Allen
Iverson, NBA icon, struggles with life after basketball
H.
Rumph Jr/Associated Press - Former Philadelphia 76ers guard
Allen Iverson is introduced on the night he was honored
with a bobblehead giveaway.
PHILADELPHIA
— Less than an hour before the 8 p.m. tipoff, Philadelphia 76ers employees
are scurrying around the Wells Fargo Center, hoping this
Saturday night unfolds as planned.
It’s late March, and the team is handing out Allen Iverson
bobblehead dolls. Iverson himself is scheduled to attend, a
rare public appearance for the 37-year-old former NBA
superstar. He’ll be introduced during a pregame ceremony
and then watch the game from Sixers chief executive Adam
Aron’s suite. But Iverson isn’t here yet, and a troubling
rumor is passing through the arena’s arteries: Iverson has
missed his flight.
“He’ll
be on time,” Aron says assuredly. “That’s all that
matters.”
Three years after Iverson’s last NBA game, the spotlight
has shifted from his play to his flaws. His refusal back
then to play by society’s rules was seen as an independent
player’s quirks, part of the character and the brand, same
as his cornrows and tattoos.
Practicing with hangovers added to the legend. Skipping
team functions and refusing to obey the league’s dress code
was a man who wouldn’t be held down. And embarrassing
defenders on the way to the basket, in the NBA and before
that at Georgetown, was a nightly statement by the 6-foot,
165-pound guard: If a man, no matter his size, is
determined enough, he can get the better of giants.
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.
A few minutes before 8 o’clock, a black Suburban pulls into
the players’ parking lot. At 7:59, the passenger door
opens, and Iverson climbs out, shouting profanity. Then he
notices Aron, who wraps his arms around Iverson. They walk
toward the entrance, Iverson still shouting, for one more
night under the lights.
“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.”
‘I worry about him’
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.
“For all of the small people, he gave all those people
hope,” said Aaron McKie, a Sixers assistant coach and
Iverson’s former teammate.
Years later, word has spread of Iverson’s family troubles
and that he is essentially broke. Croce called more than a
year ago, leaving a message through Gary Moore, Iverson’s
longtime friend and business manager. There was no
response.
“I just want to see him,” Croce said. “I don’t even know
what he looks like.”
Larry Brown, who coached Iverson in Philadelphia, has
called often recently, extending invitations to Dallas.
Brown now coaches there, at Southern Methodist University,
and two of Iverson’s former Sixers teammates, Eric Snow and
George Lynch, are on Brown’s staff. Brown thinks it would
be good for Iverson to be around the game and people who
still care about him, but Iverson hasn’t visited.
“I worry about him,” Brown said. “A lot.”
McKie and others have texted. Iverson responds sometimes,
although days or weeks often pass. Other times, there’s no
reply. He keeps to himself, something of a recluse, and
declines most interview requests. Last year his eldest
daughter, Tiaura, asked to live with her father, according
to divorce testimony transcripts. She was concerned about
how few people her dad interacts with.
“I just don’t like to see it end this way,” Brown said.
Multiple attempts to reach Iverson for this story were
unsuccessful; Moore said Iverson has been told to avoid the
spotlight. But more than 600 pages of transcripts and court
documents from the divorce proceeding suggest that spurts
of questionable behavior during his career weren’t just
layers to Iverson’s character. They were warning signs.
“For him to be as successful as he was, he had to be
determined and have that little chip on his shoulder and
that inner voice telling him, ‘Do it your way,
Allen,’ ”
Lynch said. “And that’s probably his downfall.”
‘Didn’t think about the future’
During Iverson’s prime, teammates accepted Iverson’s unique
style, be it hangovers during some practices or his
trademark single-arm sleeve. His response to a question in
2002 about missing workouts became iconic: “We’re talking
about practice.”
As long as his game was sharp – he was named MVP in 2001
and won four NBA scoring titles – they ignored all else.
Basketball was Iverson’s sanctuary, and he signed huge
contracts: a six-year deal in 1999 worth $70.9 million and,
four years later, a new agreement worth $76.7 million.
Reebok signed him to a huge endorsement deal, including a
deferred trust worth more than $30 million, a lump sum he
can’t touch until he turns 55.
His play kept his shortcomings in the shadows, but at home,
his behavior caused increasing worry. Tawanna testified
that her husband was undependable and volatile. Alcohol
intensified his flaws, she said, leading him to skip
milestone events and stagger through others.
He hadn’t been present for Tiaura’s birth in 1994, and
three years later, when Allen Jr. was born – they would
call him Deuce – Iverson was “very intoxicated” and unable
to drive her to the hospital, Tawanna told the court.
He supported family members and rarely said no to a request
for money. McLeod, who occasionally went to the bar with
Iverson’s entourage, says his teammate always paid the tab,
no matter how much. “He never turned down anybody,” Brown
said. “He was there to help everybody. He didn’t think
about the future.”
Iverson feuded in 2006 with the Sixers, who removed his
likeness from the Wells Fargo Center before trading him to
the Denver Nuggets, who later traded him to Detroit. When
he became a free agent in ‘09, teams were reluctant to sign
him.
Moore
said he told Iverson to consider life after basketball. In
November 2009, Iverson played in three games with the
Memphis Grizzles before being released, and the Sixers
brought him back for 25 games. In his final NBA appearance,
Feb. 20, 2010, he scored 13 points in a 32-point loss to
the Chicago Bulls. His career ended abruptly, without
closure.
Said Nuggets Coach George Karl: “Finding his last chapter
of his career never happened.”
