by Ray Allen
As we watched the players warm up on opposite sides of the court, I couldn’t get over how tall the two starting centers were. The Lakers’ legendary Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and the Pistons’ Bill Laimbeer sure did not look that tall on TV.
Jeff said he’d give me $20 if I could get Kareem’s autograph. Way to go out on a limb. I had as good a chance of blocking one of Kareem’s famous sky hooks. Besides, I was a shy boy, and after seeing others get turned down, I didn’t even ask. I also noticed Kareem was in the middle of his routine and sensed this was a sacred time for a player in the NBA. Man, was I right about that. In those days, I was too young to grasp the nuances of the game, but I knew there was more to it than making shots.
Which might explain why my favorite Laker in the Showtime Era of the 1980s wasn’t Kareem or Magic Johnson or the speedy James Worthy. My favorite Laker was not even one of the starting five. It was Michael Cooper, a thin, six-foot-five guard, who did the things you need to win basketball games, the things that don’t show up on SportsCenter:
Box out your man. Deflect a pass. Set a pick. Take a charge.
That was Coop, night after night.
Jeff, along with Phil Pleasant, another coach, drilled me on the fundamentals until the ball wasn’t the only thing that was spinning:
How to dribble on my left side.
How to shoot layups with my right hand.
How to throw a bounce pass.
How to make a sharp cut.
How to give a pump fake.
No part of the game was overlooked. I was so focused on learning the fundamentals that, to this day, I can’t be sure who was the head coach, Jeff or Phil. Either way, when I found out we were moving to South Carolina, besides having to leave friends yet again, I worried I’d never find coaches as devoted and knowledgeable as these two were.
How backward those outdoor courts at Ebenezer, with their chain rims and gravel pavement, seemed then. How beautiful they seem now.
We had about 20 minutes before school began, enough time to squeeze in a game or two. They played a different brand of basketball in South Carolina, I soon discovered, than what I was used to in California. They raced down the court and used their athletic skills instead of relying on pump fakes, setting screens, and cutting to the hoop. There was also more pushing and scratching and clawing.
And fighting. The big kids were so intimidating—some already had full-grown beards—that no one would dare to challenge them. It was the smaller kids you had to watch out for. Being constantly shoved around, they felt the need to prove how tough they were.
The bell rang at 8:30, and everyone hurried to class. The game, however, was on my mind all the time. It might sound corny, but I was getting to know the ball:
How some spin one way, and others another.
How to aim for a higher arc when you shoot.
How to dribble so you didn’t lose the handle.
There was little about the ball I wasn’t getting to know. This was important because the ball is the one part of the game that you can control. You can’t control the opponent or your teammates. Only the ball will be there for you. As long as you are there for the ball.
Over time, as I won one game after another, kids came by to watch me play. That was exciting, and not just because of how much I loved to compete. Basketball was my way to get them to accept me and stop claiming I talked like a white kid.
One day, for some reason, I began to throw up these wild sky hooks from every part of the court. It so happened that the captain of the football team and one of his friends were watching when I swished one from about 20 feet. Total luck. And what timing!
“This kid can play,” the captain said.
For the most part, I played the way the other kids played—pushing the ball, taking a quick shot, being in a track meet as much as a basketball game. Though I never forgot the fundamentals I learned in California. They would serve me well for a long time.
Only, performing well on the playground wouldn’t be good enough. I would have to perform well in games that counted, and I would soon get my chance.
The announcement came over the loudspeaker:
“Anyone who is trying out for the basketball team, be in the gym tomorrow before school starts.”
I showed up, of course, but so did a lot of other kids, and nothing was guaranteed. The coach divided us into groups of three and told everybody to shoot 25 free throws. I was a pretty decent free-throw shooter, remembering to bend my knees and keep my eyes on the rim, as my coaches in California taught me, but what if I had an off day? Would my basketball career be over before it started?
Fortunately, I didn’t. I made 23 of the 25, far more than anyone else, and I could tell the coach was impressed. Can’t say the same for this other boy, Kenny—not his real name—who was trying out.
“You won’t make the team,” Kenny told me.
I didn’t say a word. What do you say to someone like that, someone who doesn’t know anything about you? Why he was so negative, to this day, I have no idea.
A few days after the tryout, when I found out that, yes, I had made the team, Kenny tried again to bring me down.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” he said. “You won’t start!”
Again, I didn’t say a word.
He wasn’t a bad person, and besides, we’ve all had a Kenny or two in our lives, someone who tells us we’re not good enough. The question is: Do we let ourselves believe them?
If anything, I’m glad Kenny said what he did, and when he said it. His voice stayed in my head for a long time, propelling me forward when I had doubts, and there were many. I’ll start, Kenny, you’ll see, and I’ll be one of the best players on the team! He was the first to motivate me by being critical, but he wouldn’t be the last.
Making the team paid off big-time. Many of those who saw me as an outsider now thought I was cool. Better yet, I wasn’t judged as belonging to one group or the other.
“He plays basketball, he’s an athlete,” they said, instead of, “He hangs out with the white kids.”
