I showed up on campus early, a week or so before the others.
That’s always been my habit. Be the first to check out the new scene, and you’ll have it down while everyone else is still struggling to find their way.
Take practice at UConn, which started at 3:30. I was there early enough to get my ankles taped, stretch, and get a few shots up. And being there long before you have to be there, I would realize later on, shows how serious you are, which, in turn, makes the coaches notice.
Same goes for arriving at Storrs. In those initial days, I got lost on more than a few occasions, but that was how I got my bearings, and it wasn’t long before I felt as if I had been on campus forever. I knew where to eat and shop and where my classes were. I was determined not to be the typical freshman who stumbles around the first day of class, checking his map over and over.
That’s not to suggest I didn’t have concerns about the new life I was embarking on. On the plane to Hartford, having left behind the women most dear to me—Rosalind, Tierra, Mom, and my sisters, Kim, Talisha, and Kristie—I’d sensed, for probably the first time, how lonely I might be. Perhaps going to school so far away wasn’t the smartest decision after all.
Fortunately, when I was greeted at the airport by assistant coach Leitao—carrying only $200 in my pocket and a trash bag filled with my entire wardrobe because I could not afford a suitcase—any concerns went away. It reminds me of the times I stepped to the free-throw line, scared to death I was going to miss. Once the ball was in my hands and I went through my routine, the fear was gone. I got this, I told myself.
One day on campus during those first weeks stands out. There was nothing unusual about the day, really, and come to think of it, that was the point. I woke up around 5:30, lifted weights, took a quick shower, and ate breakfast. Then I did something I had not done before, and I don’t recall what inspired me. I put on a tie and sweater, raced out the door, and arrived in plenty of time for my 9:00 AM speech class.
“Why are you dressed up?” the girl next to me asked.
“Because I’m ready,” I said.
It took going to class, with roughly a dozen other men and women my age, each on a journey of their own, for it to sink in: This is no dream, Ray. You are a college student. You are in control of your destiny.
I worked hard to get to that moment, and yet a part of me had believed it would never happen. Either I’d make some huge mistake, like a few guys I knew in high school, or something outside my control would lead to my downfall. A kid our family knew, in fact, who was the top running back in Sumter, was killed in a car accident several months after he was offered a scholarship to Clemson.
No longer was it about being the first Allen to make it to college; my sister Kim had enrolled at Benedict College in Columbia the year before. Though I did think a lot about all the black people in the history of this country who didn’t get an opportunity like this, and the responsibility I now felt to make the most of it. Which meant, aside from keeping up with my studies, giving everything I could to the game of basketball, the reason I was able to be there in the first place.
The coaches were not kidding when they’d said I’d have to work hard from day one. I’d never trained for basketball before; I didn’t think you had to. You just went out and played. Those days were over.
They liked to run us, and I mean a lot, which made the cross-county meets I ran in high school seem like Sunday strolls. Most grueling was the route known as Cemetery Hill—it went through a cemetery—that we were forced to run every Saturday. No one ever wanted to go on that thing. No one sane, that is. It started with a sharp incline, until it leveled off after about a mile. The farther you went, the steeper the incline got. The coaches were messing with our minds, not just our bodies.
The first time I saw Cemetery Hill I didn’t think it was a big deal. This was during my visit the year before, and I was in a car with Coach Calhoun, watching his players run.
How awesome that they are doing this together, I’d thought. Now, that’s a real team! What I did not know was that it was mandatory.
As for Coach Calhoun, think of him as a general on the battlefield. You could almost hear him saying: “Gentlemen, we have an enemy combatant out there, and we got to take him out before he takes us out. Dying is not an option.”
He knew how to get our attention. In the minutes before practice began, we kept our eyes on the clock on the wall. Because when it struck 3:30, and not a minute later, the door would swing wide open and Coach would come through, pad and pen in his hand.
“Guys, we have a lot of work to do,” he’d say. Every single day.
And when he said it, we had better be clapping, ready to give our all, and more. Or else.
“You guys don’t want to be here?” he’d ask if just one person did not appear enthusiastic enough. “Get on the line.”
