During my nearly three years writing for Philadelphia Weekly, I did a couple pieces on Allen Iverson. It was the early 2000s; prime A.I.-era years.
For one cover story, I interviewed him in the locker room before a game against the Jazz. At one point, he shooed his handlers away as our conversation was not quite done. He was likely amenable to this discussion since I told him I’d been charged with writing an essay deeming him Philadelphia’s Man of the Year.
That was so long I can’t find it online. Have a hard copy, though. That’s what these snapshots are from:
I did find this one, though, and it wasn’t as happy a time for A.I. The Tyronn Lue near-stomping had faded into stories about poom poom pants and guns. I don’t share this to sully his rep. Allen is one of my all-time favorite Philly athletes. I share it to, well, let the young ‘uns see what kind of drag he had in Philly way back when social-media didn’t exist.
During pregame introductions–a few minutes before ads for Iverson’s new Reebok sneaker pop up on arena billboards–the Make-a-Wish recipients are invited onto the court, visibly ecstatic from their brush with fame.
They slap hands with the starters and make their way to their seats, where they watch Iverson make unbelievable passes, nail highlight shots and play what his coach considers “the right way” by performing tenacious, unheralded defensive chores like backing 6-foot-8-inch opponents away from the basket with his rump.
By the end of the evening, in the quasi-privacy of the locker room, the Olympic hopeful finds himself ducking invisible shots from a child’s ray gun. There are no controversies to be found.
By the time he gets back in the Escalade, his week has already gone full circle, a microcosm of an unprecedented career. The difference this time is that everybody now knows how the story’s supposed to end.
A lot of people will, if given the opportunity, say a lot of things about Allen Iverson. What I’ll say is he was as transcendent a star as I’d ever seen come through Philly — for reasons both good and bad; for reasons typical of a man who was the sporting equivalent of Public Enemy — and anytime I go to the Wells Fargo Center (or whatever it’s called that month), I’ll look up to the rafters and pay him the respect I think he deserves.
“Don’t Zap Me!” [Philadelphia Weekly]