Respect the Dead and Fear their Return

Allen Iverson had it all figured out. See he made his flaws his strengths. He was too small, well, shit he’d be faster than everyone else, get a step deeper into the trees than anyone else could, or would. Didn’t a consistent jumper, didn’t make ‘em play him close? He’d reconfigure the rules, change direction twice, three times with the ball still on his hand and dare the ref to call it. Most of ‘em didn’t.



He was a thug? He fought in bowling alleys or some shit? He’d get more tatted up, go to corn rows first (or close to it), throw his wife out naked. Nah, I’m playing, that wasn’t cool. But you know what I mean: he was real. Whatever real meant in the late nineties—maybe a half a percent more than it means now, which still ain’t much. But he was real. Kids like that. It’s easy to say, easy to type. He’s real. Win you some arguments.

He was East Coast and so out here we only caught glimpses. He’d go for fifty, he’d duel some other far off cracked colossus like Vince in the playoffs, struggle, wince, let it all hang out. Sportscenter loved the man, and who wouldn’t? He was a swaggering little mindfuck in this game of freaks—probably smaller than you—and yet he made even the giants step lightly.

All of which is why it’s so fucked that the image of A.I. I’ve got burned into the backs of my eye isn’t him pounding his chest, or stepping over perennial WNBA All-Star Tyronn Lue. It’s Him cowering, leaving it short again and again in the greasy shadow of Fabricio Fucking Oberto. Hell, half the time Fab and Duncan were both already beat, two steps behind, more then he shoulda needed.

(Not actually branded into the backs of my eyes, that’s an exaggeration. This Internet has shown me some fucked up pornography and such. It’s mostly scar tissue back there, at this point, to be honest.)

But talk about your world being shook. This was worse than when I first ate mushrooms. Had we all been conned? It would be a funny story, but shit I’m here for the game, not to fetishize or eulogize or mythologize or tell stories (well maybe that last one). A.I. needs to be good or else what was that?

You start thinking. So he's East, so he gets to be a legend, cuz of history and media and all that nonsense. But the East sucks. Just who did he beat in his big triumph? Bucks in Seven? Shit. He beat George Karl in seven? Phonz and Bison Dele oughta be legends then. Then he got killed in the Finals after they spotted him one.

The Spurs just spotted us one early in the summer. Didn’t work out either. (I’m a Nuggets fan, shoulda introduced myself.) (And I say “us” sometimes, I know it’s tacky.)

So now it’s coming down to it. He played real well with Melo at the end of the season. But the regular season vs. the playoffs is a police action vs. an apocalypse, in the NBA. And now he’s in the West and suddenly Melo’s chubby ass is carrying HIM? HIM? Damn.

So it comes down to this year and we shall see. I mena, I know he’s good, but so was Nick Van Exel. Iverson now says all the right things, is a good teammate, makes the extra pass, and wilts in the playoffs.

Frankly, I don’t know if I can handle it. You can’t be a God anymore, not for a while, but he was damn close. And now he’s the cool uncle?

We shall see. He’s in camp with the rest of ‘em. Maybe all he needed was a little help.



I might start editing these later. Dunno. For now, HYTOP HAS LEFT THE BUILDING>>>