Get on the line. The four words we dreaded most.
Those four words meant another form of running, as punishing as Cemetery Hill. We referred to it as “28s” because of what we would have to do in 28 seconds or less. There was another term for it—“suicides.” In 28 seconds, we had to run from the baseline to the free-throw line and back to the baseline. Then from the baseline to half-court, and back to the baseline.
Follow me so far?
Then to the far free-throw line and back to the baseline. Then to the far baseline, until you finally finish at the baseline where you started.
In 28 seconds!
Most of the guys were able to do it, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy Coach Calhoun, oh no. Everyone had to do it, or everyone would have to do it again. That was a problem for us, due to Eric Hayward, our six-foot-seven forward. Eric was, to put it delicately, a bit on the deliberate side. Okay, slow. No way could he finish in 28 seconds. So, to get out of the gym before the semester ended, we used to carry him across the line.
We still didn’t always make it in 28 seconds, but that was not the point. We were becoming a team, no longer 14 individuals with 14 agendas, and the angrier we were at him for making us run, the more we bonded with one another. Before long, we realized that we could achieve more than we ever thought was possible. Coach Calhoun was similar to Coach Smith, making sure we didn’t give up when giving up would have been easy. And if there were times I felt he went too far, I didn’t say a word. I was already in a battle, with myself, every day on that court. Give up just once, and I might give up again, and again.
A few did give up, as you would expect, eventually transferring to other schools. I could’ve predicted who they would be by how they complained instead of doing what they were told to do. They assumed that because they were talented, they merely had to show up.
Not under Coach Calhoun.
To be on his good side, no simple feat, you had to work hard in practice, make it to class on time, be at study hall, and, guess what, do it all over again the next day.
That reminds me of my first practice. After it ended, Coach Leitao saw something he didn’t like.
“Coach,” Leitao told Coach Calhoun, “the freshman didn’t sweat. He obviously didn’t work hard enough.”
Was he messing with me? I had worked extremely hard. The reason I didn’t sweat was because the gym was air-conditioned and I was used to the humidity from being in the South. I worked so hard I was dying to get a drink of water, only to be stopped by Kevin Ollie, a teammate.
“Stay away from that water bottle,” Kevin warned. “You can’t just drink water whenever you feel like it. He’s got to tell you that you can get it.”
In any case, I have no idea whether Coach Calhoun ever responded to Coach Leitao about my not sweating enough. I hurried off the court and did not turn back.
Off the court, the closeness I saw between the players during my visit the year before was genuine, and being part of a group for the first time since I was a boy in California meant the world to me. I would do anything for my new friends.
Take the party underneath the Student Union freshman year, which a lot of football players attended. Not good. The football players at UConn always seemed to be envious of the basketball players. There were 14 of us, roughly 50 of them, and we received most of the attention. There was a dispute over—what else?—some girl and being the mature grown-ups we were, we decided to settle it with our fists. I was ready. It wasn’t as if I’d never been in a fight before.
Except my teammates didn’t want my help.
“Get out of here,” they said. “Go back to the dorm.”
“No, no, let’s do it,” I pleaded.
Their reasoning was this: It was one thing if we got in trouble; we were known for not always behaving well. Yet, if Coach found out that Ray, who had a stellar reputation, was involved, he was really going to make us pay. I certainly did not seek any special favors, but then I thought: These guys hold me in high regard and I should respect that.
On the other hand, there was one thing I wouldn’t do with them.
That was drinking. Were there times I wished I could’ve joined them? You bet. Until I saw them hungover the morning after. To their credit, not once did they make me feel bad for staying away. They knew I was doing what was right for me. If I didn’t succeed in basketball, I wanted it to be because I was not good enough, not because I drank too much.
I thought I was good enough, although I couldn’t be certain. Not until the second game of the season, against Virginia in Charlottesville. Virginia, if you remember, was the school that sent a letter indicating they were no longer interested in recruiting me. I was eager to show them what they were missing. Members of my family also made the trip from South Carolina, and I didn’t want to disappoint them.
