From the Outside

by Ray Allen

  Lakers 83, Celtics 79.

  After congratulating the Lakers, I couldn’t get to the locker room quickly enough. I wasn’t going to stick around and watch them celebrate.

  Once everyone was together, Doc got our attention.

  “You had a great year, guys,” he said. “You can hold your heads high.”

  He told us to form a circle one last time.

  Forming a circle is a big deal in basketball, as I’m sure you’ve noticed with other teams. With us, Doc used to say: “Everybody, come in and touch someone.” One player, and it was usually KG, stood in the middle and said a few inspiring words. The message was unmistakable: we are a team, and no one person is more important than another.

  This was one circle I shall never forget. Rasheed Wallace, the ex-Pistons forward/center we signed as a free agent before the season, who was one of the toughest guys in the league, was in tears.

  “You guys were great,” Rasheed said. “I appreciate everything that you did. I’m glad I could go on this journey with you.” Although he had a year left on his contract, he told us right then he was retiring. He had nothing left to give. I knew how he felt.

  I went dark for the next week. Or it might have been two weeks; I wasn’t keeping track. I sat by myself in a room at our home in Boston and did nothing but watch TV. I wasn’t interested in going anywhere or talking to anyone—about Game 7, or any game.

  You’d think I would have had a broader perspective by this point, after what Shannon and I went through with Walker and after realizing that winning a championship doesn’t change who you are.

  But it is still quite an accomplishment, and it had been in our grasp—until it was gone.

  Our window was closing, especially once LeBron took his talents to South Beach and teamed up with Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh to form a Big Three of their own. They were now the talk of the NBA.

  Only our window was not closed yet.

  In the 2010–11 season, we took 23 of our first 27, including 14 straight, before losing to the Magic, 87–78, on Christmas Day. We still had our core from 2008, and had replaced Rasheed with another vet with championship experience: Shaquille O’Neal.

  In early February, we went to meet the Bobcats in Charlotte, where I would have a chance to break the record for most three-pointers, held by Reggie Miller with 2,560; I was only three behind. To be honest, I felt uneasy with the attention I was getting from the media. Basketball is a team sport. I never set out to break any records, this one included.

  It was too late. The record would soon be mine, and that being the case, I wanted to break it in Boston, not Charlotte. So that night—I’m not proud to admit this—I made sure not to break the record. On several possessions, when I was open for a three, I took my sweet time, came in a couple of steps, and opted for a two instead. I attempted only two three-pointers the entire game, nailing both, leaving me one back of Reggie.

  A few nights later, at home against the Lakers, I hit a three late in the first quarter to set the new mark. Speaking of Reggie, he was doing the color commentary for TNT that night, and after breaking the record I went over to give him a hug.

  In Denver two weeks later, I was standing near the free-throw line next to Birdman—you know, Chris Andersen, the tall white dude with the colorful tattoos all over his body.

  “Man, I watched the game the other night. That was cool,” he said, referring to me passing Reggie.

  What Chris said really affected me. As a player, you become so wrapped up in your own world, you forget that the other players in the league are fans too.

  One thing I didn’t lose sight of was my relationship with Rajon Rondo. It had been pretty bad for some time.

  Back in 2009, when I was told the two of us might be traded to the Phoenix Suns, I called to let him know the word was that he and Danny Ainge didn’t get along and that was why there was talk of a deal.

  “You need to meet with Danny,” I told Rondo, “to iron out any issues you guys might have.”

  I don’t know if he ever did speak to Danny, but, obviously, the deal wasn’t made. Later, though, Rondo brought the matter up before practice. He brought up a lot of things.

  “I carried all of you to the championship in 2008,” he blurted out.

  The rest of the team, almost in unison, responded, “You what?”

  “Each one of you had issues with me,” Rondo said.

  “None of us had issues with you,” I chimed in.

  “You did too,” he said, looking directly at me. “You told me I was the reason we were going to be traded.”

  “I never said that, Rondo. I was just telling you what I heard.”

