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 …

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