Iverson, Shaq and Yao Enter Hall of Fame with a Trail of Memories and Questions
SPRINGFIELD, Mass. — Hall of Famer is a powerful phrase, an almost mystical title conjuring greatness and grandeur. Once earned, the moniker becomes a de facto first name, demanding reverence.
As of Friday night, he is no longer Shaquille O'Neal, but Hall of Famer Shaquille O'Neal. The man towering over him on the stage? That's Hall of Famer Yao Ming. The little dude with the cornrows standing among the giants? Hall of Famer Allen Iverson.
Their induction into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame certified their place in history, and they were rightfully, often raucously, celebrated for their outsize achievements. O'Neal, Iverson and Yao all dominated the NBA, in their own unique ways. Their fame is unquestioned.
Yet amid the standing ovations and the stirring tributes, the woots, the shout-outs and the tears, came frequent reminders that "fame" is an elastic concept, molded to fit each honoree, no matter his imperfections.
And this was a uniquely imperfect class of NBA inductees.
O'Neal: a freakish blend of force and finesse, who powered his way to four NBA championships, one Most Valuable Player award and three Finals MVPs. Yet we will forever wonder how many more trophies he would have collected if not for his petty feuds and spotty work habits.
Iverson: a dazzling entertainer and relentless competitor who scored more points than almost anyone during his prime years—and took more shots than all of them. He grated on coaches, skipped practices, stoked controversy on and off the court, and spent his final years adrift in the NBA, unable or unwilling to evolve.
Yao: a star in his native China, an All-Star in the NBA, a graceful giant at 7'5" who could dominate with power or finesse. Yet he played just seven full NBA seasons, retiring at age 30 because of foot troubles.
"My career ended too soon," Yao told the audience in Springfield, hitting a somber note to start his acceptance speech.
Their immense talent and showmanship made all three stars worthy of the Hall. Their frailties made them easier to relate to, accessible, more human. That's not always the case when we're discussing our sports heroes.
Michael Jordan was a virtual god on the court, inspiring awe among fans and rivals alike—including Iverson, who on Friday recalled the surreal feeling of facing his idol on the court.
"The first time I played against him, I looked at him, and for the first time in my life, a human being didn't look real to me," Iverson said. "I literally seen his aura. ... I'm saying to myself, like, 'Man, that's Mike.' I can't stop looking at him."
The legends have that kind of woozying effect on people, even in retirement. Bill Russell, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Jerry West and Magic Johnson seem to exist on a higher plane.
Or maybe it's just that time has smoothed over the rough edges of their careers. We eventually forgive the shots that were missed, the championships that were lost, the trades that were forced, the passes they should have made.
No one enters the Hall without some blemishes on the resume. It's just that the blemishes for this class were unusually glaring. And that's OK. It's the Hall of Fame, not the Hall of Perfection.
What matters in the end is how our stars make us feel, how they make us believe. No one inspired belief and adoration like Iverson. That was the case every time he stepped on the court, and that was the case during Friday night's enshrinement at Springfield's Symphony Hall, which felt like a gathering of the Allen Iverson Fan Club.
The hall thundered the moment Iverson's face appeared on the video screen. He received two standing ovations before he spoke a word, and another when he was done. His speech was interrupted by hoots and shouts, "M-V-P" chants, and spontaneous outbursts of "We love you!"
Iverson responded in kind and set an unofficial record for "thank yous" in a Hall speech. He thanked friends, coaches and family members, and named nearly every teammate from Georgetown, the Philadelphia 76ers and Denver Nuggets. (He pointedly omitted any mention of his messy final years in Detroit and Memphis.)
He thanked rappers and singers—"Biggie Smalls, Redman, Jadakiss, Tupac and Michael Jackson, for being my theme music throughout my career."
He thanked an otherwise-anonymous walk-on guard at Georgetown, Dean Berry, for teaching him the crossover dribble, which became Iverson's most effective weapon.
He profusely thanked Larry Brown, his former coach with the 76ers, whose wisdom he seems to appreciate much more now than he did during their tense time together in Philly.
He thanked someone named Stanky Wanky.
He thanked the two newspaper beat writers who covered him the most closely in his early days, Stephen A. Smith (now of ESPN) and the late Phil Jasner. He thanked the media generally for the "love-hate relationship that made me stronger."
As a player, Iverson was as polarizing as he was dazzling, endearing one moment and maddening the next. Standing just 6'0" and 165 pounds, he played with a fearlessness and passion that was hard to resist.
That made it easier to overlook the flaws in his game, and there were many. Iverson dominated the ball, shot too much, gambled for steals and generally resisted any attempts to refine his game.
The contradictions in his resume are laid bare in the NBA's career scoring charts. Iverson ranks 23rd in points (24,368)—one of 28 players to break the 23,000-point plateau. Re-sort the list by field-goal percentage, and he ranks dead last, at .425.
Iverson won four scoring titles, earned All-NBA seven times and claimed the MVP award in 2001, the same year he led the 76ers to the Finals. But the 76ers averaged just 41 wins over his last five seasons in Philadelphia, with two first-round exits, one second-round appearance and two years without a playoff appearance.
It's a complicated legacy, one that Iverson vaguely acknowledged in his speech, thanking the fans who stood up for him in barbershop debates.
"Now you can say, 'Well, look, my man is solidified,'" he said.
Iverson spoke the same way he played—with sincerity, passion, flair and a wild unpredictability.
The same could be said for O'Neal, a more decorated but no less complicated star.
For all of his dominance, O'Neal wouldn't have his championship rings without the vision of Jerry West, the steady hand of Phil Jackson and the explosive talent of Kobe Bryant. He mentioned each of them only briefly, as if they were afterthoughts—a reminder that not all has been forgiven or forgotten since his messy exit from L.A. in 2004.
O'Neal chose four Hall of Famers to present him on stage—Bill Russell, Julius Erving, Isiah Thomas, Alonzo Mourning—but none with Lakers ties. Jackson was in attendance, but only as a presenter for Bulls owner Jerry Reinsdorf.
True to form, O'Neal entertained the crowd with funny one-liners and great stories (some of dubious truth). He spoke movingly of his late stepfather, Phillip Harrison, his mother Lucille O'Neal and his children.
When it came to Bryant, O'Neal kept it light and brief. "The great Kobe Bryant," he called him. "A guy that would push me to help me win three titles in a row—but also helped me get pushed off the team and traded to Miami."
So we are back to the what-ifs. What if Shaq and Kobe, perhaps the most devastating guard-center combination ever, could have set aside their egos? How many more titles would they have won? What if Shaq had approached November, December and January with the same intensity and focus he brought in May and June? How many more MVPs would he have won? What if he stayed in shape? What if he defended a little harder, rebounded a little more? What if he learned to shoot free throws?
This is the Shaq conundrum: He is indisputably among the greatest centers of all time, yet he could have been the greatest of them all.
Yao might have staked a claim in that same tier, if only he stayed healthy.
These were the imperfect stars of an awkward NBA era, filling the years between Jordan's retirement and LeBron James' ascension. They gave us riveting theater and jaw-dropping highlights, and still they left us wanting more.
The inductions are over, their place in the Hall of Fame secure. The debates will continue, forevermore.
Howard Beck covers the NBA for Bleacher Report. Follow him on Twitter, @HowardBeck.