  On and on it went, and nothing that I said, or anyone said, got through to him. He believed what he wanted to believe. There was no question about Rondo’s talent. His ability to be a leader was a whole other issue.

  Leaders work hard, day after day, not just on days when 15,000 people happen to be watching. Leaders also don’t put their own stats ahead of the team. There were times when Rondo would pass up a sure layup in order to pick up an assist; that was the record he was going for.

  “Dude, lay it up,” I would tell him. “You’re just trying to pad your assists total.”

  Doc noticed what was happening and tried to find a solution. One day, in 2010 or 2011, he asked KG, Paul, and me to come to his office. He got right to the point.

  “You guys have to let him into the circle,” he said. “You have to give him a voice.”

  KG and I couldn’t have disagreed more.

  “We can’t make him a leader,” I told Doc. “He has to earn it.”

  The days of being Rondo’s mentor were long gone. I had become his enemy at some point, and I would be his enemy for the rest of my days in Boston.

  That had never been my intention, as it wasn’t with George Karl, or anyone I didn’t get along with. And even if I wasn’t the best of friends with another player, he was still my teammate and I wanted to do whatever I could to help him.

  That included Rajon Rondo. He had problems from the line, hitting less than 60 percent. Most games are lost by eight points or fewer, and teams miss about ten free throws a game. If Rondo could raise his percentage to, say, 70 percent, even 65, that could be a huge boost for us.

  One day before practice, I saw my opportunity.

  “Let’s shoot some free throws together,” I suggested.

  Rondo didn’t say a word, but the look on his face said enough: I don’t need your help.

  I walked away and never offered to work with him again. I can’t help somebody who doesn’t want to help himself. Frankly, it made no sense to me. Here was a chance to get advice from one of the better free-throw shooters in the game. How can you not take it?

  In 2011, during our playoff series against the Heat, we saw Rondo’s anger like never before. We were at practice the day after losing Game 2 in Miami to fall behind 2–0. Yet Doc, it should come as no surprise, was as upbeat as ever.

  “I want you guys to watch this film,” he said. “We’re not that far from what we need to do. We did a few things to beat ourselves.”

  He proceeded to show us what they were: The layups we missed. The defenders we didn’t box out. The switches we didn’t make. One clip showed Rondo failing to get back on defense.

  “Rondo, look at your body language,” Doc said.

  Rondo didn’t say a word and stopped looking at the screen. He put his head down and turned his chair toward the lockers.

  “Bro, watch the film,” Doc told him.

  “Fuck that film,” Rondo said as he stood up and threw a water bottle that cracked the screen. The rest of us got up too, thinking Rondo was going to charge Doc. That’s how much of a rage he was in.

  “Get him out of here,” Doc said.

  Rondo took off, KG right behind him, practice done for the day. KG, you had to figure, being the no-nonsense, team-first guy he was, was going to tell him to wise up. Whenever somebody kidded around too much on the ben
ch or in the locker room, he’d set him straight. Such as one of the times Rondo came to a shootaround with his shoes untied, the laces out, his hands in his pants.

  “Young fella,” KG said, “you need to get your shit together.”

  He didn’t tell Rondo off this time. Just the opposite.

  “Youngun, you’re going to be all right,” he said.

  If KG wouldn’t keep him in line, we were in trouble. Because Paul certainly wouldn’t get involved. “I’m just gonna do my time,” he used to say.

  Nor did Doc really try, though there were occasions, besides the incident at practice, when it looked like the two were about to trade blows. One evening, I was in my hotel room when I got a call from Doc. “Let’s go to dinner,” he said. It wound up being Doc, KG, and myself. Paul was invited too, but didn’t make it.

  “We can’t win with Rondo; he’s not a good dude,” Doc told us. “I spoke to the ownership, and they’re on board for him to be traded.”

  KG didn’t defend him. He knew Rondo had to go.

  He didn’t go.

