Opening night in Boston was quite a night. The fans cheered for us louder than any fans I’d been around, and it would be that loud the whole season. Every night, even on nights when it was obvious we didn’t have our best stuff, they were loyal to the very end, willing us to wins we probably didn’t deserve.
“Is it always like this?” the Rockets’ Tracy McGrady once asked me. “I feel like I’m in the playoffs.”
The support wasn’t just something I felt at games. I felt it when I went for a walk or pumped gas or was out to dinner with my family.
“Hey, we just want to let you know we’re rooting for you guys,” they’d say. “Let’s do it!”
The fans at Boston Garden were so engaged that they would be in their seats at least a half-hour before tip-off. They loved to watch us and the other team go through warm-ups. You almost worried that the game, for their sake, would not start soon enough. Then, once it did start, they saw their job as more than rooting for the good guys. They tried to intimidate the bad guys. You are not welcome here, and we will see that you don’t forget it.
I can’t imagine ever hearing a Celtics fan say, “It doesn’t matter if I go to the game or not.” Whether they were sitting up high close to the rafters or courtside, they felt that they, not just the players, had to bring their “A” game night after night. Or they would be letting us down.
And, man, did they know their basketball. Nothing got by them.
Run a questionable play near the end of a game and, believe me, you would hear about it, either on the court or when people approached you around town. I was our top free-throw shooter, but every so often, to get Paul in rhythm, we agreed he would go to the line when the other team was called for a technical.
“Why isn’t Allen shooting it?” the fans would want to know.
Even how they sounded was different from anything I was familiar with. The noise kept rising, and rising, until everything began to shake and you felt like the whole building might come down.
And to think that Boston, I’d heard for the longest time, was a city where a black athlete might not feel very welcome. I have been to a lot of cities in America, and racism exists everywhere, whether people want to believe it or not. The whites live in a certain part of town, the blacks in another. Boston, I believe, received its reputation due to the difficult times that Bill Russell and other black players faced in the 1950s and 1960s.
The times haven’t changed much. Look what happened in the spring of 2017, when fans at Fenway Park shouted the n-word at Adam Jones, an outfielder for the Baltimore Orioles. The Red Sox have to take whatever steps necessary to make sure incidents like this don’t happen again anywhere.
On opening night, we beat the Washington Wizards, 103–83, Paul leading the way with 28 points. KG, meanwhile, was everywhere: 22 points, 20 rebounds, five assists, three blocks, and three steals. I chipped in with 17, including two three-pointers.
You can’t base anything on a single performance, but it sure felt as if this show was destined to be a hit. Not that we were there to entertain; we were there to work.
Talking trash was also not our style. Gilbert Arenas, the point guard for the Wizards, had bragged how he, Caron Butler, and Antawn Jamison were the better Big Three. We didn’t need to respond, except on the court.
The next game, in a 98–95 victory over the Raptors in Toronto, I scored my first big basket as a Celtic, a three from the corner with 2.6 seconds to go in OT, one of seven threes I hit that night.
For years, prior to KG and I arriving in Boston, the other team at the end of a game would force Paul to beat them. Now, on any given day, the defense could not be certain who would take the last shot: Paul, KG, or me. And if they tried to double any of us, we’d find the open man.
Which reminds me of a conversation the three of us had with a writer in Boston before the season started.
“I have a question I want you guys to answer, all at the same time,” she said. “Who is going to get the ball for the last shot?”
I said, “The open man.” Paul said, “Ray.” KG said, “One of them.”
What struck me was how different the answer would have been the year before, or any year. Each of us would not have hesitated for a second to say, “Me.” Each of us would have been right.
We kept going, winning our next six to reach 8-0, before a 104–102 loss on the road to the Orlando Magic. About a week later, we took on the Cavs in Cleveland.
With 23.1 seconds left in regulation and the game tied at 92, I went to the line for two free throws. No problem. The first one went in . . . and out! What? How could I miss in a moment like this?
Missing the first one, though, was not where I messed up. Thinking about the first one as I was getting ready to shoot the second was.
