Misunderstood, page 21
I drove home to the Peninsula to see my friends and family. It was Easter weekend. The Tournament—without me—was finished (Kentucky took it that year).
I rolled through to see my mom, my dad, my sisters, my daughter, my friends. Everyone gasped at my ride. I had conversations about my decision for the future. But people looked at that car and figured my decision was made.
So at the end of that weekend, my local paper, the Daily Press, announced that I would enter the NBA Draft, citing local anonymous sources. Soon the whole world reported that shit. Maybe I knew in my heart what I was doing, but I hadn’t even talked to Coach Thompson yet.
Man, I hadn’t made a decision, not consciously. Instead I was dealing with home. That same weekend, my dad got in trouble again. They had gone into the house he shared with his brothers and found all kinds of shit. They arrested him (and everyone else that was there) and hit him with another drug charge. A year later, he would go to trial. So, lawyers needed paying. With his record, in and out of prison and still on parole, he wasn’t going to be helping the family out, that’s for sure.
Then, if you can believe it, that same April my biological father got arrested too, for a domestic violence charge. He ended up serving years in prison. So he never came to a college game and wouldn’t ever make any NBA game either. I can’t say that affected how I was thinking about going pro or not, but that’s how crazy it was just in that one month.
So it was like my family needed me more than ever, but also, like damn, another year in college away from this shit, under Coach Thompson’s protective umbrella, that didn’t sound too bad either. I drove the Benz back up to Georgetown, the custom Bose system playing the sounds of the streets, but louder and with higher fidelity than I’d ever heard them before. Could I give up this luxury that I was dying to enjoy?
Back at campus, I was still living in the dorm, just a college student. So one day, a week or so after returning, I rode the Benz over to my friend’s house in another part of DC. A TV van from a local station followed my ass and put that shit on TV. Charles Mann, a former football player who’d become a TV news guy, came and knocked on the door. So my friend answered and told him I wasn’t there. I was trying to avoid the situation. But they wouldn’t take no for an answer. Then my friend told him I wasn’t talking to anyone, so they left.
And just like back in Virginia, now everyone in DC assumed I had made a decision based on that car. Remember, I didn’t pay for it, couldn’t, I was just using it.
I did have to make a decision. People had been asking the question all year: Would Allen be the first to leave Coach Thompson’s program early? I told you about the Georgetown crowd chanting for “Two More Years.” After that game, Coach Thompson was angrier about that chant than what Billy Packer had said calling me a “tough monkey.” He felt like I deserved to make a decision without any outside influence and pressure. Michael Wilbon was, like Kornheiser, just a writer back then, and this is how he put it: “Is he ready for the NBA or not? All that was on anybody’s lips was Iverson’s name. At the barbershop, at Dollar Bill’s, in taxis, at the deli.”
All that chatter pissed off Coach. So Coach Thompson said, “Allen’s not going anywhere unless I tell him it’s time to go.” Another time he said, “Allen will be ready for the NBA when I tell him he’s ready.” Then certain people got mad because he was trying to be controlling. But what he was really trying to do was get the pressure off of me. He also let it be known, “I’ve never had a blanket rule that anybody has to stay for four years.”
One thing was for sure, the decision was mine. But of course I valued his advice more than anyone’s.
* * *
When it came to me leaving for the NBA, everyone was kind of talking about two aspects of “Is he ready?” There was the basketball question and the off-the-court question. As far as basketball, everyone agreed I had the athleticism and talent. But because I was small, they focused on my ability to be a “point guard.” As Bucks general manager Mike Dunleavy put it, “I love Allen’s game, but he’s still learning how to be a point guard.” Wilbon said if there was one issue I needed to improve on, “it’s got to be the pass. At six feet and 165 pounds, [he’s] got one and only one position: point guard.” Even Coach Thompson said, “I think learning to control the tempo of the game and knowing all the other things he needs to learn about this game is going to be the thing that dictates his future.”
