Life Is Not an Accident (8 page)

“I must be coming down with the flu,” I said, sweating like a pig the whole time.

Late in a very close game against Temple that night, I hit a three-pointer that put us up by just one point. Shortly after, there
was this wild scramble for a loose ball. I remember diving for it, and just when I was about to grab it, a player on the other team dove on top of me, forcing the ball to roll away toward Chris. Right then he dove for it, but to no avail, as it continued to make its way toward our bench. I don't know where I got the energy, but I popped up, sprinted, jumped over Chris, and dove again. This time I was able to gather the ball and call a time-out before my momentum took me out of bounds. It turned out to be a critical play on our way to winning the preseason NIT, 63–61.

The next day, while watching tape of the game, Coach K stopped and started to point out the things we had done well, to reinforce good habits. He commended Shane for this, Nate for that. And when we got to the loose-ball fiasco that Chris and I were a part of, K played it in real speed, rewound it, replayed it in slow motion, and then paused it after I called the time-out.

“See that!” he said, shaking the pointer at the screen in approval. “What you guys did there—that won the game. Keep doing that!”

Chris and I glanced at each other, shrugging our shoulders, with a look that said,
If that's what Coach wants. . .

Everyone considers North Carolina to be Duke's biggest rival, but from 1999 to 2002 it was Maryland. There was no place I hated playing more than Cole Field House. My roommate in Brazil the previous summer had become my archnemesis. Steve Blake ended up becoming one of Maryland's all-time great point guards, and he's still playing in the NBA all these years later. He was 6'3” with a wingspan of 6'5”. He gave me some breathing room on defense, but used his length and height advantage to contest my jump shot. The media loved to hype our matchup whenever our teams met. I was essentially battling two things: Steve's incredible defense and my need to prove to him, and everyone else, that he wasn't
going to stop me. And if there was a third obstacle to consider, it was their fans.

We were ranked second in the nation, and Maryland was eighth, when we met on January 27, 2001, in Cole. For the first 39 minutes, we played terribly, while the Terps played a fantastic game against us from beginning to end.

Well, almost to the end.

The pivotal moment in the game was when Steve Blake fouled out. When I saw him on the sidelines, I felt like I had a fresh chamber of oxygen to inhale. With their best defender out of the game, I became a dog off the leash.

And so began what was to become the Miracle Minute.

Down ten with a minute to go, I brought the ball upcourt, juked right at the top of the key, and drove left down the middle of the lane for an uncontested layup.

53.5 seconds left.
Down by eight.

We immediately went into our 41 press, which meant full-court pressure and ball denial. Our main objective was to force their inbounds pass to the corners of the court, where the sideline and baseline could be used as extra defenders for trapping. The ball went to Drew Nicholas, and Shane and I instantly trapped him in the left corner. When Drew tried to shield the ball by putting it on the right side of his body, I swiped at it. The ball popped up off him and jumped right into my hands. My immediate reaction was to dribble once to the three-point arc and let it fly. I hadn't shot well all game, and that was the first jump shot that felt just right. In hindsight, I'm convinced I fouled him, but the ref closest to the play had his view blocked by Shane.

48.7 seconds left.
Down by five.

Maryland called time-out. In our huddle, there was not much
talk, just the look in Coach K's eyes that said we were going to win. When I hit that three, everyone on our bench popped up out of their seats, revitalized, just as I had been only seconds earlier, watching Blake take a permanent seat. He drew up a play and made a substitution, putting Andre Buckner in for Dun-Dun, which gave us a smaller lineup so we could be quicker defensively and try for another steal. It seemed to backfire when Andre fouled Drew Nicholas before the ball was even inbounded, which sent Drew to the free-throw line for two shots.

Drew missed the first free throw, and this was where the plot thickened. Most people think we Dukies are altar boys, but I had taken Gary Payton's “seminar” on how best to rattle your opponent. Chris and I started talking to Drew while he was preparing for his second free throw. It was Chris's job to box out Nicholas on the line, and I was directly behind Drew, leaning forward, making sure he could hear my every word. What happened next was pure comedy.

Chris began. “Jay, this shit is coming up short.”