“They don’t want you anymore”
Iverson kept living as if another contract was imminent,
and Tawanna struggled to curb his spending. According to a
bank statement submitted in the divorce, the couple’s
checking account was overdrawn by more than $23,000 in July
2011. In a single day, $23,255.36 was deducted – at a
diamond store, a hat shop, a steakhouse and a hotel.
Tawanna testified that her checks bounced that month when
she paid for housing and electricity. She sold jewelry and
Tiaura’s car to pay for household expenses, including
school clothes and supplies.
Before their home in Denver was foreclosed, Tawanna
testified, she sold more jewelry at a pawn shop to pay
toward debt. Iverson owed thousands to a Georgia home
builder, was hit with tax liens, and his wages were
garnished to settle a nearly $860,000 balance with a
jeweler.
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.
Iverson interrupted, telling them that he had been the man
with money and fame. Then he said something Tawanna would
remember.
“What are you supposed to do,” she recalled him saying,
“when, you know, they don’t want you anymore?”
‘He deserves a better ending’
In February 2012, Moore sent Tawanna an e-mail: “THE
BLUEPRINT FOR IVERSON RETURN.”
Iverson played in Turkey and briefly joined a team in
China, but he believed he belonged in the NBA. One of
Moore’s bullet points stood out: “No more drinking!” He
also included an article on how to select an intervention
leader. A subsequent e-mail suggested Iverson attend
Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.
Moore contacted NBA teams, but there was little interest.
Besides, Tawanna had filed for divorce, and they spent much
of last summer in court. He and Tawanna had been together
since they were 16, prom dates and partners through
challenges and triumphs.
“I love u,” Iverson wrote to her in a text message
submitted in the divorce filing. “I miss your pretty face
& I’m sorry! Ppl make mistakes!”
He kept making them. When he met with an investigator to
discuss custody of his five children, he “smelled
remarkably of alcohol,” according to the investigator’s
testimony. Months later, during a scheduled alcohol
evaluation, he again arrived with alcohol on his breath.
Iverson didn’t take the witness stand during the divorce
hearing or publicly dispute his wife’s claims, and his
deposition testimony was sealed. The judge awarded Tawanna
sole legal custody, calling Iverson a “hindrance” to his
children. He appealed, but it was dismissed last month.
In a statement, released through Moore’s office after the
custody ruling, Iverson said the court was biased and its
ruling “one-sided.”
A person close to Iverson, who spoke on condition of
anonymity, said that half of the Reebok trust, established
as Iverson’s rainy-day fund, was transferred to Tawanna as
part of their divorce settlement. Tawanna’s attorney, John
Mayoue, would not comment, and attempts to reach Tawanna
for additional comment were unsuccessful.
After everything, Moore said, Iverson loves his children
“more than life” and still has feelings for Tawanna.
After the divorce went final in January, Moore restarted
the NBA comeback effort. Iverson declined an offer from the
Dallas Mavericks’ NBA Development League team, posting on
Twitter that “it is not the route for me.”
Moore called Tim Grover, a personal trainer who worked with
Michael Jordan and Kobe Bryant. Grover said he spoke with
Iverson, and they discussed a conditioning program. “Just
get the muscles to get firing,” Grover said.
In late March, Grover pulled out of the arrangement,
telling Moore he couldn’t dedicate the time for training
Iverson.
And that was that. It was over.
Brown called Iverson during the following weeks. The coach
is still asked often about him, and when he visits college
campuses, he sees players with cornrows and a sleeve on one
arm – a generation of influence.
“He deserves a better ending than he’s getting,” Brown
said.
‘We talking about love’
Former Georgetown coach John Thompson Jr. was asked about
Iverson last month. He was preparing for a radio broadcast
before an NCAA tournament game at Verizon Center.
“What I think about Allen Iverson is in my heart,” Thompson
said.
Thompson, who took a chance by offering Iverson a
scholarship after the bowling alley incident, is protective
of Iverson and wouldn’t be interviewed. But he recommended
a discussion with Lorry Michel, Georgetown basketball’s
longtime trainer.
She
answered her office phone, quick to say that she doesn’t do
interviews. But for Iverson, she’d make an exception.
“You go along life,” she said, “and you run into people.
And some really intrigue you more, maybe, I don’t know. Or
they just treat you differently.”
Michel underwent surgery for a brain tumor in June 2011.
Amid the emails and cards was a note from Iverson. It
wouldn’t be the last time he checked in. She said he
remembers people and their paths; because his was so
unlikely, he appreciates how others reached their goals.
“He would see people for what they were,” she said.
Earlier this year, Michel contacted Iverson. She’d heard
about the divorce and wanted to know how he was doing.
Fine, he told her, and she chose to believe him.
Shortly before Michel was inducted Feb. 9 into Georgetown’s
Hall of Fame, Iverson asked someone to point a camera at
him and ask him about practice. The blurry footage would be
sent to Washington and played during the ceremony.
He stood at a lectern, his hat crooked, and mimicked his
famous rant.
“We talking about love?” he began. “Not Coach Thompson. Not
the baddest guard that ever played at Georgetown. Not
Alonzo Mourning. Not Patrick Ewing. Not Dikembe Mutombo?
“I’m supposed to be here talking about Georgetown. But we
talking about love. We talking about love? Miss Michel? Oh,
we talking about love.”
He paused.
“I love you. I miss you. Well-deserved congratulations. I
love you. I can’t put it in words how much I do love you.”
‘With truth comes consequences’
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.