Another benefit was that, on game days, I was allowed to wear my warm-up suit to school, which gave me a third outfit to go along with the two pairs of jeans. As I walked down those halls, I felt a sense of pride I’d never felt before.
A few kids even started to think there was something special about me, and it wasn’t only because of my basketball skills.
One day a bunch of us were in the locker room waiting for practice to begin. I don’t remember what got into me, but I bragged to everyone that I knew how to pick locks. Sure you do, they said, blowing me off. Fine, I will show you, I told them. I went up to a random locker, spun the lock around two or three times, put my ear against it, as they do in the movies, and, would you believe it, the darn thing opened! It was almost as if God himself decided he was going to do a favor for me.
“How did you do that?” they wanted to know. “Do another,” they pleaded.
Nope. One was enough, knowing I could never be that lucky again.
Strange as it may seem, picking the lock was a big deal. Kids that age are always looking for a way to impress the others in their group.
When it came to basketball, though, I didn’t have to count on luck. I got better and better from hard work, nothing else. Come the fall of 1990, I would be headed to Hillcrest, where the crowds were larger and the stakes greater.
I hoped I was up to it.
3
High School and High Hopes
I was up to the challenge, all right, and not just because of the work I put in on the playground and on the junior high team, but because of Saturday and Sunday mornings at Shaw Air Force Base, where Dad worked.
On those mornings, he and others on the base got together for a few friendly games of hoop. Okay, maybe not so friendly; man, those guys took it seriously. They would show up at 9:30, sometimes earlier, to write their names on the board for five-on-five, full-court games that began at 10:00. Get there much later, and y
ou ran the risk of waiting a long time to play or not playing at all.
My dad wasn’t the waiting type. He would leave for Shaw promptly at 9, and if I was not ready to go, I got left behind. We had a carport underneath the house, so I could hear that old Trans van of his starting up while I was still in bed. I’d grab my sneakers and pick up something good for breakfast to make it downstairs in time, and if I was too late, I hopped on my bike or called a friend to give me a ride. I wouldn’t miss those games for anything.
Although, according to several members of the gym staff, I shouldn’t have been there in the first place. The others who played were in their twenties and thirties, a few in their forties. I was 13, and the concern was that I was taking up a spot that belonged to men who worked there.
It was a good thing that, as time went on, I began to look a lot older than my age—I grew five inches between eighth and ninth grades, to six-foot-two—so Dad slipped me in, and no one had a problem. Except for the time someone on the gym staff stopped us at the front door. Dad pointed out I’d been coming to the games for well over a year and was better than players twice my age. Taller too. Even so, the man wouldn’t budge, and not surprisingly, Dad caused a little scene and was cited for insubordination.
I wasn’t embarrassed in the least. I was proud. My father had stood up for me.
Dad, you see, wasn’t overly affectionate toward me, or any of my siblings, nor did he play with me around the house. Legos, toys, football, nothing. I don’t remember any one-on-one time, come to think of it, and I’m pretty sure it was the same between him and the others. Not once did he tell me, “I love you,” and looking back, I wish he had. It might have made me more comfortable saying “I love you” to them, or anybody I’ve felt close to.
Still, I was always aware that he loved us as much as he was capable of loving, and that morning at Shaw was just one way he showed it.
I learned a lot playing ball there, and it went well beyond the game itself. It spoke to the fundamental difference between success and failure. The men had done extremely well in their lives, supporting their families and serving their country, but maybe there had been a wrong decision, or two, earlier that kept them from attaining their true dream: to be a professional athlete. I can’t tell you how many complained to me that they would have made it if not for the alcohol and the women and the other mistakes of youth, and how they’d do it differently if they could start over. I believed them. They were that good.
That won’t be me, I told myself. I won’t be sharing my regrets with a kid 20 years from now at some military base on a Saturday morning. I won’t envy the promise he has, because I’m not going to throw away my own.
The games themselves went quickly, the winners being the first team to reach 11 points. They then took on the next team on the list, while the losers fell to the bottom, which was the worst feeling you could imagine. You’d kill time by shooting at another basket in the gym or lifting weights, but even if you got to play again—and there was no guarantee—you’d face a team that was exhausted. Beating them wouldn’t prove anything.
The action could get quite physical, but with no officials, you had to call your own fouls, and people, by and large, didn’t say anything unless it was clear they were hacked.
“Respect my call,” they’d say.
Of course, similar to pickup games throughout America, there was always that one guy who cried “foul!” whenever he missed a shot. Heck, I knew players in the NBA who looked for a referee every time they didn’t score.
“You hit my hand,” they’d complain.
So what? That’s not a foul. The hand is a part of the ball. You’d be amazed how many players don’t know that. The fact was, they missed the shot. Everyone misses shots.
I won my share of games at Shaw, thanks to my dad, who was one of the top shooters, and my brother, John, the football star. Other guys, whenever they saw us coming, used to say: “Uh-oh, the Allens just walked in.” They called us “Showtime,” after the legendary Lakers teams. We took the ball, ran down the floor, and put it in the basket. One possession after another.
