called time.

  “It’s not supposed to go down like this,” said Norris Cole, one of our backups. No, Norris, it isn’t.

  Yet there was no despair in the huddle, and I had been in huddles where players bitched at one another so loudly you could not hear a word the coach was saying. Glancing at the faces, and the body language, I could tell everyone still believed. Without that, you don’t stand a chance.

  When play resumed, Mike Miller, our veteran guard, inbounded to LeBron, who missed a three from the wing, but Mike secured the loose ball and threw it back to him. LeBron made this one. The lead was cut to two. The Spurs’ Kawhi Leonard was then fouled with 19.4 seconds left, but fortunately, he also made only one of his two free throws.

  Spurs 95, Heat 92.

  Anything could still happen. This is a sport where the ball can take some strange bounces, and I’d seen my share since I joined the league in 1996. Bounces that almost made you believe there were other forces at work.

  Besides, we had one clear advantage during those waning seconds. We had Chris Bosh.

  At six-foot-eleven, CB, as we called him, was the tallest player on the floor. That’s because Tim Duncan, the face of the San Antonio franchise, was on the bench. Popovich had replaced him with another big, Boris Diaw, for quickness to chase us on the perimeter in a pick-and-roll, a smart move by a smart coach.

  Lo and behold, when LeBron missed a three, CB grabbed a rebound Duncan might have gotten. Nine seconds to go.

  Of course, we still needed the three ball. Desperately. From someone. Anyone.

  I wanted that someone to be me. As a kid, I played out these exact types of late-game scenarios over and over in my head when I was on the court, alone with the ball, and in my dreams:

  Five seconds to go and the ball goes to Allen, his team down by one. He dribbles to the free-throw line, gets by his man. He takes a jumper. It’s good! It’s good! The crowd goes wild. Ray Allen is carried off by his teammates as they win the NBA title.

  I wasn’t different, I suppose, from any kid growing up in the 1980s who loved basketball and wanted to be like Michael Jordan. I knew it when I was 14 and saw him on television for the first time in a game against the New York Knicks. How he ran up and down the floor and soared over everyone in his path. I thought to myself: I want to float in the air the way he does!

  Only, much to my surprise, first in college, and then in the NBA, I found out that a lot of players, even the best players, don’t necessarily relish the opportunity to be like Mike, not when it matters most.

  Sure, they are fearless for most of the game—talking trash, making shots from every conceivable angle—but when it comes down to the precious few seconds when legends are made, they are nowhere to be found. They fear they will always be known as the guy who missed the big shot at the end. Get them the ball, and even if they have a good look at the basket, they get rid of it so fast your head will spin.

  I approached these situations from the opposite viewpoint: I imagined the rewards that would come if I were to make the big shot. And, God forbid, if I were to miss, at least I would have proven I had the courage to take it and put my reputation on the line. That’s 50 percent of the battle, if not more.

 
To be fair, quite a few embrace the chance to be the hero. Except they too often take the wrong shot, the shot the defender wants them to take—maybe a fadeaway or an off-balanced runner—instead of the one they’d want, the one more suited to their particular skills.

  And to be ready for the challenge isn’t some complicated mystery. It requires what success has always required:

  Commitment. Day after day. Year after year.

  The second I saw the ball in CB’s hands, there was only one place for me to go: behind the three-point line.

  Which meant backpedaling three steps, maybe four, toward the right corner of the court. Granted, it wasn’t the most ideal way to get in rhythm, but for as long as I could remember, in gyms from one end of the country to the other, I had prepared for this very moment.

  During practices in Milwaukee, my first stop in the league, I came up with a drill where I would start on my knees, jump, catch the ball, and fire away. Or I’d start on my back or stomach and go through the same sequence. The point was to develop the muscle memory of getting off a good shot when there’s chaos around you.

