“Ridicule is the tribute paid to the genius by the mediocrities.” – Oscar Wilde
If Allen Iverson is the answer, then most of us never knew the question. Therein lies the conundrum that defines the most transcendent player of his generation.
The post-Jordan basketball world just wasn’t ready for Iverson. While we were expecting a six foot, six inch two-guard with a marketable personality to inherit the throne, a five foot, eleven inch dynamo with a non-conformist attitude appeared.
He is the modern day anti-hero. His raspy voice is more suited for a Sergio Leone flick than it was ever meant to be heard by the target audience for Space Jam 2. Needless to say, nobody was ever going to have to airbrush anything Michael Jordan related. Not the case when it came to Iverson.
The difference is that Iverson never wanted to be like Mike. He wanted to destroy him. Our society rejects idol crushers. Just ask Kobe Bryant.
A.I. doesn’t give the company line. He is what Dave Chappelle had in mind for his “When Keeping it Real Goes Wrong” sketch. Then again, it’s not like Sir Charles was much of a likeable personality either. I guess we choose to make exceptions for some. Unlike Barkley, Iverson never spit on a little girl, but he might as well have for the way his character was hung on the cross.
You’re not really sure if you like A.I. or not. Then, he shows up in your city and proceeds to demolish your team with a barrage of lighting quick moves and deadly step backs, all the while fearlessly attacking the rim like he is unaware of being the smallest man in the land of NBA giants.
You might not like him, but you’re given no choice except to respect his game.
Aside from John Thompson and Larry Brown, most basketball minds were clueless as to what to do with Iverson. There were countless formulas for winning with a dominant big man. Phil Jackson – with the help of Tex Winter – proved you can get to the Promised Land repeatedly with a high scoring shooting guard. There was never a blueprint for winning with a frail, diminutive guard capable of putting a Ulysses S. Grant in the box score on any given night.
Depending on your hoops pedigree, you’ll either remember the rookie schooling MJ with two ankle crunching crossovers that had the G.O.A.T. swatting at the air or you’ll just remember a diatribe on “practice”.
His resume is Springfield worthy. His highlight reel elicits more “Oohs” than a season of Jerry Springer. His career is now a question mark.
What do we make of Allen Iverson?
Joe Dumars unknowingly tried to make him a scapegoat. George Karl intentionally made him the quarterback of a run and shoot offense only Jerry Glanville would think was capable of winning a title.
Many cite Iverson’s hubris as the greatest hurdle he never overcame. In case you didn’t catch Jordan’s Hall of Fame speech, A.I. is far from alone in that category.
Would His Airness have been willing to sit and watch Mike Conley get burn ahead of him? Would Bird have been silent if he were forced to be the 6th man for a last place team?
Then again, would Jordan and Larry Legend have ever found themselves in that situation to begin with?
How Iverson had a cup of coffee in Memphis is what makes this riddle a Sears Tower sized Rubix Cube.
There is more than enough blame for Allen to find simply by looking in the mirror but there is also a healthy dose of reality that needed to be injected into the mind of Lionel Hollins. Asking A.I. to ride the pine is like asking T.O. to keep his mouth shut. Some things are just impossible when given the nature of the beast. Check the record books and take note of the names Iverson keeps company with. Now, ask yourself which of them would have reacted favorably to being given the best seat in the house at FedEx Forum.
Perhaps Iverson’s time has passed. His job was to engineer the bridge connecting Jordan to LeBron. People forget that A.I. entered the NBA on the heels of Pat Riley’s failed attempt to make pro hoops into American rugby.
With ratings in the tank, a holdout on the horizon and a dying product on the court, David Stern needed Iverson like Jim Rome needed a live televised wrestling match with Jim Everett. The exposure becomes worth its weight in ticket sales.
Then, with those ticket sales eventually came the zone defense to stifle his creativity. The commish giveth and the commish taketh away.
From Philadelphia to Denver, from Detroit to Memphis, all were dead end roads. If the problem persists, chances are it is you who is the problem and not the law named after Murphy that is responsible.
Without having ever touched a Larry O’Brien trophy, his accomplishments still merit the right to one day call out everyone whoever doubted him during his acceptance speech. The problem is he’ll never be given that same leeway we’ve chosen to bestow on the arrogant #23 and the round mound of DUI.
Iverson is his own worst enemy more often than not. He’s painted himself into a corner from which only a contract to play in Greece or a phone call from Mike D’Antoni can extract him from.
His final days in the NBA are unfitting for the last-of- his-kind talent that he is. None the less, this is where the crossroads have taken Iverson.
Unwilling to do the song and dance off the court has finally cost him the right to be on the court. Unable to fit into any mold constructed by his predecessors, A.I. is a round peg who would never be squeezed into an L7 hole.
His burden is that he was an anachronism. A cyborg sent from the future that overshot his date and appeared before a caveman. As if Michael Jackson performed at Carnegie Hall in 1938. A bewildered and confused audience would be left scratching their heads yet days later would still be haunted by the hypnotic melodies.
The genius of Allen Iverson is that he defied the odds in an era of bigger, stronger and faster. Guys like him aren’t supposed to be dropping 27 a night with ease. He’s supposed to be a good little guard who runs the offense and does whatever coach says. Instead, he’s a dribbling contradiction who dared to do things his way.
It is truly funny how we praise some for taking the maverick path yet lampoon others for doing the same. Maybe we’re the ones who need to take a long gander in the mirror. Maybe we’re just the fools for trying to put A.I. into a nice neat shoebox. Maybe we’re the idiots who are too ignorant to appreciate the brilliance of an artist whose skills exceed our comprehension.
Maybe our burden is to forever wonder what happened instead of simply appreciating what was.
(Chris Shellcroft is the lead blogger for Just Blog Baby, occasional contributor on Lake Show Life and an all around righteous dude. You can follow him on Twitter.)