I also lost my share. The top players in the area showed up, and believe me, they came to play. Some had trouble getting in at first, but a lot of times we would meet at the front gate and make sure somebody sponsored them. We, the Allens, wanted to be the best. In order to do that, we had to beat the best.
Before I played at Shaw, I knew how to shoot, but I didn’t know how to dunk. I wasn’t tall enough to try. Shaw was where I learned, and one dunk in particular was more memorable than the others.
It happened on one of the days I was too late to catch a ride with Dad. A friend and I wrote our names on the board, and we wound up playing against my father, who was feeling good about himself after winning a few games. I don’t recall what the score was, but I was on a fast break when a teammate passed the ball to me in the lane. Who was the only person between me and the basket? You guessed it. I went up as high as I could and . . . slam!
Everyone in the gym went crazy.
“He dunked on his dad!” they screamed. “He dunked on his dad!”
The dunk didn’t mean very much to me at the time—it was only one point and we still had a game to win—but soon after it meant quite a bit. It meant I had reached a new level as a player, and I’d only get better. When you can dunk, it’s like you are playing on the fifth floor while everybody else is stuck on the first. There’s nothing in basketball as demoralizing. The players you dunk on know there is little they can do to stop you.
Dad, however, didn’t say a word about the dunk, not then, or ever, so I can’t be sure how he felt. Like I said, we didn’t have that kind of relationship. He didn’t offer compliments or encouragement; that was Mom’s job. She was the person, from day one, who said I’d be the best player in the world.
Hillcrest High was also in the middle of nowhere, although because it was just off Highway 441 and you didn’t enter via a dirt road, you felt a little closer to civilization. And the water in the fountains, thank goodness, didn’t come out orange at first.
The school wasn’t very big, about 200 students per class, but big enough to be a part of Class 4A, which meant I would go against the better players in the state. I needed that type of challenge to have any chance of receiving a college scholarship.
I also needed to watch myself off the court. I saw kids routinely pull out wads of twenties in the cafeteria, and I was pretty sure how they made that money. Yet I wasn’t tempted in the least by the whole drug scene. I have never even held a joint in my hand, and that includes the years in college and the NBA.
Needless to say, one can still be in the wrong place at the wrong time, which scared the heck out of my mother. My curfew was 12:00 AM, and there was no room for negotiating. She would have been one tough GM.
“You don’t need to put yourself in compromising situations,” she told me. “You are going to get out of here. You are going to do something good with your life.”
She knew what she was talking about. Take what happened to a good friend of mine:
He went to a club one Friday evening and ended up killing someone. I could have easily been with him and either ended up in jail, as he did, as an accomplice or, God forbid, been shot myself. Such was the world I was living in. Which was why I was more than content to stay home with my brother and sisters while everybody else was out at all hours of the night.
Not going to the parties or the dances at school set me further apart socially, but it was a price I was willing to pay. Besides, getting to bed early made it easy for me to be the first one at the gym the following morning, and nothing was more important.
At the same time, I wasn’t exactly a monk. I was a man. With certain needs, if you know what I mean.
Her name was Rosalind, and we could not have had less in common. She was a senior; I was a sophomore. She was part of the “in” group; I wasn’t part of any group. She’d had boyfriends before; I’d never been in a relati
onship.
What we did have in common was being tall—she was six-foot—and slim, and we were both virgins. Every night since I was about 14 I’d gone to sleep wondering: When am I going to get laid? It could not happen soon enough. Remember, I hung around kids who were having sex before they were learning how to drive. I had not even been to first base!
So when a friend told me about a gorgeous girl with short, dark hair who had just broken up with her boyfriend and was asking about me . . . me . . . I made my move. I don’t recall what I said, but knowing how shy I was around girls, I’m sure it couldn’t have been very smooth.
Whatever it was, it worked. Rosalind and I exchanged numbers, and before long we were an item, though it took a while for her to trust that this was going to last. Day after day, I’d follow her down the hall, but she’d always walk a couple of steps in front and never wait for me to catch up. Whether it had to do with the difference in our status in school, I couldn’t be certain, but I didn’t have the nerve to ask her to slow down. I also didn’t have the nerve to be more passionate, and she wasn’t pleased. I’d give her a peck on the cheek, but that was about it.
“We should be kissing to the point where I don’t have any lipstick on by the time we’re done,” she told a friend of ours. One day, finally, I kissed her like she wanted to be kissed, and she didn’t complain ever again.
By junior year, whenever Rosalind made the short trip home from Columbia, where she attended college, we’d hang out at my house or hers.
You can guess what happened next. And when she got pregnant, there was not any doubt we’d keep the baby. Nor was there any doubt we’d get married. That was simply what one did in the South in the early 1990s, and truth is, I was looking forward to it. Rosalind and I loved each other. Why not share our love with a child?
I would still have to get through high school, and then, hopefully, college. No one in my family had earned a college degree, and that meant more to my mom than anything. Take care of your education, she assured me, and she would help take care of the baby.