  The trade discussed would have sent Rondo to the New Orleans Hornets for their exceptional point guard Chris Paul, but in the end Doc decided he couldn’t do that to their coach, Monty Williams. Doc was a mentor to Monty, having coached him in Orlando.

  So imagine my reaction in the 2011–2012 season when it became increasingly clear that Rondo wasn’t going anywhere. And since they could not trade him, the thinking was, they might as well find a way to make this work.

  That season, my last under contract, was the most stressful by far. It got to the point that Rondo would not even throw the ball to me. I would be wide open coming off a screen and he’d go in another direction.

  “What’s up with your boy?” my friends asked me.

  Not wanting to start any rumors, I’d respond: “Oh, he sees something better.”

  Behind the scenes, however, I complained to Doc.

  “Yeah, me and the coaches talked about it,” he said. “We’ve got to figure out something to do.” His idea was to bring me off the bench for Rondo so that I would play alongside another guard, Avery Bradley, who was in his second season.

  “You’ll get more touches,” Doc said.

  Why, I wondered, didn’t he just tell Rondo what he expected from him? Wasn’t that his job?

  “Trust me,” Doc used to say all the time, “I know what I’m doing. I’ve been a part of the NBA for more than 25 years.”

  “Doc, I’ve been in the NBA almost half of my life too,” I finally said to him once. “Just because you say this is how it’s supposed to be done doesn’t mean it’s the only way.”

  Now, you can see why the Celtics might want to get rid of me, and at one point it looked like they had done just that. The call came from Danny right before the deadline, in March: “Ray, you have been traded to Memphis.” For O. J. Mayo, their young shooting guard.

  I called home right away. Shannon, as usual, took the news in stride. If I had been dealt to the moon, she would have said, “No problem,” and gone to look for her astronaut suit. I never took trades well, as you know. For once, at least, I didn’t hear the news first from the media.

  It didn’t matter. Danny called back to say the deal was off. I never did find out what happened. Nonetheless, as long I was still in Boston, I was determined to make the most of it.

  The season did not start until Christmas Day, because of another owner lockout, and was reduced to 66 games. It was a struggle the first two months. In one stretch, we lost seven of eight. But, in late March, we won seven of eight, including a victory over LeBron and the Heat, to put us at 30-22.

  About a week later, we beat the Pacers on the road. You would think, as a unit, that we were bonding at just the right time. Far from it, I’m afraid.

  In Indiana, Paul and Brandon Bass, our other starting forward, were arguing with each other the entire game. I don’t recall what started it, only that Paul was speaking to Brandon as if he were some kid, not a grown man.

  “Talk to me with respect,” Brandon kept insisting.

  When I walked into the locker room after the game, they were still at it, and it looked like they were about to throw punches.

  “Guys, what about Ubuntu?” Doc said.

  “Man, we ain’t been Ubuntu in here all year,” Rondo said.

  “What are you talking about?” Doc responded.

  Then, Rondo, out of nowhere, brought my name up. I had been sitting there, icing my feet, trying to stay out of it. So much for that idea.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I said as I leaped up.

  “You’re jealous of me,” Rondo went on.

  “Jealous of you? For what? You need to stop bullshitting everyone on the team,” I told him, “and play every night instead of when you choose to play.”

  The two of us were now screaming at each other, Rondo acting as if he thought he were the GM as well as the point guard.

  “I’m going to get your ass out of here this summer,” he vowed.

  “Dude, I’m going to be gone before you have any say-so. I’m out of here.”

  That was the end of it. Until we were on the plane to Boston. I got out of my seat and approached Rondo, who had been chatting with Doc. I still felt that Rondo and I, as two adults, could resolve this, and with just three weeks to go before the playoffs started, we needed to.

  “What makes you think I’m jealous of you?” I asked him.

  “I’m good,” he said.

  “What do you mean, you’re good?”

  “I got 11 games to play with you, and that’s it.”

  There was no point in saying another word. Whatever was between Rondo and me could not be resolved.

  Somehow, we won eight of those 11 games to finish 39-27, setting up a first-round playoff series against the Hawks.

