There wasn’t always an audience for greatness. Ray Allen lived that on most game nights, but an extreme example happened in Phoenix on January 22.
The Seattle SuperSonics were playing the Phoenix Suns that afternoon, and the best player on the Sonics, Allen, was going off. He was a thirty-year-old guard and a six-time All-Star. He naturally did things that seemed impossible. For instance, no matter how quickly he navigated picks, caught the ball, and shot it—with perfect form, mind you—he never appeared to be rushed. Ever.
When he played in Milwaukee, he tried to coach a new teammate, point guard Terrell Brandon, on the best time to get him the ball. Brandon saw him popping open behind the 3-point line and passed him the ball, and Allen made the shot. Allen then told him, “T, get it to me a little earlier next time, all right?”
No problem, Brandon thought. He got it to him about thirty feet from the basket the next time he had the chance. Allen didn’t shoot it from there, but he advanced it and scored. He looked at Brandon again and said, “Earlier.”
Brandon thought he was crazy. Does this dude want it from half-court? He did exactly that on the next possession, and then he figured out what Allen was trying to humbly say. He could score from anywhere, at any angle, whether it was drifting left or leaning right. Get him the rock and be entertained.
Allen made quick movements while being under control. You could see it while studying his operation at the free-throw line. Total focus. Set. Shoot. Swish. Over and over. He could be counted on to make 90 percent of his free throws mostly because he trusted what he’d perfected in private and didn’t overthink it.
Coaches and teammates knew he was a man of routines, so they stayed out of his way and let him reach his inevitable result. He did the same thing before each game whether at home or on the road: He was sure to arrive at the arena at least three hours prior to tip-off so he could begin getting into a shooting rhythm. A rebounder would be positioned under the basket, and Allen, along with anyone else who wanted to prepare with him, would work his way around the court until they felt like they were in sync.
Allen’s rule for his workout partners was simple. You’re either all in or nothing. He was so into the routine that people with sporadic attendance threw him off. Every ritual he did mattered, even if no one else understood why. When the Sonics were at home, Allen had the same parking spot for practice. Once he arrived to see a teammate’s car there before his, and he went inside to joke about it. But he truly wasn’t kidding. All these small things helped feed his overall greatness.
On that January afternoon in Phoenix, he looked like the fictional player, Jesus Shuttlesworth, who he portrayed in Spike Lee’s 1998 movie, He Got Game. Allen scored 42 points that day, hit eight 3-pointers, and played fifty-one minutes in an overtime win over the Suns. Even the people in Seattle who cared about the Sonics likely didn’t see it. The team was bad, 16–24, and the real local attraction wasn’t happening on a basketball court in Phoenix. It was at a football stadium in downtown Seattle where the Seahawks would play the Panthers for the right to go to the Super Bowl.
For players like Paul Pierce and Allen, discipline was necessary for playing the game and thinking it, too. Four days after Allen scored his 42 in secret, Pierce received what was becoming a biannual alert: The Celtics had made a trade. Ainge and Kevin McHale, the friends who led the Celtics and Wolves, respectively, had pulled off an exchange of disappointing cards.
The Celtics officially moved on from Ainge’s first draft pick, Marcus Banks. He’d be joined in Minnesota by Ricky Davis, Mark Blount, and a couple of second-round picks. Once again, the jewel of the deal for the Celtics, a 2009 first-round pick, was on the horizon. The best right-now player in the trade was forward Wally Szczerbiak, who averaged 20 points per night alongside Kevin Garnett in Minnesota. He was a good player, not great, and there was no reason to believe that his presence would do more for the Celtics than it had for the Wolves.
There was no question that the Celtics had become knowledgeable flippers. Essentially, they got two firsts for Walker: one for his trade to Dallas and one for the player they traded him for—Jiri Welsch—when they sent Welsch to Cleveland. They got a free first, basically, for Mike James, who only cost them short money in free agency before they moved him to Detroit. They got another first in this most recent deal with Davis, whom they acquired at below-market prices since the Cavaliers had been so desperate to get rid of him.
All of that was good. Now all they had to do was start flipping some wins.
For the worst teams in the league, improvement had to be measured in silos. It could be the parsing of how a team played under a new coach versus how it played under the fired predecessor. Or the development of a young player from training camp to February. In Seattle, on February 11, the improvement was connected to distraction.
The Seahawks won their conference championship game and appeared in the Super Bowl. They lost it, and the region was still furious over several blown calls that helped the Steelers win. Since it wasn’t baseball season yet, and the Mariners were a bad team at that, the balm was the presence of the Sonics and the reassurance of Allen.
Allen got the loudest applause when he was introduced before the game, and fans had so much faith in him that they instinctively rose whenever he shot the ball. From anywhere. The Nuggets were a better team, significantly, but Allen was the best and most relatable player on the floor. Unless you had the most expensive seats in the building, you couldn’t get an accurate gauge of just how tall, six foot five, and strong he was. People saw that smooth stroke, that impeccable form, and they had a faultless illustration of how a player was supposed to look when putting up shots.