Still angry with myself, I didn’t focus on my routine, and, as I’m sure you know by now, routine is everything in this sport. In free throws, I’d locate the center nail on the floor with my right foot, mimic my follow-through without the ball, catch the ball from the ref, roll it in my hands, dribble three times, roll it again, and shoot.
Every time. Everywhere. It was my way of distracting myself from any anxiety I might feel.
I missed again.
We ended up losing in overtime, 109–104, LeBron with 38 points and 13 assists. I was upset, as you can imagine, though it hit me there was a real learning opportunity there, and damn if I was going to miss that as well: it does no good to dwell on missing a free throw, or on missing a three-pointer, or on missing a teammate who is wide open. The game moves too rapidly. The mind must move at the same speed or you’ll be left behind. Focus instead on the next free throw. The next three-point shot. The next pass.
There was another lesson I learned that night. Who was I to assume that I couldn’t miss a free throw? I didn’t shoot 100 percent from the line. I shot 90 percent. That means missing one out of every 10, and this just happened to be the one.
Lessons learned, I moved on.
The next day, though, I got a call from my former teammate Sam Cassell, who was playing for the Clippers.
“I wouldn’t have missed those free throws RayAllen, RayAllen,” he said.
Knowing Sam, his call didn’t bother me one bit. He was right: he wouldn’t have missed them.
Two days later, we began a new winning streak, beating the Knicks, 104–59, holding them to 30 percent from the field. They didn’t score more than 18 in any quarter. We then held the Heat to 85, and the Cavs to 70. In the month of December, we lost only once, by two points to the Pistons at the Garden. By early January, we were 29-3, the identical win-loss total the Bulls had in 1996 when they went on to win a then-record 72 games.
Believe me, though, winning was not nearly as automatic as we made it seem. Every game felt like the Super Bowl, every team eager to pull off the upset, and keeping your edge over an 82-game season is next to impossible.
Thank goodness for Doc. He knew how to motivate us, often with a quote from history that he would write on the wall or stick in our locker. On Martin Luther King Day, we spoke about what Dr. King did for each of us to get to where we were. Doc was the first coach I played for where it was not just about basketball; it was about reaching his players as human beings too.
My favorite quote was from Teddy Roosevelt’s 1910 speech, “The Man in the Arena”:
It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who . . . at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
The choice is yours. You can be like Kenny, the kid who said I wouldn’t make the team in junior high, or my teammate at Hillcrest who told everyone I’d be an alcoholic.
Or you can be the one who dares greatly, in whatever you do with your life. Any time I hear somebody being too critical of an individual in the public eye, I think: At least that person is putting his reputation on the line. When have you, the critic, shown that kind of courage?
A day rarely goes by when I don’t share the “The Man in the Arena” with someone; it means that much to me. I was also inspired by a video Doc showed us in the playoffs one year, called “Battle at Kruger.” The battle is between a group of lions, a herd of buffalo, and a crocodile. Bottom line: If we go our separate ways, we don’t stand a chance. But if we stick together, we can beat anyone.
Earlier, along the same lines, Doc introduced us to Ubuntu, a philosophy practiced by none other than Nelson Mandela.
The point is that, to be the best you can be, everybody around you also has to be the best they can be. Ubuntu became our mantra for the rest of the season. Before going onto the court, we would join together in a circle, raise our arms, and remind ourselves to play for one another, not for any individual glory.
“Ubuntu, be our brothers’ keeper,” we’d shout.
Doc brought in the leader of a basketball organization from South Africa, who told us that, in his community, people constantly reached out to anyone who was in need.
James Posey, who had been in the league since 1999, also had a way to motivate the guys.
All he had to do was show us something the rest of us did not have—his ring. During practice, Doc put the starters on one side of the court, the subs on the other. James, being one of the subs, kept making the same comment.
“That’s okay, y’all got no rings,” he would say. He won that championship with the Heat in 2006.
He was kidding around, but hearing him say it over and over had a real effect on us. We never lost sight of what we were chasing.
Then, in March, we signed Sam Cassell, who had been waived by the Clippers a week before. Sam, at 38, was well past his prime, but he could still shoot and run an offense, which we sorely needed on the second unit. Sam also would help keep us from getting complacent. Looking back, I can think of at least five games we had given away.
