June 6, 2001
NBA Finals Game 1
Sixers 103, Lakers 99.
0:47 remaining in overtime.
I
don’t know whether to cheer or throw my hands up in disgust. I do neither. I
just shake my head.
Allen
Iverson has just finished the Lakers’ night with an exclamation point. He goes
from zero to 60 in less than a second, dashing towards a baseline that only
contains Los Angeles defenders, all eyes trained on him. But he knew this all
along; it was predetermined. He stops in an instant, puts the ball between his
legs, crosses Tyronn Lue and creates enough space for himself to throw up his
unorthodox stepback. Lue leaps at him, more out of desperation than strategy,
but Iverson has already released the ball, not with the typical follow-through that
high school and AAU coaches drill into perfection. He doesn’t wave goodbye to
the ball, he merely releases it, knowing where it’s headed. As it splashes
through the net, Lue falls sprawling onto the court, a defeated man. But the
hunter is not finished with his prey. He doesn’t step over him, he STOMPS, as
if the Lakers’ hopes were an insect on the sole of his shoe, and Iverson has no
tolerance for bugs. For a brief second, he stands over his victim, seemingly
laughing, as Lue’s teammates on the bench stand helplessly only inches away. It
does not mathematically eliminate the Lakers, as Eric Snow’s floater in the
lane would do 30 seconds later, but everybody knows the game is over. The whole
city of Los Angeles could not stop A.I. tonight, and he has reminded them in a
brutal fashion.
Eleven-year-old
me is conflicted. Despite my affiliation with Philadelphia sports, I am a
converted Kobe fan, and since my childhood idol left the game in 1998, I had
grown rather attached to this afro-wielding future superstar. This Finals was a
meeting of the two teams I would most want to hoist the trophy. While some may
view this as a favorable position to be in, my pessimism does not afford me
such comfort. Every win for the Lakers is a loss for the Sixers, and vice
versa. To ease my discomfort, I have already conceded victory to Los Angeles.
The Lakers have not yet lost in these playoffs, are coming off a sweep of the San
Antonio Spurs that toed the line between utter domination and public execution.
The Sixers, on the other hand, took seven games to beat the Milwaukee Bucks in
the Conference Finals, and boasted a starting lineup that included Aaron McKie,
Tyrone Hill, and Jumaine Jones. Dikembe Mutombo was their second best player, and
his joints would literally creak as he lumbered down the floor.
But
tonight belonged to The Answer, as he single-handedly served the Lakers their
first loss of the 2001 Playoffs. While the Lakers would go on to win the next four games, and the series, that moment has forever been carved into my mind. In my
lifetime, I can only remember watching three Playoff games in which a player
seemingly won a game on his own, as if he could have picked four fans out of
the stands to play with him and the result would be the same: Jordan’s last
game as a Bull, LeBron’s 48 Special against Detroit, and what Iverson had just
done to L.A. In these instances, the outcome was not a result of poor
performances by the losing team; there was simply nothing they could do.
Eleven
years later, AI sits in basketball purgatory. By his own admission he is still
holding out hope that he will get to play in the NBA again, that one more team
will give him a chance. He bristled at the use of the word ‘retirement’ in an
interview with Lisa Salters at a Sixers playoff game this year, a game where he
was honored at center court before the game. But whether he is willing to say
the word or not, Allen Iverson is effectively retired. While he has been
relegated to stints in the Turkish Basketball League, players that were taken
after him in the 1996 Draft continue to play,
and in many cases thrive, in the NBA. There
is no doubt that he could provide consistent scoring off the bench for a
mid-level team. Hell, even Derek Fisher (taken 23 picks after Iverson) is
playing major minutes for a championship contender. The issue Iverson has run
into is the expectation that teams have for veteran role players. The function of
these players is to provide minutes off the bench, limit mistakes, and provide
a model for younger players to emulate. The first and last responsibilities are in
question when it comes to The Answer. He has had trouble coming off the bench before, and the assumption around the league is that his pride will not allow
him to do so. Not helping his cause is the Iverson image, constructed by years
of trouble with the law, feuds with coaches, and endlessly replayed sound bites.
In a nasty twist of fate, the public persona that once made Iverson arguably the
most popular player in the league has assured that he will never play in it
again.
