Julie Allemand's 111 Assists: An Unfinished Poem About the Selfless Basketball

Tonight, in the cold of a distant arena on European soil, I don’t want to turn on the TV again to stare at the 80-68 scoreline of Belgium’s women’s national team against Australia. I only want to fix my eyes on a slender shadow wearing number 14, a woman who didn’t scream victory, didn’t raise her arms, but simply smiled as the referee confirmed her 111th career World Cup assist. Tonight, the wooden floor whispers — and I hear the breath of basketball. What does it mean when there are no ghostly claps from the stands? I once heard them sing on empty nights, in an empty season of lockdown, when Hải Phòng players ran on Lạch Tray field without a soul. But in a major tournament, where every eye is transfixed on three-point shots, there is still one who chooses to pass. That is Julie Allemand. She didn’t win the scoring title, she didn’t appear in beautiful highlights, but the 2026 Women’s World Cup will likely remember her more than any medal. Because she surpassed the 108-assist record of legend Laia Palau to land on 111 — right in the final group-stage match that decided quarterfinal qualification. But 111, to me, doesn’t say nearly enough. Let’s rewind a few months. When Julie Allemand began her 2026 season with the Toronto Tempo in the WNBA, in the first three games of the FIBA World Cup, she already had 24 assists. So before facing Australia, Belgium had a conductor waking up everyone around her. For me, watching Allemand play is the opposite experience of what the modern basketball industry promotes. Every time she receives the ball, her head lifts not to find her own opportunity, but to read the positions of nine people running on the court. She dribbles with extremely fast hands, but her body moves like a gentle dancer, unflashy. She is the bridge from half-court chaos to the opponent’s rim. Yet, to many analysts, Allemand’s 111-assist record may carry an irony of rules. At FIBA (the international basketball governing body), an assist is counted if the passer sets up a teammate who is fouled and then makes free throws. This differs from WNBA rules, where free throws often don’t give the passer an assist. And so, early in the second half of the Belgium-Australia game, when Emma Meesseman converted two free throws after receiving from Allemand, the Spanish court legend’s record was tied and then passed. If someone says this record is tinged with luck about the rules, I can understand. But if someone believes 111 is an illusion, they did not see how Belgium cut without the ball. Belgium’s head coach, Mike Thibault, gave Allemand praise that I believe comes from expertise: “The leading assist person in World Cup history after today. Some pretty good players on that list too, so I think that’s pretty exciting.” Meanwhile, Australia’s coach Sandy Brondello, who also coaches Allemand at the Toronto Tempo in the WNBA, said she was not surprised. “She’s a pass-first point guard,” Brondello said. “I think it says a lot about what she does.” These words echoed in the arena like a poem. To me, they are not a moral medal; they are the way insiders frame the essence of the record. When asked after the game, Allemand confessed: “We are so unselfish. I’m just happy to have that one as a special one, especially when you look at the names next to me.” She added that for Belgium, that’s how they play. That statement brought me down. It touches something I’ve long pondered while following sports — the media worships the individual scorer, while the crowd is obsessed with those who score. Yet Allemand stands on a different precipice. What I love most about this record is that it exposes what I call the “blind spot of collective memory.” Fans will remember Julie Allemand as a solo. Legends will remember her name alongside Laia Palau, Sue Bird, Dawn Staley — great guards of the assist sheets. But the name Allemand will be forever, it will be repeated as a flag for Belgium’s team play. That reminds me of my years watching football in Hải Phòng: the sport (the round ball) and basketball (the orange ball) both converge on one truth: the ball only begins to speak when it moves. Meanwhile, many people check FIBA’s website and think Allemand has 111 assists merely due to some weird rule. I’ve even read comments online joking that she could shoot 50 free throws and break the record. But after those laughs, I recall a counterintuitive discovery: in her 24 assists in the first three games, most weren’t from three-pointers, but from two-touch situations, from small off-ball movements. Allemand doesn’t have spectacular cross-court passes; she passes with soft hands, placing the ball exactly into her teammate’s rhythm. Her assists sustain the team’s coherence, like an invisible thread. But wait. Does this record really prove Allemand’s individual greatness, or is it merely a product of the Belgian machine? Data is stubborn, and my analytical side warns me to be cautious. A record in just one World Cup, with a relatively thin sample, isn’t enough to claim Allemand is more talented than Sue Bird or Dawn Staley. It might just be the right person, right moment, in a system that coach Thibault has built over multiple tournaments. My contrarian angle becomes clearer: if we strip Allemand out of Belgium’s style, would she reach that mark? Perhaps coach Brondello understands this when she talks about “pass-first point guard,” a role that elevates teammates. In the wide net of World Cup memories, I’ve watched many legends create a game. But the name Julie Allemand reminds me of a phrase I often use for the most beautiful football matches in this tropical nation: football is the most beautiful sadness I have ever known. Today, inside the closed arena, I feel that sadness in basketball as well. It is a feminine thing: Allemand knows how to share the ball. When Belgium surpassed Australia for a quarterfinal spot, fans often look for beautiful scores. But I only saw a dark shadow of Allemand holding the ball, slowly looking around. She doesn’t force her own mark; she just tries to make everyone around her better. That night, I found another moment I loved: when Allemand passed from the right wing to Emma Meesseman, she was fouled, and Belgium got the free throw. That was her 108th career World Cup assist. My waiting room fell silent as I saw the video board update: “World Cup Record.” Somehow, I knew she wouldn’t stop. Twenty-four minutes later, when she added another assist from a medium-range shot, the total reached 111. She didn’t lift her hands to the sky like you often see. She only ran back to her half, continuing the small movements of the game. People are used to scoring being the star, while passing remains quiet. I have an old dream: one day I will write a song about the creator. It might be a libero at Lạch Tray releasing a ball, or an honest point guard. But Allemand came and gave me something even more powerful: a record that helps people realize that you cannot win without cherishing your teammates. Belgium’s coach was not exaggerating when he said, “that’s pretty exciting.” They also confirmed she is a “leading assist person in World Cup history” — that is enough for a tribute. After the 80-68 victory, I saw in the distance an Australian fan crying because his country couldn’t advance. But I also saw a group of Belgian fans hugging each other as if they had just won the championship. That seventh basketball day told a story of unselfishness. I recall those ghostly claps in no-audience seasons — they are not physically present but still echo in my veins. Then I realized a beautiful truth: Julie Allemand is someone who doesn’t need the crowd’s applause to know she is playing the exact nature of the game. Finally, the question I want to ask is not “how many more records will she break,” but: “will future generations remember that the greatest scorer is not the one with most points, but the one who turns surrounding athletes into better versions of themselves?” Tonight, at the 2026 World Cup group stage, I saw my answer. Her name is Julie Allemand, daughter of the Belgian system — and she has just written an unfinished poem about the selfless basketball. Whenever the arena calls, I realize I still dream of watching passes like that. The ball rolls through her long fingers, arrives at Emma, a free throw, and history changes its lines. I hear the ball continue its story in the deep night — and I know I am not alone.