Two weeks later, Sam scored 17 points in a victory over the Spurs in San Antonio. We won the next night in Houston, and in Dallas two nights later. That’s what you call the “Texas Three-Step.” Taking 11 of our final 12, we finished the season at 66-16, securing the number 1 seed in the Eastern Conference and home-court advantage throughout the postseason.
Of course, there was no reason to celebrate yet. Nothing less than a title, and another ride on the Duck Boat, would be acceptable.
Doc made sure we understood what would be required going forward.
“We need to cut out all the extracurricular activities,” he told us, “so you can take care of yourselves. If that means you guys need to stop having sex, or need to have more sex, I don’t care. Whatever it is, I need you to make the sacrifices to be ready for the playoffs.”
I never thought that having more sex was a “sacrifice,” but what did I know?
Atlanta was our opponent in the first round. The Hawks had won only 37 games, 29 fewer than we did. Sweeping them was a real possibility, especially after we took the first two at the Garden, by 23 and 19 points. There was no sense in allowing the series to go on a moment longer than it needed to.
Or you can do what we did: lose the next two in Atlanta and make it a series again. Either these were not the Hawks we saw during the season or we weren’t who we pretended to be.
Back in Boston for Game 5, we cruised again, 110–85, as I hit five threes.
“Guys,” I told my teammates afterward, “we have to go to Atlanta and get this next game.”
Game 6, in any playoff series, is huge. Say you’re up three games to two and lose. That means it goes down to a Game 7, and strange things can happen in a Game 7. You can even make the argument that the visiting team has an advantage. Everyone expects the home team to win.
In any case, we were about to find out. That’s because Game 6 was much like the other two games in Atlanta: the Hawks, with six players scoring in double figures, beat us, 103–100. Who were these guys?
Now that a Game 7 was here, I was a bit antsy. Typically, on the night before a game, I don’t think much about it; the pressure can drive you insane. Instead, I prefer to keep myself occupied by playing with my kids, watching a little television, reading a book, anything but basketball.
This time I couldn’t stop thinking about it. In the middle of the night, I texted my teammates, the message the same to each one:
“Let’s go get it tomorrow. We have an opportunity.”
Most of them were awake, as I figured they’d be. We’d worked so hard to get to this point that the thought of our dream ending this quickly was almost too much to bear.
You should approach a Game 7 as you would any game. Play hard. Remember where you’re supposed to be. Don’t try to be a hero when somebody else has a clearer shot. You know, the usual. Except this isn’t the usual, and there is no reason to pretend it is. In that case, use that nervous energy to play the game of your life.
Mission accomplished. We jumped out to a sizable lead, were up 18 at the half, and coasted home. KG was tremendous, with 18 points and 11 rebounds, while Perk had 10 boards and five blocks. The final: 99–65.
Our next opponent was the Cleveland Cavaliers, who won the East the year before, when LeBron was just 22. I was looking forward to it, having averaged around 24 per game against them during the regular season.
So you won’t believe what happened in Game 1 at the Garden. I did not score a single point. In 37 minutes, I attempted only four shots and didn’t get to the line. Last time I was shut out was . . . man, I can’t remember. Each time I came off a pick, there were two guys on me. We wound up getting the win, 76–72, but a work of art it was not. Thank goodness LeBron was off, going 2 for 18 and committing 10 turnovers.
Two days later, we prevailed again to take a 2–0 lead, holding the Cavs once more to less than 40 percent from the field. Except, like the Atlanta series, we couldn’t get it done on the road, losing Game 3 by 24 and Game 4 by 11. In the four games we had yet to break 90. That happened just 11 times the whole season.
The reporters went looking for answers. The reporters in Boston were always looking for answers.
Such is the price of playing for a franchise with all those banners and retired numbers hanging from the rafters. They will not rest until they’ve talked to everyone, and I mean everyone: players, coaches, trainers, agents, even family members. Someone will, eventually, talk. I actually thought this kind of scrutiny was a good thing; it held us accountable.