  Few moments in basketball are as chaotic as an elimination game in the NBA Finals, your team trailing by three, the clock the enemy as well as your opponent. You need something stable to fall back on so your body won’t go into shock. You have to feel as if you have been there before even if you haven’t.

  CB saw where I was, thank goodness, and got me the ball. Now it was my turn. First, I needed to avoid stepping on the out-of-bounds line, which sneaks up on you in the corner of the court. No easy feat, let me tell you. I played in Milwaukee with a guy, Tim Thomas, who could shoot lights out, as long as he stayed in bounds. His first move was to take a step back, which often resulted in a turnover. That drove our coach, George Karl, crazy.

  “Timmy, you got to know where you are!” George would yell.

  Spacing is everything in basketball. That is why I went toward the lane as soon as I saw LeBron launch the three.

  Doesn’t make sense, does it? Shouldn’t I have stayed where I was, close to the three-point line, so I would be ready to shoot a quick three if CB, or another teammate, pulled down the rebound? Two points, remember, wouldn’t do us much good.

  Not really. Because I moved in, Danny Green, the man guarding me, went in too, and wasn’t in the best defensive position when CB threw the pass. If I had remained on the perimeter, Green would have been right on me. He had probably assumed: Ray is not going to shoot a three. I don’t have to worry about him.

  Of course, there was still the matter of making the shot, and that was going to be tough. I had not been an integral part of the offense the entire night. Spoelstra believed the bigger the game, the more he needed to rely on the Big Three. Of our 92 points, LeBron, CB, and D-Wade had 52. Meanwhile, I had made just one basket, and that didn’t come until midway in the fourth quarter, after I missed my first four shots. Let’s just say I’d had better nights.

  The one thing I did have going for me was that my head was totally in the game. That wasn’t always the case very early in my career. There were times, I confess, when sitting on the bench, I felt my mind wander just a bit and I would notice people in the crowd, like my family or friends or a rowdy fan, instead of paying attention to what was taking place on the court. I probably didn’t realize it. Chalk it up, I suppose, to youth and inexperience. Fortunately, I learned quickly to tune out those distractions and focus 100 percent on the game.

  After all, such a lapse in concentration, even for an instant, can cost you and your team severely. At any moment—an injury, a need to match up against the player the other team put in, a hunch . . . anything—the coach might call your number, and if your head isn’t in the game, there’s a lot you’ll have missed:

  Who’s hot, and who isn’t?

  How has your opponent been defending the pick-and-roll?

  Are the refs calling a bunch of cheap fouls, or are they allowing the guys to play?

  Needless to say, this being Game 6 of the NBA Finals, my mind wouldn’t be anywhere else. I had earned just one ring in 16 previous seasons, with the Boston Celtics in 2008, and at the age of 37, there was no telling if this might be the last chance I ever got.

  Which brings us back to that final possession, LeBron missing the three, CB grabbing the ball, throwing it to me near the corner, the game, and the season, hanging in the balance. I jumped straight up, as if I were in a phone booth, and let it go.

  Whether the ball would find the bottom of the net—and we would find new life—I didn’t have a clue. At least I knew I had done everything I could to be prepared. That day alone, I must have taken close to 200 jump shots at practice before the game. From the top of the key, the elbow, the right corner, the left corner. I took shots from everywhere.

  I took more shots than usual at the half, too, knowing I would be receiving fewer minutes of playing time to get loose, and always aware the moment might come when there would be one shot I would have to make.

  Or else.

  Now that the moment was indeed here, the ball—and our fate—out of my hands, I feared the worst.

  I didn’t jump high enough. I didn’t get the ball up enough. This isn’t close to going in.

  Just then, I saw what everyone else saw: swish! The game, suddenly, remarkably, was tied at 95.

  Was it for sure? As chaotic as it was in the corner, I had no idea whether my feet were behind the line when I let go of the ball. The officials, looking at a replay on the monitor, would let us know.

  When I got to the sidelines, I saw the concerned look on Mike Miller’s face.

