In Allen Iverson, We Saw Ourselves, Even If We Didn't Know It When He Played
It's right there in those eyes.
Everything that he has ever felt was projected—or hidden—behind those round jewels.
They always seemed to stare right through us. Sometimes they welled with tears. But that was Allen. That was part of the complexity we found so appealing.
He came from concrete and rubble. From hate and injustice. Now he is in Springfield, in the Hall of Fame.
His career might belong to the ages, but Allen Iverson will always be ours. This immutable truth, we believe without exception.
The boy from nowhere. The one who did everything they said he couldn't. His ambition defied the hopelessness that place wrapped him in.
Regret. Frustration. Imperfection. Fear. All were part of the Iverson story. But so too were determination and pain. And no small amount of heart.
He absorbed every blow. This is the beautiful audacity of Allen Iverson.
It was always about survival.
We discovered that we loved him. How could we not?
He didn't look like us. He did not sound like us. But he encapsulated everything we were. And that was scariest of all. Iverson became our mirror. It was all in the details. That gut instinct to persevere. The desire to make a mark and to connect while doing so. To make good on second chances in spite of our flaws. To have our love reciprocated. To be accepted. We're all escaping our own personal little nowheres.
And escape Iverson did.
His athleticism was blinding. He was so fast, so quick. He was the best athlete in five states. He would scuttle smartly along the baseline. Then turn to drop in a 15-foot jumper, legs akimbo, levitating just so, as he faded back. It was artistic.
He was hubristic and reckless. Sinewy and fearless. Tethered by nothing. He didn't envy or emulate. Originals never do.
He cupped his hand to his ear. What a star.
Philadelphia was in concert with his greatness. Underdogs cheering for one of their own. They were Allen Iverson. Just like us. And he knew it.
He kissed the floor. He cried when he talked about them. He meant every word.
Four scoring titles. An MVP. Three games from NBA champion. Those shorts. That hair. That resolve. That emotion. Those tears. The crossover and the Step Over.
He made us care. We argued about him. We had opinions. We didn't appreciate him like we should have.
We didn't know he was us.
He was a child on a dingy field behind Aberdeen Elementary when he first hucked a football on a warm summer afternoon. You could hear the Tidewater air tearing as the ball spun. He could make it hang like a kite. Dropping it wherever he wanted.
The other kids knew he was not like them. Allen didn't know what that meant. How could he?
But his gifts were obvious and present. An impossibly skinny kid doing things that no one could explain. He reversed field for fun, because he could, mocking the desperate effervescence of an unfortunate place.
Boy, could he sprint.
He lived in Newport News, Virginia. He was poor. He was 10. But life was all right.
His mom worked at the Avon plant. She said, "I love you" each night before he went to bed, even when they bumped heads. He loved Michael Jackson, tried to dance like him. He had posters on his wall. He thought he could sing.
He would fish on the James River. Mostly for blue catfish, but stripers too. He'd go to the Coliseum Mall to buy sneakers and try to talk to girls.
The projects weren't so bad. He had a lot of friends. White ones, too. He didn't know anything else. He would sneak out late at night. In 11th grade, he met the girl whom he would marry.
Iverson destroyed every convention.
No one had ever heard of him, but he became an icon for millions. It wasn't defiance. It was never planned. Still, his hair, his clothes, his tattoos, his mindset sparked a like-minded generation and ignited a seismic shift in popular culture.
An accidental hero. The very one who changed the world by going out his front door. But he is not without scars.
Allen Iverson is brave. Though he will never say.
He wants to be normal. He wants to forget everything that happened to him. The trial. The town on fire with emotion. It's always right beneath the surface. He doesn't want to be known for anything. Well, except being a dad. He lives quietly now.
He sits on the couch. Watches movies. Goes on YouTube. Cooks fish in the kitchen. And drives his kids to school. He loves the holiday plays they're in.
He pursues happiness.
He is unburdened by being Allen Iverson. A definition you or I could never know.
In Springfield, he will give a speech that he never thought he would. He will have cornrows so people will remember him as he was. Then he might let his wife Tawanna cut them after. He will thank people he loves. He will cry. His gravelly voice will crack as it has a way of doing. Ann will be there. And she will cry too. Her first-born baby boy inducted into forever. She is Allen Iverson's mama.
Players will honor him on social media. Call him the GOAT and mix hashtags with emojis. They will say "If it wasn't for him...." And he will know exactly what that means. Even if they're not from nowhere.
Seems a lifetime ago he sat there in that first suit that his mentor Gary Moore bought him. He worked with Ann and she asked him to look after Allen. In fact, he bought him every suit he ever had: when he was sentenced, when he left Georgetown, when he was drafted.
Moore bought him facemasks for Christmas. Cleats, too. Threw him on the hood of his car one time when he screwed up. He gave him a roof when he left home. Second window from the right in that little rambler. Would find him when he was gone when no one else could. He'd call around everywhere. Drove him to a thousand practices.
Bubba Chuck is in Springfield because of Moore. Allen will tell you himself.
Moore was there that day when the underdog kid he met when he was eight was drafted No. 1 overall. To the NBA. Holy hell. He was way better at football, they all will say.
He will always be Allen Iverson. And we will never know what that truly means.
But mostly he will always be just that boy from Virginia. Where that thick southern humidity persists, as it always has. Hampton is still there. The little blue house that Ann bought at 106 Jordan Dr. is still there. The faithful oak on that corner lot still provides shade. But the posters are gone from his old room, where his girlfriend did his homework. He sat on that bed the night before he was sentenced to prison, wearing Air Force Ones. White on white and brand new.
When he was sent away, he became a cause and a lightning rod. He hated the screams in that place.
He did not get to go to Notre Dame. Moore still has the recruiting letters. He would never win the Heisman. Ann begged John Thompson. Save him. His heart soared for his little sister. He went pro for her. He was so skinny then.
That boy is gone now. He doesn't exist.
But they will always remember Bubba Chuck.
His greatness is certified. He is in Springfield. And that will never change. Ann's baby. Those round eyes. The kid from Newport News.
So we grab on to him as we always have. Because he is ours. And he will never not be ours.
That will forever remain.
Chris Palmer covers the NBA for Bleacher Report. Reach him on Twitter @ChrisPalmerNBA.
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