The questions revolved around me this time. I hit only 12 of my 36 shots in four games, averaging barely over 10 points.
“What will you do to get Ray out of a slump?” they asked Doc.
My numbers were down, that much was true, but that was because of the double teams. In practice, as a matter of fact, we were running contingencies for every play, so I’d know where to throw the ball whenever they stuck another defender on me. I wasn’t taking enough shots to be in a slump.
What got me angry was what Doc said.
“Ray will figure it out,” he told the reporters. “We’re not worried about Ray.”
Doc was, in effect, agreeing with them. What he should’ve said was:
“Cleveland is taking Ray out of the offense, and we’re doing everything we can to keep him involved. He doesn’t need to score in this series.”
When they asked me the same questions, I made the point about the lack of shots. That didn’t please Doc, who had spoken to a former NBA coach he highly respected.
“He [the coach] read your comments,” Doc told me, “and said I needed to tell you to stop talking to the newspapers, to keep the narrative on the team going forward.”
Two days later, Doc asked me to come to his office.
“You have to be willing,” he said, “to not score another bucket if that is what it takes for us to win a championship.”
I told him I understood, although I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea. They’d need me to score. If not this series, surely the next one, and if we went any further, the one after that.
One series at a time.
We won Game 5 in Boston but lost another Game 6, forcing another Game 7. In Games 5 and 6, I shot 7 for 19. Not especially impressive, I confess, but no slump either. So here we were again, one loss from being eliminated. Yet I wasn’t antsy, as I had been going into Game 7 against the Hawks. I didn’t send texts to my teammates in the middle of the night. Perhaps winning the first Game 7 so convincingly made me more confident about this one.
For much of the game, the Cavs, unfortunately, looked just as sure of themselves.
With two minutes left, they trailed by only one, 89–88, and had the ball. LeBron, with 44 points already, missed a three. We then scored on a jump shot by P. J. Brown, a backup forward we signed in February, to go up three. Delonte West, the Cavs’ guard, missed a three, and on the next possession, LeBron missed from close range. That was basically it. The final: 97–92. Give credit to Paul, who matched LeBron with 41 points. As KG and I said, this was his team.
I scored just four points in Game 7. Slump or no slump, I needed to get on track. The Pistons, the winners of 59 games, were coming to town.
Which meant another duel with Richard Hamilton, a fellow UConn alum. People often compared him to me, the way he ran around screens to free himself for a shot. I liked Richard well enough, although he didn’t get his nickname, “Rip,” for no reason. He grew his nails two inches long on purpose, so if he was guarding you, you got bruises and scratches on your arms from him trying to get around a pick. I swear, when he shot a free throw, you could hear his nails scratching against the ball as it rolled up his fingers.
Rip, however, was a heck of a player, an integral member of the 2004 squad that beat the Lakers. Others remaining from that team—which made it to the Finals again in 2005, losing to the Spurs in seven—included Rasheed Wallace, Chauncey Billups, and Tayshaun Prince.
The Pistons knew how to win the big ones. We were still learning.
And I was still not where I needed to be.
In Game 1, I made just three of 10, scoring nine points. At least we got the victory, 88–79, thanks to KG, who had 26 points, nine rebounds, and two blocks; Paul added 22 points and six assists. In Game 2, I broke out, at last, going nine of 16, but Hamilton, Billups, Wallace, and their power forward, Antonio McDyess, were too good, and they prevailed, 103–97.
Headed to Detroit for the next two games, the pressure was definitely on. Few teams rally from being down three games to one.
Losing Game 2, as it would turn out, was the best thing that happened to us.
Before then, we didn’t compete, away from Boston, with the sense of urgency we needed. Even though we didn’t win one game in Atlanta or Cleveland, we still advanced to the conference finals. I wonder if, in the backs of our minds, we told ourselves: We’ll be okay if we lose on the road. All we have to do is take care of business at home and we’ll win the series. That wasn’t the case any longer.
We didn’t waste any time, capturing Game 3 handily, 94–80. KG was in superb form again: 22 points, 13 rebounds, and six assists.