“No way, bro, this is going way long. This mothafucka gonna brick this shit.”

“Nah, his soft ass is gonna air-ball this for sure.” Chris was a natural.

“Yo, when I rebound this shit, we're out,” I said. “We're about to win this fucking game. Yeah, Drew. How you gonna feel when you lose this game?”

Sure enough, the shot hit the front of the rim, where Booz stretched for dear life to win the rebound. With his left hand extended, Booz tipped the ball free toward the Maryland bench, where the most athletic player on the floor—Chris Duhon—was
able to chase it down. Chris grabbed the loose ball, took one dribble, and passed it to me.

The play Coach K had drawn up during the previous time-out was called L.A.—our high screen-and-roll series with Shane and me. It was almost impossible to stop. Shane would set a screen for me at the top of the three-point line, Dun-Dun was in the far right-hand corner, Chris in the left-hand corner, and Booz on the opposite block from where I would come off the screen. It was like being at a buffet, I had so many choices. It was every guard's dream.

Option A: If I was being guarded tightly, and my defender decided to go under the screen, I had the green light to shoot the ball.

Option B: If my defender tried to go over the top of the screen—squeezing between Shane and me—I would stop, dip my left shoulder into his chest, and then proceed to turn the corner and either get to the basket or draw Boozer's man to me for an easy pass and dunk.

Option C: If my defender and Shane's man decided to double-team me off the ball screen, Shane would pop to the three-point line, where I'd throw it back to him for the open shot.

Option D: If my defender was able to get over the top of the screen, he would still be a step behind as I drove to the basket, forcing someone—usually Dun-Dun's man or Chris's man—to help, which would leave one of them wide-open for a kick-out three.

Option E: If the defense were able to hold Shane, Chris, Dun-Dun, and me in check, then that would leave Booz on the low post for a one-on-one isolation play.

I still find it amusing that our last option was to dump the ball into a future two-time NBA All-Star.

I rushed the ball up the court like my life depended on it.
Shane and I were in lockstep—just as we had been all season long—and as I took one look at Danny Miller, I knew exactly what I was going to do next.

Every time Shane set a screen for me, it was my job to pay attention to how
his
defender would react. Shane's job was to take my defender out of the equation.

His defender was none other than Danny Miller, who'd played for the same AAU coach I did back in Jersey. I knew Danny's game well. Let's just say Danny was always more preoccupied with his offense than with his defense. Poor Coach Gary Williams didn't have as good a scouting report on his own player as I did. So as Shane set the screen, I saw Danny start to backpedal, standing straight up with his hands down by his sides. I took one dribble off the screen and elevated. Danny must've been six feet away instead of six inches. He never had a chance. I held my follow-through motion as I, and 15,000 fellow onlookers, watched the ball float through the net.

40.4 seconds left.
Down by two.

Maryland called their final time-out after Tahj Holden couldn't find anyone to inbound the ball to. We sprinted over to the bench, and I sat down to catch my breath. When I looked up, everyone was huddled together, arms wrapped so tightly around one another that it felt like I was in an igloo. Coach K knelt down on his right knee and began to shout. “We're going to win this fucking game! Do you hear me?” He then slowed his speech down. “We . . . are going . . . to win . . . this fucking . . . game.”

We were locked in. It was probably the only time we had ever walked back on the floor not saying a word to each other. Not even Shane had anything to add. We knew what we had to do—what we were going to do.

When Juan Dixon received the corner inbounds pass, Nate was draped all over him as Juan bobbled the ball. In a flash, Juan was triple-teamed on the sideline, directly in front of our bench, exactly where Drew Nicholas had turned the ball over a few plays earlier. Frantic, he was trying to pivot his way out of the trap when Nate went in for the steal and snagged it away. Our 41 press had paid off once again.

Nate then kicked the ball out to Chris, who waited for me to pop out from the other side of the court. I got the ball and, without hesitation, tried to attack the rim but slipped on the drive. Somehow, thankfully, I was able to maintain my dribble on one knee as I scanned the floor to find someone to bail me out. I almost threw the game away before spotting Shane open at the top. Shane took one dribble and passed it to Chris on the opposite wing behind the three-point line for a shot. With two men closing in, Chris head-faked and found Dun-Dun for an open three. He missed the shot, but our savior Nate James was there for a put-back. He missed it but got fouled on the play. Nate went to the line for two shots.