How motivated I was, though, wouldn’t influence Coach Calhoun one bit in deciding on the amount of playing time I’d have. He had a game to win, a big game. The Cavaliers were ranked number 12 in the nation. We were unranked. Beating them, on their court no less, would make a statement.
Loud and clear: UConn 77, Virginia 36.
No one saw it coming, although I couldn’t be sure if they were that bad or we were that good. We pressed them on every possession, and they couldn’t adjust. I scored 20 points off the bench, while the other reserves also played well, which was a welcome sign. In the first game of the year, against Towson, we won by 40, but that was because our starters dominated. You can’t count on that game after game. Sooner rather than later, the bench would have to come through. I saw no reason why the bench couldn’t be as integral to our success as the starting five. I felt that strongly about every team I was on.
One of those starters was Doron Sheffer, a 21-year-old freshman from Israel. I’ll never forget the first time I saw Doron. I was shooting baskets in the gym when he walked in. He was six-foot-five, the same height I was, and also a guard. My immediate thought: They have me. What do they need this guy for? I wasn’t threatened so much as driven to prove myself. Coach would start the one who was playing the best, and I was confident that would be me.
And though it turned out not to be me, I didn’t mind one bit. Doron made us better, and that’s what mattered. He averaged about 12 points and five assists a game and was the Big East Freshman of the Year. Besides, I was contributing as well, averaging 12.6 points, and when we were on the court at the same time, we clicked. Doron would drive past his defender and throw the ball to me in the perfect spot, and that makes a big difference in getting up a good shot.
I never forgot to work hard, though a reminder here and there didn’t hurt. Like the time I was in the gym the first month and saw Donyell Marshall, our best player, and Scott Burrell, who had left school the year before and had been drafted by the Charlotte Hornets, shoot jumper after jumper. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. They didn’t miss.
How could I be that consistent? I knew the answer, of course. Practice. Practice. Practice.
Another time, I was taking a few shots, some as I stood still, others as I jumped, while Karl Hobbs, one of our assistant coaches, watched closely.
Until he had seen enough.
“Young fella,” he said, “you just can’t shoot a stand-still shot and not jump because now you’re going to go against seven-footers who will be able to block your shot. You have to shoot the same way every time.”
What Coach Hobbs said helped enormously. From then on, I made sure that I jumped whenever I took a shot. My shots were rarely blocked.
The win in Charlottesville put us at number 21 in the nation. Did we deserve it? It was too soon to tell.
I did, however, find out something else important that night. I found out what people in South Carolina thought of me, and it was what I suspected.
“I didn’t know you were good,” Rosalind said when I saw her briefly afterward. She quickly corrected herself. “I mean, I knew that you were good, but I thought you were good for Sumter, South Carolina, just better than the guys around there. I didn’t know you would be this good at this level.”
People told her I’d be back in four years and that no one from Dalzell ever amounted to anything. She believed them. I wasn’t angry with her, not in the least. Besides, by this point Rosalind and I were beginning to grow apart, even if a formal breakup was a ways off. It wasn’t that we didn’t love each other, but it’s extremely difficult to maintain a long-distance relationship, at that age especially. I could not go 50 yards on campus without running into a girl I wished I could’ve gotten to know better. If only I wasn’t involved with someone else.
As for the team, another key test came on the road, against Seton Hall. I was looking forward to it, but not just the game itself. I was excited about the trip to the game.
Soon after our bus crossed Connecticut into the state of New York, there it was, the Big Apple, as magical as I imagined it. I gazed out the window and couldn’t believe it. There were actual living, breathing New Yorkers on the streets, and I wanted to get out and walk with them and talk to them for a little while, to be one of them.
But before I knew it, we were driving over the George Washington Bridge, heading to New Jersey, where Seton Hall is located. I kept looking behind me at the skyline until we arrived at the hotel in Secaucus. Seeing the city would have to wait.
I was scared to death leading up to the game. This was the Big East, the big-time, the stage I asked for, and now it was . . . here!