Luck, I believe, also played a part. While I was warming up, I could tell something was wrong. The Palace, one of the loudest arenas in the league, was not nearly as rowdy as it should have been. The same night, the Red Wings, Detroit’s beloved hockey team, were hosting Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals at the Joe Louis Arena. People’s focus was divided. Hey, we’ll take any advantage we can get.
Two nights later, the Pistons regrouped to defeat us, 94–75, and even the series, sending the teams back to Boston. In Game 5, the Garden as noisy as ever, I made five of six threes, scoring 29 points in a 106–102 victory. Perk also came through, with 18 points and 16 rebounds. We then rallied from 10 behind to take Game 6 in Detroit, 89–81, holding them to 13 points in the final quarter.
The journey up to this point hadn’t been as smooth as we would have preferred, but we were where we wanted to be all along, in the Finals, and only the Lakers, the Celtics’ top rival since the ’60s, stood in the way. Our teams had met so many times in the Finals. It seemed fitting they were meeting again.
We believed in ourselves, even if others didn’t seem to. The experts in the media made LA the favorite. We had lost three times to both the Hawks and the Cavaliers, while the Lakers lost three times to the Nuggets, Jazz, and Spurs combined. We couldn’t care less what the experts said. If anything, it made us more motivated.
A friend told me months earlier: “You guys look good on paper. The only thing that will keep you from winning it all is an injury.”
I thought of what he said the moment I saw Paul go down midway through the third quarter of Game 1 after colliding with Perk near the basket. He stayed on the floor for a long time, holding his right leg. Then he was carried to the locker room and put in a wheelchair, never a good sign. Yet we couldn’t dwell on missing Paul. Not then. We had a game to win. The Lakers were up by four.
Leave it to Doc to keep us focused. Ubuntu. Of course.
“What did the guy from South Africa say about adversity?” Doc said in the huddle. “Nothing can get you down . . . adversity. You overcome it . . . nothing stops us. That’s why we play 12 guys.”
Not long afterward, the score then tied, the fans were on their feet. That’s because Paul was coming through the tunnel and, like Superman, ready to go back in. We wound up with the victory, 98–88. Paul, who sprained his knee, had 22 points, 11 after returning from his collision with Perk. We limited the Lakers to 15 in the fourth. Kobe had 24, but was only nine for 26.
Doc was right. Defense is what will win us a championship.
Game 2 was the Leon Powe game. Leon, a six-foot-eight backup forward from Cal, scored 21 points in just 14 minutes. I always felt he was the most underrated player on our team, and it was a shame he was held back by knee problems for most of his career. The final: 108–102. We had done what we set out to do. California, here we come!
Going into Game 3 at the Staples Center, we were concerned. About the Lakers, naturally, who, in addition to Kobe, had Lamar Odom, Pau Gasol, and Derek Fisher.
Also about Paul.
Being from Los Angeles, he would stay at his home instead of the hotel and might drift away from the team. This was no time for that. We had to make sacrifices, Doc said. We had to be one. Now more than ever.
Paul ended up having a tough night—on the court. He scored six points, hitting just two of 14, and the Lakers won, 87–81, to avoid going down 3–0.
Even so, we didn’t lose because of Paul. We lost because of Kobe, who scored 36, and Sasha Vujacic, their reserve guard, who had 20. Leon one game, Sasha the next. Forget about the starters. Perhaps this series would come down to which team had the better bench. Either way, we were still in a very good position. Steal the next one, and we’d put the Lakers in a deep hole.
Game 4 took place on June 12. I played 1,471 games during my professional career, including the postseason, and another 101 in college. No game means more to me than this one.
It sure did not start out very promising, except if you rooted for the purple and gold. The Lakers took a 21-point lead in the first quarter, were up by 18 at the half, and were still ahead, 70–50, with six minutes to go in the third.
You don’t come back from a deficit that big. Not in the playoffs, and especially not on the road.
Doc used to tell us, whenever we were down by 20: “Let’s get it under 10, and we will turn it into a game.” The other team, he said, will begin to feel the pressure and make mistakes.
We got it under 10, all right, and it took only four minutes: after Paul completed a three-point play, the score was 73–64. We had gone five of six from the field; the Lakers were just one of six. Scoring the final ten points of the quarter, we trailed by just two going into the fourth. Game on!