People also talked about me, my past, all that shit. They quoted Boo Williams, who said, “Basketball-wise, he’s ready for the NBA. It’s more about social skills. He needs to mature a little more.” Coach Thompson said he wasn’t worried about the two hours I would be on the court. “I’m scared as hell about those other twenty-two hours.” I’m hearing all this, one way or another. It’s coming back to me on campus, on the phone with my family and friends. It was pissing me off. I knew I would figure it out on the court. My game was ready. Of that much I was sure. As for the other shit, damn, I was about to be twenty-one that June. Leave my personal shit out of it. People just didn’t want me to enjoy my life, I figured.
So that’s when I got that call from Coach Thompson to come in and talk to him, and he confronted me about the car. I will never forget when he said those words: “Do what you got to do.” And he told me to return the motherfucking Benz, which I did.
He also said we still had to perform our due diligence. He had me sit down with his agent, David Falk. Falk represented Jordan, everyone knew that, but he also represented Coach Thompson and most of the Georgetown guys once they went pro. Falk was direct. He thought I should stay in school. Refine my game and improve my draft status. He said I wasn’t even going in the lottery. When he said that, I knew he must be crazy. I think what he really wanted was for me to come back and win a championship for Coach Thompson. I wanted that too! That was the hardest part for me, feeling like there was unfinished business at Georgetown.
But then I told Falk and the other dudes at the agency about everything going on at home. That was one thing that nobody was really talking about—it was the basketball and the off-the-court—but not the most important shit. I had to take care of my family. In The Washington Post, Wilbon said I shouldn’t even pay attention to that. “And as far as your family members and close friends, if they haven’t driven a new Lexus or lived in a 4,000-square-foot house all these years, 360 days ain’t gonna hurt. Tell ’em to drive what they’ve been driving and live where they’ve been living a few more months.” No disrespect to anyone’s opinion, but losing Nana taught me there are only so many days in a person’s life, man, and waiting isn’t always an option.
So at this meeting with Falk and his agency, I told these guys about my baby. About my little sister and her ongoing seizures. About my dad’s legal situation. About my home.
They quieted down then.
Coach Thompson said later he was fine with me going pro after he had a conversation with Isiah Thomas, then the decision-maker for the Toronto Raptors. Coach Thompson told Isiah I was considering entering the draft and asked where he thought I might get drafted. Isiah didn’t say a word. He just raised one finger. Coach Thompson was like, Damn, number one for that little shit?
David Falk and his crew learned the same thing when they started asking talent evaluators in the league. I was going high, maybe even the top pick overall.
Dad hit with more drug charges. Mom and sisters living in a terrible house struggling to pay the bills. One sister with medical issues that we couldn’t afford to treat. My girl living with her family, raising my child without me. Never had no money and dying to let loose. And about to be a top pick, guaranteed millions of dollars.
It wasn’t a choice.
* * *
“I’ve decided to enter the NBA Draft.”
That was how I started the press conference.
On my left was my mom. On my right was Coach Thompson. To his right was David Falk. In front of us was a whole bunch of reporters. Here we were in the McDonough Gym, where my Georgetown journey began with my mom begging for my life, and then me tearing up the Kenner League. I wore a suit. Yes I did. Just like I had done for two years at Georgetown. It was the biggest press conference of my life.
This was almost a month after my decision had first been reported. And maybe I knew, but now I had discussed it, done my due diligence, signed Falk as my agent, and was ready to announce it.
At this press conference, nobody asked me about practice.
It was a sad motherfucker, to be honest. I had prepared a statement explaining why I had to leave. It all boiled down to this: “I definitely plan to further my education, but my family needs need to be addressed right now.” I put my hand on my mom’s shoulder, and she leaned in and kissed me. “She raised me for twenty years and did the best she could. Now I just want an opportunity to do something for her, my little sisters, and my daughter.”
I remember I was asked about the Benz, and I said I needed to drive it to see my sister. Kornheiser wrote the next day that I “could have driven a Taurus and stayed off the nightly news.” I can laugh now. I mean, of course I wanted to live the good life! That was a big part of my decision. But you couldn’t say that shit. If you’re some dude who grew up without shit, the only thing you could mention was getting out of poverty. So I stuck to that script.