First shot . . . cash.

Second shot . . . money.

21.9 seconds left. Tie ball game.

We had managed to score 10 unanswered points in 32 seconds. Drew Nicholas missed a three-pointer from the corner at the buzzer—overtime. We ended up winning the game by two, 98–96. In our last huddle of the game, Shane was adamant about us not celebrating on their floor after the win. It was important that our opponents knew that we expected to win, no matter the circumstances.

It wasn't until the bus ride after that I found out about my mom
getting hit in the stands by a glass bottle. Moments later, Chris received the same news about his mother. And Booz's mom got the worst of it when a glass bottle hit her in the head and gave her a concussion. We were livid. Ready to go back into Cole and fight. If I didn't like Maryland before, I sure as hell hated them now.

Nine games later, Maryland would have their chance, this time in our house. In the second half, Booz broke the third metatarsal in his right foot, leaving us completely exposed down low. We lost 91–80, and, to add insult to injury (no pun intended), on Shane's and Nate's Senior Night. We were completely dejected back in the locker room. Any Duke loss was treated as if there was a death in the family. Heads down. Tears. Unbearable silence. We thought our chances of winning a conference title, much less an NCAA title, had gone down the drain after getting the news that Booz would be out at least a month. That meant the soonest he'd be back was the Final Four—
if
we made it that far.

Our collective confidence was shaken even more the next day at practice. We were in the locker room getting ready to watch tape from the night before when Coach K entered. He looked resolute and energized in a room full of deflated players.

He began. “If you listen to me, we're going to win a national championship.” Then, using his patented right-hand up-and-down motion, almost as if he were saluting us sideways, he slowed his speech and lowered his decibel level. “If you motherfuckers . . . listen to me . . . we're going to win a national championship.” We were all ears. He explained how we were going to play “small ball.” He asked Nate James if he would come off the bench so he could insert Chris into the starting lineup. Casey Sanders and Nick Horvath were given the task of playing with a newfound energy while
only
rebounding and setting screens. Shane,
Dunleavy, Chris, Nate, and I were to think of each game moving forward as if we had a loaded gun, and by game's end, we were not to leave any bullets in the chamber. Our mentality from that point on was to let it fly.

Our game plan was mastered during those four days of practice in preparation for North Carolina. The matchup on March 4 against the Tar Heels would be for a share of the ACC regular-season title. Watching sports commentators on ESPN in the days leading up to that game did nothing but motivate our team. Everyone, including the Blue Devil–loving Dick Vitale, had the Tar Heels winning in a landslide.

When we stepped onto the floor of the Dean Dome, we knew exactly what the strategy was. We were going to run every possession, regardless of a make or miss, turning the game into a track meet. The only question was who would get tired first. North Carolina went big that night with Kris Lang and Brendan Haywood, at 6'11” and 7'0”, respectively, and it played right into our hands. A couple of minutes into the first half, during a break in action, I glanced over at Haywood, who had his hands on his knees and was breathing like he'd just gotten done with a one-hour workout.

We got this game
, I remember thinking to myself.

By the middle of the first half, the Tar Heels went small and tried to play our style of ball, but it was too late. Battier, Dunleavy, Duhon, and I combined for 89 of our team's 95 points that evening. I had 33 points against a team I couldn't wait to dominate. We wanted it more that evening and realized that Coach K was right: with this new style, we were going to win a championship.

I was averaging around 29 points a game and shooting 51 percent from the field in the early rounds of the 2001 NCAA
tournament. When we got to the Sweet Sixteen, I was pitted against UCLA's Earl Watson. Watson was a tough-nosed kid out of Kansas City who was willing to do anything defensively, short of a felony, to take someone out of their game. He confiscated all of your personal space. Scratching. Clawing. Holding. Arm-checking. Tripping. Pulling your shorts down on the court. That's just a partial list of Earl's bag of tricks. During the game, he kept jawing at me, letting me know I was his “bitch”—to be exact. It was just what I needed.