Usually, I feel like I don’t belong in this league.
We can’t attract big crowds at ho, and there are no Milwaukee Bucks fans cheering for us on the road.
The Green Bay Packers own this city and this state, and they still played in Milwaukee until the mid-1990s.
I feel like I’m back in high school, where football is the sport everyone is passionate about. Every ti my teammates and I run into soone we know on the way to practice, our conversation usually goes like this:
"You’re so tall, you must be on the basketball team."
"Yes, that’s right."
"So you’re players at Marquette University?"
"No, we’re players for the Bucks."
"Oh, nice, nice."
Then they walk off, without any excitent.
After every ga at the Bradley Center, I’d order a pizza and then go ho to watch The X-Files.
Don’t I know how to have fun?
On the road, we were often just a filler.
The only thing people knew about Milwaukee was that it was the place where Lavinie and Shirley lived. Every ti we played, we’d hear the the song from that sitcom.
When I played, I wasn’t happy; I was just going through the motions.
Looking back, it wasn’t much different from my early days at the University of Connecticut, always trying to find a way to fit in.
But there was one very different thing about the NBA: here, you’re on your own, unlike in college where there were so many things to distract you from thinking about your struggles.
A bad shooting night? No worries, you didn’t have to think about it, you had exams to study for.
The NBA is much harder. I didn’t understand the system, the offense, the rules. Defense? Forget it.
Seriously, how could I guard Reggie Miller, Mitch Richmond, Dell Curry—Stephen’s father, Michael Jordan, and that number 11 from Portland?
Okay, I wouldn’t be primarily guarding Portland’s number 11, but playing against him was a nightmare for every young player, especially in 1996.
Ever since I checked the Bucks’ schedule in training camp and noticed that I would be playing in the Portland Rose Garden Arena, I’d been looking forward to that day.
I told myself, this is really happening, I’m going to et that miracle on the court.
That night was surreal. I was doing stretches when the Trail Blazers jogged onto the court, with Ah Gan appearing last.
He looked even stronger and more majestic than on TV. People were right, he was like a statue of a god. If you knew everything about him, you’d have the urge to kneel when seeing him.
I stared at him in a daze, and before I knew it, I found myself standing in the center circle with him, about to jump ball... Oh my God, he was walking toward !
"Ray," he said, extending his hand, "welco to the NBA."
"Thank you," I replied. It was the only word I dared to say, not a syllable more.
I probably had no expression on my face at the ti, fearing that saying too much would provoke a ntal attack from Ah Gan.
Many young players have been driven to collapse by him.
But in my heart, I was thinking, oh my, Ah Gan knows my na!
I guessed he must have glanced at the scouting report before the ga, so of course, he knew my na.
Later in my rookie season, I learned that Ah Gan was indeed a demon on the court, but if you didn’t provoke him, he was a very nice person.
And off the court, the encouragent and support he gave to young players won over many hearts. He is a great player.
——Excerpt from Ray Allen’s autobiography "From the Outside," published in 2014.
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