  “Was my foot on the line?” I asked.

  “It looked good to me,” Mike said.

  Except he couldn’t be certain. No one could.

  Everything depended on a measly few inches. If any part of either foot was on that line, we would still be trailing, 95–94, with the Spurs having the ball and just 5.2 seconds to go. We’d need a steal, or to commit a quick foul, and then pray we’d get off another shot.

  There was nothing to fear. I was well behind the line. The fans, those who hadn’t given up on us, went nuts. People in the parking lot, I found out later, tried to get back in but couldn’t.

  From then on, we took advantage, stopping the Spurs on their final possession—Tony Parker missed a fadeaway—and outscoring them 8–5 in overtime to win, 103–100. No one was happier than LeBron.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” he said. “Thank you, Jesus.” He was referring to Jesus Shuttlesworth, the character I played in Spike Lee’s film He Got Game, back in the late ’90s.

  “I’m just glad I could play my part,” I told him.

  Two nights later, in the deciding Game 7, we survived another close one, 95–88, LeBron leading the way with 37 points, including five threes, and 12 rebounds. Shane Battier, our backup forward, also came up big, nailing six of eight threes. I didn’t score a single point but couldn’t have cared less. I scored the three points we had to have in Game 6, and we were the world champions.

  Was I thrilled to win a second ring? Absolutely. Is there any better feeling in sports? Hell no.

  Yet, as rewarding as it felt to be in the locker room after Game 7—the champagne and tears flowing, the deep sigh of relief—the real victory didn’t come that night. The victory came on other nights, one after another, when there were no fans or cameras.

  Just me and the ball.

  When I ran into Mark Cuban, the Dallas Mavericks owner, in 2016, he paid me a wonderful compliment.

  Mark didn’t bring up how many threes I made or how many records I set. He said that when the team I was on came to Dallas, he would walk into the gym a few hours before the game to watch me go through my routine. That, he told me, is what he’ll cherish most about my career. That is what I’ll cherish most too.

  The games are beyond my control, which isn’t the case when I’m by myself. In these moments, I’m in control of the shots I’ll take, of the moves I’ll try, of how much I’ll
run. I’m never more at peace.

  It reminds me of the days I spent a lifetime ago in the small town of Dalzell, South Carolina, when basketball was a sign of light and hope in a dark and confusing world.

  2

  Go South, Young Man

  Growing up, I never felt as if I truly belonged.

  How could I? My dad, Walter Allen, served as a metal technician in the United States Air Force, which meant we moved a lot—from Northern California, where I was born on July 20, 1975, to Germany to Oklahoma to England to Southern California to, in the fall of 1988, Dalzell, roughly 40 miles from Columbia, the state capital. It was no surprise that, by the time I made it to the NBA in the mid-1990s, I was used to life on the road.

  I couldn’t be more grateful for that kind of life. I was able to visit places most of us never see, and it helped me understand that, as proud as I am to be an American, we don’t have a monopoly on the right way to think and live. The British have their own perspective, as do the Germans, as do dozens of other societies across the globe. This may be difficult for some back home to comprehend, but the world doesn’t revolve around the United States of America.

  On the other hand, there are serious downsides to such a nomadic existence, even if you end up in the most beautiful locations. For me, the saddest part was feeling as if I was always letting go of something I deeply valued. What would be the point of committing to anything? It would soon be gone anyway.

  I tried to get along with the other kids, hoping they would realize I was no different than anybody else, but even when we bonded, the moment would come every two or three years for me, or them, to move on to the next posting. You could say I was traded over and over and over by the same general manager, Uncle Sam, and wherever he ordered us to go, I would have to start from scratch. It hit me hard every time.

  Never did I feel as much an outsider as when we set foot for the first time in South Carolina . . . the South.

  The state was the first to secede from the Union in late 1860, leading to the Civil War—the war that some, more than 120 years after Lee surrendered to Grant, were still fighting, with words if not weapons.