In 1996, for whatever reason, we were in attendance for the majority of the Big East Tournament at Madison Square Garden. It was those first games featuring St. Johns that were all excited about; somehow the idea was seeded about Philipe Lopez, what he did up at Rice, and coming into the Garden going up against the titanic force of UCONN he would somehow outperform his disappointing career and do something. Why anyone thought this was unclear, and certainly it did not happen. But what happened is that we sat and watched Allen Iverson in the second game of the afternoon go crazy with Victor Paige; but even those two, Paige with his one shirt sleeve tassled and his nasty left handed drive where he would spot up like he was Byron Scott but blacker and haunted by guns and cocaine his whole life. Even these two in the backcourt, under the ominous presence of John Thomson on the sideline – he was a big man whose barking could be heard in the quieter parts of the game – even all of them could not over shadow what was mostly a normal afternoon for Ray Allen. Maybe they did not even play each other in that years tournament; but it was the Big East and we were there for three days straight. John Wallace (before he rapped with Raekwon which was actually a good song) and Syracuse were putting together a bit of a run, and Kerry Kittles with his socks pulled all the way up was doing his thing. But this is not about the Big East, or the cold New York March, or the thousands of girls who had their hair right before the game; or anything beyond Ray Allen.
He was good that March, good enough to make everyone think that he was going to be something else in the NBA. Something beyond what he became, which is a spectacular shooting guard relegated to small markets and bad teams, but that March; he would slash, he would stop on a dime, coming straight up and with a flick of the wrist have the net splashing.
We can see his age this morning, but not in his face or the quality of his game. It is just that nowadays he will spot up on the baseline all night and hit three pointers, it is that he doesn’t waste a single movement; it is just that the brother is smooth.
But that march was legendary, and his rolling leaping floater was as close to sublime as it gets. As a 22 year old he had grace, and now, fourteen years later, he is holding that awkward lumpy NBA trophy.