He did a lot of things right and seemed to be the understated technician. Seemed. Another thing that wasn’t obvious from afar was the constant competitiveness. His day had begun so early, with visualization and dribbling exercises and early shooting, that he’d been on for hours before tip-off. There was no revving up necessary; he was just on, always, a show already in progress.
While his outsized talent prevented him from just blending in, he fit in to most situations perfectly. He’d had a lot of practice growing up, when his family moved often due to his father’s job with the United States Air Force. Allen had lived in California (twice), Oklahoma, Germany, and England all before turning thirteen. It was then that he moved to Dalzell, South Carolina, about fifty miles from the state capital.
He had a very Allen game on the eleventh, going scoreless in the first quarter and then drilling three audacious 3-pointers in a row to keep the Sonics close in the second. After those 3s, his defenders started to get too close, so they fouled him. Of course, he took four free throws before the half and made them all.
But this was no movie. Despite another game in which he made eight 3-pointers, scored 34 points, and got his team to overtime, Allen walked out of the arena processing another loss. The Sonics were 20–31. Just because he didn’t yell about it didn’t mean he wasn’t bothered, which was a criticism one of his former coaches had for him. George Karl had suggested that Allen was too nice. And with the team playing like this, even if Allen had yelled, was anyone truly paying attention to it?
Two nights later, February 13, Garnett did yell. He did it before every game, at home or on the road. He did it in practice. He said things during competition that were so obscene and offensive that he begged his mother-in-law to consider anything he said on the court inadmissible in real life. This was his job, he explained, and he was doing whatever he could to get an edge. Frothing and cussing was part of the ritual.
Brandon, the point guard, had played in Cleveland with laidback guys such as Mark Price and Brad Daugherty. He’d played in Milwaukee with the easygoing Allen and Glenn “Big Dog” Robinson. Then he got a chance to play in Minnesota with KG. He’d never seen or heard anything like it. For others, “play like you practice” was a nice thing to say, but it wasn’t realistic. The season was too long, and if players like Garnett actually did that, they’d burn out. Except KG did it.
He did on the court what Danny Ainge did in a meeting room. He’d create an argument if there wasn’t one, and sometimes he’d talk to himself. Before the game began, there would be a cup of coffee. Snickers. Mountain Dew. Protein shake. Protein bar. He’d be drenched in sweat before tip-off. He was Minnesota basketball and beyond. An array of personalities flocked to him and his games, including the state’s most famous musician.
Prince, a student of the game, was often there to speak with Garnett and his teammates. This was during the time when every fan in the state was excited by the momentum of Wolves basketball, and they all believed that the team was headed somewhere great. One night there was a courtside gathering of Minnesota sports and pop culture royalty: KG, Prince, Kirby Puckett, Jimmy Jam, and Terry Lewis.
Prince approached Brandon to exchange KG info and then started breaking down Brandon’s tendencies. “I really like the way you approach your midrange game,” Prince said. “You never rush on the pick-and-roll. It’s smart. Did you learn that in Cleveland from Mark Price?”
Brandon was speechless. He didn’t expect to be in Minnesota with Prince talking about hoop. Puckett was nearby listening to the conversation, knowingly nodding toward Brandon and saying, “Oh yeah, dawg. Yeah, dawg. He knows the game. I thought you knew.”
Those were the fun days.
Garnett once played with Pierce in a high school tournament when they were both juniors. That had been their loose connection until now. He looked at the old Celtics and new Wolves and understood that he had to display for them in Minnesota what Pierce had shown them in Boston. Even when you know you’re going into a game, or a season, with less than what you want, the game—the Game—cannot be cheated.
The season had begun well for the Wolves, and in February 2006 it was well into its descent. Garnett’s frustration used to be his team’s inability to advance out of the first round of the playoffs. But just two seasons after his MVP year and trip to the conference finals, this team wasn’t going to be close to the playoffs. He took it all personally, the losing, the underachievement of teammates, the waning passion for the Wolves in the community.
The Wolves were 22–28 before their game with the Raptors, and the easily offended still had to stop reading his lips.
There were a handful of players around the league who he tested by talking to them just to see how much they could take. Then there were players who were on-court rivals, players at his position, who he used to sharpen his own game. Toronto’s Chris Bosh fit into both categories.
Garnett was the best defender of his generation, and his gift became animated when infused with his original verbal content. He seemed to decide early that he was going to make Bosh a nonfactor in the game, and it happened immediately. The Toronto big man looked uncomfortable with all the pushing—physical and audible—from Garnett.
