Ray Allen is second all-time in 3-pointers (behind Reggie Miller).
He has a pregame ritual that does not waver:
a nap from 11:30 a.m. until 1 p.m., a meal of chicken and white rice at 2:30, an arrival time at the gym at precisely 3:45 to stretch. Allen will shave his head, then walk out to the court at exactly 4:30. He will methodically take shots from both baselines, both elbows, and the top of the key.
When Allen was 8, he had to drop in five lefty layups and five righty layups before he could leave the gym. Sometimes another team needed the floor and he'd run out of time before he could complete his ritual.
"I cried," Allen says. "It messed up my day."
They nicknamed him "Hollywood" when he arrived at the University of Connecticut because he was always color-coordinated, always meticulously groomed. Allen roomed with Travis Knight at UConn. Knight was disorganized, messy. Worst of all, he squeezed the toothpaste tube from the middle. "We said they'd never last together," says UConn coach Jim Calhoun, "and they didn't." Calhoun said, "Ray does things the right way, and expects others to do them, too. People are sloppy - in their preparation, in the way they present themselves."
Allen is outspoken about Kevin Garnett's sweater-and-tie combos, and the omnipresent Adidas logo on everything he wears. He critizes Eddie House for shooting halfcourt shots at intermission at the opposing team's basket.
"I had a borderline case of OCD [obsessive compulsive disorder]," Allen explains. "I was never diagnosed, but it was something I was aware of."
This is how Allen's mind works. If there is a speck of paper on the floor in his house, he cannot walk by without picking it up. He has tried. He has purposely marched up the stairs without correcting the glaring imperfection, but he's unable to eliminate the image from his mind until he goes back down, throws the scrap in the wastebasket, and restores order in his home.
Allen is certain his philosophy works. When he played in Seattle, a veteran leader among a mass of young, floundering talent, he would complete his pregame pattern, then retreat to the locker room where he'd read, often for more than an hour, before anyone else showed up. Allen started a ritual of a halfcourt huddle at the end of games. He didn't just talk to the Sonics about being professional, he showed them how to be professional. Even after a double-digit loss, there was Allen, his head shaved, his shirt tucked in, reading a book, prepared to fight again.
The Celtics have benefited most from Allen, who admits he's made more concessions this season than all the others combined. Doc Rivers said, "Our young guys are lucky to be around him. Too often these kids make it to the NBA and they settle. Ray won't let them." Allen talks to Perkins and Glen Davis about their social life. Allen doesn't drink alcohol. He reminds the young big men, "You have all summer to go out. Do it then. Not now. Not with so much at stake."
There is, however, the free-wheeling Pierce, who never does anything quite the same from game to game. One night Allen gets on the plane and says, "Paul, you're in the wrong seat." Pierce told him, "Man, there's a hundred seats open. Leave me alone."
Pierce says he plans to adopt some of Allen's eating habits and offseason workouts. But that's where he draws the line.
"If I had to stick to the exact same thing every day, I'd kill myself," Pierce says. "What happens if you go for your pregame meal and there's no more salmon in the freezer?" "I love Ray, but I don't get it. I'm not ever going to be at the free throw line saying, 'Damn, I didn't get my parking spot today."
The trio of stars has banged into each other throughout the long NBA season. Sometimes, they've even traded elbows. But, when that happens, Ray Allen has learned to retreat to his corner, regroup, and find a way to adapt.
The space he calls the Boston Celtics can get cluttered. Very cluttered. But, according to Allen's careful calculations, there is still plenty of space inside for a championship trophy.
