Allen Iverson
But Iverson isn’t a basketball player anymore. This is something most everyone but Iverson has accepted, and for years a question worried those closest to him: What happens when the most important part of a man’s identity, the beam supporting the other unstable matter, is no longer there?
For the past three years, as Iverson chased an NBA comeback, his marriage fell apart and much of his fortune – he earned more than $150 million in salary alone during his career – dissolved. Now, those who once ignored past signals have recognized that basketball may have been the only thing holding Iverson’s life together.
“He has hit rock bottom, and he just hasn’t accepted it yet,” says former Philadelphia teammate Roshown McLeod.
“God gave him this great gift,” says Pat Croce, the former Sixers executive who selected Iverson first overall in the 1996 NBA draft. “But you knew one day, he was going to take it away.”
Iverson stood during a divorce proceeding in Atlanta in 2012 and pulled out his pants pockets.
“I don’t even have money for a cheeseburger,” he shouted toward his estranged wife, Tawanna, who then handed him $61.
The scene showed a stark side of a man who had captivated crowds, pushed boundaries, and became one of the NBA’s biggest stars. He did things his way, on his schedule, speaking honestly during news conferences and snubbing the professional sports establishment. Crowds connected with Iverson, who’d succeeded despite physical limitations and mistakes, such as a felony conviction at 18 for his role in a bowling-alley brawl in Hampton, Va., his home town.
The public image for years had been of a bad boy tamed by his growing family sitting near the baseline. The truth was that Iverson was often an absentee husband and father.
Tawanna testified that during a 2009 family vacation in Orlando, Iverson spent evenings with a friend while his family made plans without him. On the day they were to fly home, Iverson nursed a hangover in a van, lying on the floor with a foot draped on the seat. While their children saw a movie, Tawanna sat for hours with her husband, afraid if he was left alone the driver would take photographs.
Another time, she said, Iverson left his children alone in a hotel room during a weekend at a water park. Tawanna picked them up at 2 a.m., one of the kids still in her swimsuit, with no sign of Iverson. “I always thought that my kids needed their father,” she’d testify later. “And what I’ve learned is that they don’t need him if he’s going to be that destructive in their lives.”
Iverson kept waiting for NBA teams to call. Last August, Iverson’s son Deuce, now 15, enrolled in a Pennsylvania school and families were invited to group counseling. Tawanna testified that Iverson skipped most of the sessions, including a lunch with his son. During a meeting he did attend, the speaker told the children about success, and how Donald Trump had seized opportunities.
On that evening in late March, Aron, the Sixers CEO, leads Iverson into the players’ entrance, through the Philadelphia locker room, and into a tunnel.
At 8 p.m., the lights are lowered, and flames blast from tubes. The announcer’s voice booms through the arena’s speakers: “A six-foot guard from Georgetown,” extending the syllables. The crowd erupts.
Iverson stands at midcourt, wearing a throwback Philadelphia Phillies warm-up jacket and dark sunglasses. He smiles and soaks in these seconds, cupping a hand around his ear the way he used to.
This is the closest Iverson will get to an NBA comeback. If the past three years have been this chaotic, what awaits him as he drifts farther from his basketball career – inching toward June 2030, when he’s eligible to receive what’s left of the Reebok money?
Moore has implored the Sixers to hire Iverson as a consultant. Friends and former teammates think he should travel, tell his story – the whole story, not just highlights like the arena’s big screen will show.
“Sometimes we don’t want to accept the fact that with truth comes consequences,” Moore says. “I just don’t think that he ever really grasped the fact that that existed. And maybe he never really accepted that fact because so many times, he didn’t have to.”
A moment later, Iverson retreats backstage and conducts a brief interview with Comcast, the team’s partner station. The reporter asks what’s next.
“I put it in God’s hands,” Iverson says, his voice cracking. “I’ve accomplished a lot in the NBA, and if the road ends here, then it does.”
He continues, looking contemplative, choosing the right words.
“And I’m not bitter about it. I don’t feel no type of way. I just understand that He helped me accomplish a lot of things in the NBA. I’ve done so many things that people thought that I couldn’t do . . .
“But at some point, it comes to an end. And regardless of however it comes — regardless if it’s retirement, injury, or whatever — at some point, it comes to an end.”
Then he smiles.
“Now, if I get a chance to play again,” he says, pausing at the thought, “I would love the opportunity.”
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