Yet once I stepped onto the court, the anxieties disappeared. The court was the same as any, and my responsibilities the same: get open, make shots, and stop the man I was guarding. Mission accomplished. The final: Connecticut 82, Seton Hall 66. I scored 17 points, 13 in the second half.
By late December, we were 7-0, ranked number 14. I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why this team had struggled so much the season before. The only theory that made sense was that our year’s leaders, Kevin Ollie, Donyell Marshall, and Donny Marshall (no relation), were more determined than the year before’s.
“We’re not losing anymore,” they vowed. “We know our way around, and we’re going to make something out of these last two years of college.”
In any case, off to Hawaii we went for a holiday tournament to extend our winning streak. To move up higher in the rankings. To enjoy a little sunshine. To . . .
Fall flat on our face.
After knocking off the University of Texas–Arlington, we lost to that powerhouse from the Mid-American Conference, Ohio University, 85–76. Having Donny kicked out with seven minutes left in the first half didn’t help our cause, but that was no excuse. We stunk up the joint, simple as that—missing open shots, committing turnovers, getting out-hustled for every loose ball.
Not to let us off the hook, but Ohio was a much better team than people realized. They had a good point guard and a six-foot-eight, 250-pound power forward, Gary Trent, known as “the Shaq of the MAC.” The nickname was appropriate; he was an absolute beast. We tried everything we could, including hacking the guy. Nothing worked. The loss, as it turned out, was what we needed. We’d become a little cocky. I don’t recall us even having a scouting report on them.
The next day in Hawaii, we started another streak, with a win over Tennessee Tech. This streak would reach 10, carrying us to number 5, before a loss at Syracuse in early February. Seven of the 10 came in the Big East, including a win over St. John’s in the Gahhhhhh-den. At last, I was able to spend time in the city that never sleeps.
The rest of the guys also couldn’t wait to do some exploring—not, however, until we heard from our camp counselor, Coach Calhoun, who summoned us to his hotel room.
“This is the best city in the world,” Coach told us. “It’s going to be one of the greatest experiences of your life.”
With $60 in our pockets, the cash each of us were given for the road trip, Donny, our center Travis Knight, a few others, and I found our way to Times Square. Seeing the hordes of people and the bright lights, I can say without exaggeration, was one of the first times I felt truly alive.
There, we came upon the type of character you could find only in New York. He was operating a shell game, you know, where you hide a small ball under a cap. One look at the group of us—deer-in-the-headlights teenagers from the boonies—and the dollar signs in his head lit up.
Especially when he saw Travis, a white dude.
“Does anyone know where the ball is?” the guy asked.
Travis bit.
“I know where it is,” he said.
Travis pointed, and the ball was right where he said it was. He thought he was so smart. The guy, of course, had the big fella on the hook now. He moved the caps around and asked again:
“Do you know where the ball is?”
Travis didn’t hesitate. “I know.”
Except this time, before he would lift the caps, he asked Travis to show him he had $60 and place it where he thought the ball was.
“No, no, no, I’m out of this,” he insisted.
We insisted otherwise—well, Donny did. He somehow got Travis to open his wallet, and when he did, Donny took the $60 and placed it on the table. I don’t have to tell you that was the last Travis ever saw of that $60. The ball, obviously, was under a different cap. Travis looked as if he was going to cry. Welcome to New York City, boys.
Hey, at least Travis, and the rest of us, avoided any real trouble that day and left the city in an excellent mood, with the St. John’s victory. We kept rolling from there, and although we were knocked off by Providence in the Big East semis, we finished 27-4 and were awarded the No. 2 seed in the NCAA Tournament East Regional. A national championship was not out of the question.
There is, however, absolutely no margin for error in March Madness. Mess up in any way at the wrong time—a turnover, an ill-advised shot, a failure to box out your man, etc.—and you’re likely to be going home, and I don’t care how much talent you have.
That’s what happened to us in the regional semifinal against Florida. It was a battle the entire way, but with just 3.4 seconds to go, we were in position to win the game and move on. Donyell, our can’t-miss NBA prospect, was about to shoot two free throws, the score tied at 57. A few months earlier, he set a conference record with the most free throws in a game, hitting 20 of 20. Once he knocked down these two, or just one, we’d only have to make sure that nobody pulled a Christian Laettner on us and we’d secure a spot in the Elite Eight.