It was telling to see the individual and team numbers at the end of the night. Garnett had 23 points, 19 rebounds, and 6 assists. Bosh was held to 8 points and 4 rebounds. In fact, Garnett outrebounded the entire Raptors starting lineup. And the Wolves, with ex-Celtics Marcus Banks, Mark Blount, and Justin Reed coming off the bench, lost. Again.
Two nights later in Boston, February 15, Pierce stepped on the court and extended a hand to the kid he had seen back in 2003 at a Summer League game. LeBron James had a body for the league three years ago at the University of Massachusetts Boston. Now that he was playing in the NBA, with elite training and nutrition, he was unlike anyone in the sport.
Whatever the projection was for him, whenever his arrival moment was supposed to be, he was ahead of schedule. It was easy to see the strength and speed advantages he had over his opponents. You had to be on the court against him to realize the mental strain he put on coaching staffs and players because when you tried to take something away from him, if that actually worked, he’d crush you in another area. He wore people down, and he didn’t really know all the veteran tricks yet. He was only twenty-one.
Pierce liked the challenge of taking him on. They’d talked with each other on the court, and there’d been a few smiles along the way, but it would be a mistake to call this a friendship. It was respectful but never deferential, neither during the games nor in interviews. There were times it wasn’t even respectful. A few years earlier, during a preseason game in Columbus, Pierce and James traded words, and things got heated when Pierce spat toward the Cavs’ bench. James had been in the public eye since he was fourteen, and he was now a global sensation. He was averaging 30 points per game, something Pierce had never done, and was already in the conversation for top player in the sport, something that eluded Pierce.
This game, between a good team and a sinking one, had a lot to do with pride. There was some envy involved, too. The Cavs were going to be in the playoffs for the first time in James’s career, and the Celtics were going to miss them for the first time in five years. There are some nights, and some opponents, who make you want to remind people not to forget about you. Not only was James averaging 30 points, he’d also exceeded that number a few times in the last month. Before coming to Boston, the Cavs hosted the Spurs, and James scored 44 in a win.
He seemed to be on that pace early against the Celtics, scoring 7 of his team’s first 9 points. Pierce, often with James in his face, answered with a jumper over him for his first points of the game.
If there was one thing that the twenty-one-year-old James lacked, it was superior defensive awareness. He’d closed every other hole in his game already, so that was coming soon. But on this night, Pierce took advantage. He ran James into a screen and then made an uncontested jumper. He faked him out on another drive, dribbled past two more defenders, and then finished with an “and one.” He had 19 points in the first half to 20 for James.
Both coaches, Doc Rivers and Mike Brown for the Cavs, must have known it then. This was not going to be a night for the men in suits holding erasable boards. This was Paul versus LeBron, with the win going to the star who could be individually resourceful and pull something extra out of his teammates.
James was a problem for Pierce and everyone who came near him. He got the Celtics’ new guy, Szczerbiak, twice on the same move: hard head fake to the right—which sent the defender sprawling there—while taking a wide-open jump shot. He made powerful and accurate cross-court passes when players crowded him too much. He used strength and athleticism to snatch rebounds. Late in the game, in what looked like the winning play, he caused a Pierce turnover. Point guard Eric Snow raced the other way on a break and then, smartly, passed to a trailing James. Delonte West was standing there, and James jumped anyway, palmed the ball with his right hand, and slammed it over the falling—and fouling—West.
But no one on the Cavs could figure out Pierce. He got Sasha Pavlovic on a vintage Pierce move: Get you on my hip, turn toward the baseline, fake as if to reset, and then back to the baseline for a clear path and dunk. The shorter Snow decided to guard him on one possession to keep James out of foul trouble, and Pierce just squared him up and shot over him. Pierce had a 17-point fourth quarter, and that didn’t look like it was going to be enough after James’s late dunk and foul over West. But in the final seven seconds, Pierce got the ball, down by 2, and was fouled by James. He made two free throws to send the game to overtime.
It extended to a second overtime, with Pierce and James continuing to push one another. There was a moment when it seemed to click for James that he could dominate defensively, too. West got in front of the pack, dribbling with a clear lane to the basket. He put the ball near the rim and, in an epic chase down, James rose to block the shot.
After scoring 44 against the Spurs, James finished with a triple-double in Boston: 43 points, 12 rebounds, 11 assists. The only thing Pierce didn’t do all night, amazingly, was make a 3-pointer. He finished with 50 points, 8 assists, and 7 rebounds in a Celtics loss.
These nights were long, and although there was some satisfaction in showing that he still had it, that was fleeting. He knew he could play at this pace, although he didn’t want to be on a team where he had to play like this for a chance to win. Besides, this was Boston. With all those banners hanging above the parquet, no one was going to give him love for a January showdown against James. For respect here, he’d have to outduel James—or anyone else—in the playoffs, and win.
He was the Truth. A nickname. If anyone asked how the Celtics could go from where they were to where they wanted to be, honestly, he had no idea.