I knew one thing: no way was I coming out. Normally, Doc gives me a breather with about five minutes to go in the first quarter until early in the second. No breathers tonight. We couldn’t afford to fall any further behind.
Yes, I was exhausted. In addition to running around screens to get my own shot, I guarded Kobe. Every time-out felt like the 60 seconds between rounds of a heavyweight championship bout. Get me the water, Gus. Put a towel on my head. Don’t forget the mouth guard. Now send me out there for another round. Ding!
“If you need to come out, let me know,” Doc said during a time-out in the fourth.
“No, I’m okay,” I told him. “I got you.”
“Good,” he said, “because I need you to stay in.”
A lot of my energy came from Shannon, my mom, and a few of the other wives and family members rooting for us behind the bench.
“Keep going, keep going,” they said. “You guys got it!”
With just under five minutes to go, we went on an 8–0 run to assume a five-point lead. We were still ahead by three with 40 seconds left and had possession. One more basket just might do it.
The ball was in my hands near half-court, Sasha on me. He and I had been going at each other for the whole series. He didn’t play dirty, like Bruce Bowen, or scratch me, like Rip Hamilton. Sasha flopped, which I have zero respect for.
“Stop crying,” I told him whenever he complained to the officials. He didn’t stop.
The shot clock was winding down. At this point, a lot of people probably assumed I would wait until the very end and launch a three. I had another idea. To remind people I could go to the hoop as well as anyone.
I dribbled toward the top of the key, and there was plenty of room to maneuver. No help was coming. No screen for a pick-and-roll. Just Sasha and me.
One quick move to the right, and I was by him, just as I drew it up in my head. Gasol tried to stop me, but he was too late. I laid it in off the glass with my left hand. The lead was five. The game was over.
I couldn’t believe it. We had really done it. We had come from 24 points down on their floor! The fans were stunned. Our guys were ecstatic.
When I got to the locker room, however, I didn’t feel like celebrating. I felt like collapsing. I played hard game after game for 18 seasons, but this was the only game that, when the buzzer sounded, I had absolutely nothing left to give. It wasn’t because I played the full 48 minutes, although I can’t recall doing that before; it was because of everything in my career, and life, that had led me to that moment.
Little did I know that a much tougher challenge was yet to come, and that it would have nothing to do with basketball.
The whole week, our son Walker, who was 17 months old, wasn’t himself. Based on his symptoms of throwing up and fatigue, we figured he had the flu. So we had a friend stay with him in the hotel on the night of Game 4.
He didn’t get any better. Two days later, in the middle of the night, Shannon took him to a doctor who was on staff at the hotel. It looks like a virus, the doctor said, maybe food poisoning. But to be safe, he told her, go to the hospital and don’t leave without a blood test.
Someone at the hospital didn’t think he needed a blood test, but no one is more determined than Shannon. Thank God.
Twenty minutes later, the attending physician, white as a ghost, told her the news: “Your son has type 1 diabetes, and if he doesn’t get insulin soon, you’re going to lose him.”
I was in my room—the players and their wives stayed at separate hotels—when she called. I’d heard of diabetes before, but only on those commercials you see on daytime TV. I knew nothing of what it does to a person, not to mention a little kid.
“Do you want me to come right now?” I asked.
“No,” Shannon said, “go play your game, but when it’s over, get your ass over here. I need you.”
I got off the phone and went downstairs to the ballroom for the walk-through we have before every game, where Doc goes over the sets and plays we’re likely to run. We usually have it at the arena where we’ll be playing, but our hotel in Beverly Hills was a long drive from Staples. No sense in going back and forth. I always paid close attention in walkthroughs, never knowing when I might see something in our spacing that could make a difference.
Not this walk-through. My mind was on Walker and diabetes, on a future Shannon and I could never have imagined. I prided myself on being prepared for every scenario, but how did one prepare for this?
I didn’t say a word to anybody until I arrived at Staples and spoke to Doc. He needed to know I wouldn’t be my normal self. How could I be?