Donyell missed the first, and the Gators called a time-out. No problem. Icing a big-time player like Donyell wouldn’t do any good.
He missed, naturally, and we lost, 69–60, in overtime. Losing was difficult enough, but then we had to deal with a report in the school newspaper that Donyell had been out partying the night before in Coconut Grove, an upscale Miami neighborhood. Even if it was true, and I’m not suggesting it was, it would not have been why he missed the free throws. Our game didn’t begin until 10, the following night. Donyell just missed them, plain and simple.
Either way, I didn’t let the loss keep me down for long. Given how dedicated our coaches were, I was convinced we’d return in the fall stronger than ever.
Although I came off the bench the entire season, I still received plenty of playing time and ended up as the second-leading scorer, behind Donyell. The effort I gave in practice had paid off, and for that, Coach Calhoun deserves a ton of credit. It wasn’t just what he put us through day after day; it was what he said to me on one particular day that got through like nothing else.
I was walking off the court with a couple of teammates when he pulled me aside. It had been another long, exhausting workout, and I was looking forward to a little downtime.
“Did you make 100 percent of your shots today?” Coach asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you make 100 percent of your shots?”
What was I to tell him? Sure, Coach, I was perfect, just like I’m perfect every day. I’m actually insulted you didn’t notice.
All kidding aside, his point was impossible to miss: if I was so intent on being a special player, in college and, hopefully, at the next level, I would have to make sacrifices others weren’t willing to make.
“No,” I told him. “I didn’t make 100 percent of my shots.”
He grinned and didn’t say another word. I told the guys I’d see them later, went back on the court, and, with a ball boy helping out, took shots for another half-hour. From that day forward, I took shots every day after practice officially ended.
Would I have preferred to go off with my teammates? No question. But I didn’t want to look back someday and ask: What if I had put the extra hours in?
For example, there was my roommate during freshman year, Kirk King, a six-foot-eight forward from Louisiana. Kirk, also a freshman, had a body like a tight end. There was greater anticipation about him coming to Connecticut than there was about me. But while I stayed in the dorm every night, resting or hanging with friends, he often felt the need to be somewhere else, and because of his split focus, there have probably been times when Kirk, who didn’t make it to the NBA, asks himself: What if? I know that would have haunted me forever.
Of course, there were occasions that first year when I wasn’t pleased with how I handled the ball. So I decided to take the ball with me everywhere. Seriously, it didn’t leave my side. In junior high, you may remember, I dribbled the ball day after day in the yard and across the street. That was nothing compared to what I did this time.
I took the ball to class. To the cafeteria. To bed, I kid you not. I came up with the idea from a movie I saw where a running back prone to fumbling carries the football with him wherever he goes so he’ll become more comfortable with it during games.
It worked. My ball handling improved, which led to me getting off better shots. In the next game, against Hartford, I scored 28 points, a career high, going 11 of 20 from the field. Although it might’ve looked strange to teachers and students alike, what did I care? I was on a mission.
The summer after freshman year, I took part in the US Olympic Festival in St. Louis. I scored 28 in the opener, making four of seven three-pointers, and got 12 rebounds. I was only getting started. We won the silver medal, and I was the festival’s leading scorer, breaking a record set by none other than Shaquille O’Neal. It gave me a huge boost. I was confident that if I had to, I could carry a team.
I wouldn’t have to. Not yet, anyway. While we lost Donyell, who skipped his senior season to turn pro, we were loaded, with Kevin and Donny now seniors. I was expected, however, to take on more of the scoring burden, a challenge I looked forward to.
Speaking of challenges, we got a big one in our second game, against the Duke Blue Devils. We were the underdog. They were Duke. We were Connecticut. Nothing more needs to be said.
Except this: UConn 90, Duke 86. I led us with 26 points, Kevin adding 24. We were a step ahead of them the whole way.
If only that week had gone more smoothly for me away from the court.