  We lost Game 1 in Atlanta, 83–74, as Josh Smith had 22 points and 18 rebounds, but that wasn’t what disturbed me the most about that day. With 41 seconds to go, Rondo was signaled for a technical after the official called a foul on Brandon. No big deal. We were trailing by four at that point and would have needed quite a rally to pull it out.

  But then Rondo bumped the official, Marc Davis, with his chest. Huge deal. The NBA would take a close look and decide whether to suspend him.

  Having missed the game due to an injury, I did an interview on the court afterward, and then went to the locker room. The guys were talking about the bump.

  “Shorty,” Paul told Rondo, “you don’t need to say anything to the media. Just get dressed and get on the bus.” KG agreed with Paul.

  “He has to say something,” I told them. “He has to own up to what he did.”

  Paul and KG didn’t buy it for a second. I appealed to Rondo, for practical reasons, if nothing else.

  “Tell them your adrenaline was going and you didn’t mean to bump him,” I said. “You’re already suspended. The question is, for how long? If you walk out, it shows no respect, that you don’t give a damn.”

  He didn’t buy it either. I wasn’t surprised. He had never apologized, after all, for breaking the TV screen, and that was an important practice for us.

  I approached Doc next.

  “You need him to speak to the media or we’re going to lose him for more than two games,” I said.

  Doc agreed, and Rondo gave in.

  Fortunately, Rondo, as it turned out, was suspended only for Game 2, which we won anyway to square the series. We took the next two in Boston and closed the Hawks out in six.

  Next was a date with the Philadelphia 76ers, who extended us to seven games. In Game 7, Rondo was the hero with 18 points, 10 assists, and 10 rebounds. When he played like that, we could beat anyone. And we would need him to play like that, as we’d be taking on LeBron James and the Heat in the Eastern Conference finals. We weren’t intimidated, that’s for sure.

  Dropping the first two games in Miami didn’t lessen our confidence one bit. In Game 2, as a matter of fact, we w
ere up 11 in the third quarter before LeBron and D-Wade went off. Even then, we staged a comeback of our own to force overtime. Check out Rondo’s stat line: 44 points, 10 assists, eight rebounds. By the way, he played the entire 53 minutes!

  Sure enough, we won the next three, including Game 5 in Miami, 94–90, to grab a 3–2 lead. One more, and we were going back to the Finals.

  In Game 6, however, LeBron poured in 45 as the Heat beat us by 19 at the Garden. What I recall most about that night were people chanting, “Let’s go, Celtics!” as the game was about to end. They were doing whatever they could to get us geared up for the next game—Game 7 in Miami. Like I said, you won’t find better fans anywhere.

  We were geared up, all right, the game tied at 73 heading into the fourth quarter. But the Heat pulled away to win, 101–88.

  Yet, as disappointed as we were, there was nothing to be ashamed of.

  No, the shame came after the game.

  In the final seconds, I reminded the guys to congratulate Miami and wish them well in the Finals against Oklahoma City. You’ve seen it many times, the players hugging their opponents afterward, like boxers after a fight.

  You didn’t see it this time. Not from all my teammates.

  “Screw those motherfuckers,” one guy said, and he was not the only player who felt that way. “I’m not shaking anybody’s hand.”

  I tried to talk them out of it, but they kept walking away.

  We were no different from the Pistons team, who, about to be swept by the Bulls in the 1991 playoffs, headed to the locker room before Game 4 was over. That will always be a part of their legacy as much as the titles they won, and now I was afraid that failing to congratulate the Heat would be a part of ours. You find out a lot about an individual, or a team, in victory. You find out a lot more in defeat.

  The Heat went on to beat the Thunder in five games for its first title with LeBron. Their future was as promising as ever. Our future wasn’t. We had delayed the inevitable for a while but couldn’t delay it any further. When the clock struck midnight on Sunday, July 1, for the second time in my career, I became a free agent.

  The phone rang at 12:01. It was someone from the Memphis Grizzlies. This was going to be an interesting couple of weeks.