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said. “We will get some people who can help you guys out. Your boy will be all right.”
So I played, although not particularly well, as you might expect, hitting four of 13 in a 103–98 loss. The game is a blur to me. All I remember is looking over at my mother and a few friends every chance I could. Walker will be okay, they assured me. Would he? I never left an arena as fast as I did that night, and I didn’t care if the writers thought I was skipping out because we lost. I couldn’t wait to see my son. He was the only person who mattered.
There was so much to learn about the disease: how to give Walker the insulin, how to monitor his blood sugar, how to set up his diet. How to keep him alive.
One decision we had to make right away was what to tell people, if anything. Some of our friends thought we should keep the matter private. Shannon and I disagreed. We felt that going public might help others with kids who have diabetes. You would not believe how many die every year from being misdiagnosed. So, if any flu-like symptoms persist, do not hesitate to get a blood test.
The fact that our son was diagnosed while I was on the biggest stage of my career was no accident; it was the very stage we could use to save lives.
The organization back home was unbelievable. They arranged for a private jet to take us to Boston the next day, and they made sure we met with doctors at the Joslin Center, the top diabetes research facility in the world. The concern the Celtics showed was something Shannon and I will always remember.
And oh, by the way, there was still Game 6 of the NBA Finals, the next biggest game of my life, to be played.
Some wondered, once word got around, if I would play. I certainly would, and mostly that was due to the amazing help we got for Walker. He was feeling good enough to sit on Shannon’s lap during the entire game. Every time I looked over, I was reminded of how grateful I was that he wasn’t taken from us.
So here we are. The game.
We traded baskets for the first quarter, and for the first five minutes or so of the second. Until we made our move.
A three by James Posey. A three by Eddie House. Two free throws by Eddie. Another three by James. The lead was suddenly 14 points, and by the half, 23.
Nonetheless, we didn’t get ahead of ourselves. We came back from 20 down in their building, so there was no reason to think they couldn’t come back from 20 down in ours. As usual, the key to maintaining a lead like that is to tell yourself the game is tied. It’s not easy, human nature being what it is.
“The first shot you miss,” we used to say, “is the first pass to the other team’s fast break.”
Whatever we told ourselves, it worked. After three quarters, we were up by 29. Now we just had to wait for the horn to let it all out.
The final: Celtics 131, Lakers 92. There would be another banner to hang with the others.
My emotions were all over the place that night, and for days to come. Too much had happened in the last year, in the last week, for them not to be.
I felt totally vindicated. After each season before, I’d watched other teams play for a title and felt unworthy, like I had cheated the ownership and the city I played for. They were paying me an obscene amount of money, but what, precisely, was I giving them in return? Not a championship. Not even a trip to the Finals.
Now, at last, I could sit home, think of the owners, and tell myself: “I did what you brought me here to do.” In Game 6, I hit seven of nine threes to finish with 26 points.
I finally had an answer for the fans as well. Every summer I would hear the same question: “What happened to you guys this year?”
“Wait until next year,” I would tell them, and believe me, I got sick of saying it.
I didn’t leave the Garden until about four in the morning. At one point, Paul, KG, and I sat together in the locker room, no other players around. I don’t recall what we said, but I recall how we felt. All those years of losing and now this.
And yet, as the days wore on, there was a part of me that felt empty, and it wasn’t because Walker getting sick proved how little basketball meant compared to real life; I knew that already. It had more to do with having always believed that when you win a championship you’re transported to some new, exalted place. What I realized was that you are the same person you were before, and that if you are not content with who you are, a championship, or any accomplishment, isn’t going to change that.
My favorite part of winning the title wasn’t hugging my teammates, or watching the fans celebrate. It was standing on the podium with Walker in my arms. His eyes were red. He was tired. He had been through so much for someone so young, so little. But I knew he would be fine, and that we would take care of him.
A few days later, we went on the Duck Boat, this time as a championship team. I was blown away at how many people turned out to revel in the moment. Up in the high-rises and down in the alleys, in block after block, they were everywhere.
I thought back to the ride in October, when it was just Doc, Paul, KG, and myself.
When there was nothing more than a dream.