Since the game, at the Palace of Auburn Hills in Michigan, was set for a Tuesday, we left Storrs on Monday, which meant I would have to miss a biology exam. No problem. I’d make it up when I got back.
Big problem.
The teacher told me I couldn’t make it up no matter what my excuse was, and by flunking the exam, which was a large percentage of the grade, I flunked the class. Worse yet, I was put on academic probation. Never could I have imagined this would happen to me. I put a lot of time into my studies. I wasn’t worried they’d take away my scholarship, although I understood I was being watched closely, and if I didn’t keep my grades up, I could be in trouble. To be safe, I made arrangements to take several classes in the summer.
Meanwhile, the win against Duke was not an aberration. Over the next couple of months, we didn’t lose once, rising to number 2 in the country. We were proud of ourselves but didn’t get too carried away. I never heard any of us talk about being the first team since Bobby Knight’s Indiana squad in 1975–1976 to go undefeated. We knew we could lose to anyone, at any time.
It happened in January, when Kansas crushed us, 88–59, in Kansas City. They grabbed a 20-point lead at halftime and didn’t look back. We shot a horrible 26 percent from the field, and our press, for a change, didn’t disrupt the other team’s rhythm one bit.
So we lost. Every team loses. Not every team, however, has Jim Calhoun as its coach, and Jim Calhoun hated losing as much as anyone I’ve been around.
Coach took it as a personal insult. To that man, everything was about competing, and not just in the games. In practice, he set up one-on-one free-throw shooting contests, the first player to 20 being the winner. I can’t overstate how much I wanted to beat my opponent. Because if I didn’t, Coach would banish me to the opposite end of the court with the other losers. It was not a good feeling. The winners would remain with him.
If that weren’t humiliating enough, then came the inevitable ribbing. Coach was a master at that.
“I see you couldn’t beat KO [Kevin Ollie] today, huh?” he would say. “That’s not like you to be down there with the others. You’re not supposed to lose.”
His objective was to teach us to take losing as personally as he did. And guess what? He succeeded.
For my teammates, the first practice after the Kansas defeat was a killer. I got off rather easy: I had twisted my ankle, so instead of practicing, I received treatment in the training room. Hearing Coach yelling at everyone in the gym, I had never been so grateful to be away from the action.
The tough love worked. We won eight of our last 10 to finish 23-3 and found ourselves, if briefly, ranked number 1. Although Villanova beat us handily in the Big East tournament final, we felt good about our chances heading into the tournament that mattered most, the Big Dance.
Except, once again, we came up short, losing to UCLA, 102–96, in the Elite Eight. The loss wasn’t as painful as the one to Florida the season before and the fact that the Bruins went on to win the national championship made it hurt even less. I also had nothing to be ashamed of. I scored 36 points, 18 in each half, in what was, to that point, the biggest game of my life.
In the weeks that followed, I began to hear whispers that I should forgo my last two years of college and make myself eligible for the NBA Draft. One story floating out there was that I would be a definite lottery pick if I declared. Whether that was true or not, the idea of going pro did not enter my mind for a second, no matter the amount of money I stood to earn. I was having too much fun to think about leaving the college environment just yet. I would have the rest of my life to be in the “real world.”
I still had a lot to learn. If you go to the NBA, you better be good right away, or you might find yourself out of a job in a year or two. Then what? It boggles my mind whenever I hear of players who declare for the draft even if they’re not projected to be higher than a second-round pick. Imagine what another year in college could do for their games—and for their lives. Because once they leave college, now they’re really on their own.
One afternoon, I was in the gym with a teammate who seemed eager to work out with me. That was, until his girlfriend showed up as we were shooting jumpers.
“Babe, I need you to take me to work,” she told him. “We have to leave now or I’m going to be late.”
Without the slightest resistance, he put the ball on the floor.
“Dude, this is your job,” I said. “You can’t walk out like this.”
And because I’m telling this story, you are right in assuming that he didn’t listen to me. It should also come as no shock that he eventually transferred to another school.
After he left that day, I remained in the gym for another hour or so. You see, it is not enough just to arrive early. You also must stick around until your work is done.