Coach Thompson took the moment to talk about the system. He discussed how wrong it was that they couldn’t have Georgetown Hospital help my little sister. That would be an improper benefit that would make me ineligible. “How could they expect a young man to stay in school,” he said in his old-school way, “if going to the NBA was the only way to provide for life’s necessities?”
At the end, it went from emotional to some joking around. Coach Thompson was like, “Ironically, from a recruiting standpoint, it has helped us. That’s the sickness of all of this. I don’t know how many kids that I have lost by going into their homes, and they tell me that they don’t want to go here because I’ll make them stay for four. So now I can bust through the door and say, ‘I let one go!’ ”
Out from under his arm. But he never did let me go. I didn’t speak to him about basketball ever again. But we talked all the time. About life. About making the right decisions. He was always there for me, even after I chose to walk away.
V FROM THE DRAFT TO ROOKIE OF THE YEAR
Self-Expression
When I was inducted into the Hall of Fame, my whole family—Tawanna and all my kids—were getting ready to go to the ceremony.
It was one of those times when I knew I had to keep it straight, we all did. I wore a tuxedo like I was supposed to. Everyone had something formal. So we were getting ready, and we had this big, beautiful dress for my baby girl, Dream, who was the youngest. She was also the one who most reminded me of myself. Mini-me, I sometimes called her. She was still just seven then. So when we showed her the dress, she was like, “No, I’m not wearing that.”
I said to her, “Well what are you wearing then? It’s Daddy’s big night, you got to wear a dress.”
The girl just disappeared. Me and Tawanna looked at each other. She went to her room and was rustling around in the closet. She came back on down after a couple minutes, and she had put on these Reebok Sweats, custom joints, that said IVERSON down the side.
“You can’t wear that, baby girl!” But she was insistent.
The whole family, it was one of those times, man, we all started laughing and couldn’t stop. And here is what I was thinking: This girl is just like her daddy—she just wants to wear her sweats. She could draw like me, this girl, she had a crossover boy, and here she was being stubborn as hell about her style.
I said to her, “Dream, baby, why you going to wear a sweat suit to the Hall of Fame?”
She was just like, “It’s what I like to wear. They have my name on them.”
My heart nearly broke, man. Hearing her proud of that name. Hearing her dead-set on being herself no matter the occasion. She’s my legacy. All my kids are. And really, all the dudes who are out there playing in the NBA, free to be themselves. They are my legacy, too. Because when I think back to the beginning of my NBA career, especially that first year, man, my success, my survival, it was all just as much about me staying true to myself as it was about what I did on the court. Because damn, didn’t a lot of people express a lot of hate each and every step of the way.
But I don’t want you to think I’m some perfect, laid-back father. We still made Dream wear a dress! I was only going to be inducted to the Hall of Fame once.
THIRTY-TWO THE 76ERS
Back home, about two weeks after leaving Georgetown, I was with my Uncle Stevie. We were watching the lottery on NBC. This was where the order of the draft would be determined. No way to even guess where you’re going until you can see who is drafting where.
I’ll never forget it. All the teams had a representative there, waiting to see if they were the lucky winner. The picks went from 13 to 1, and as it got closer, NBA executive Russ Granik announced the third pick went to Vancouver, the second pick to Toronto, and “that means the first pick of the 1996 draft goes to the Philadelphia 76ers.”
Then the man who was representing the 76ers jumps up and starts pumping his fists, high-fiving the dudes he just got the better of. You could tell he couldn’t contain himself. He had to celebrate right then and there. And everyone went along with it, people who had lost out in the lottery, slapping this dude’s hand.
“Who the fuck is that?” I asked Stevie.
Bob Costas answered from the TV. “So Pat Croce whoops it up.”
Pat Croce?
* * *
Couldn’t have scripted it any better. Philly. It made so much sense. My dad’s team was always Philly. The city was not too far from home. Legends had played there: Doctor J, Mo Cheeks, Moses, Barkley. Recently they’d been getting their asses beat (that’s what put them in position to draft so high), but they had Derrick Coleman and Clarence Weatherspoon, and they’d drafted Jerry Stackhouse the year before.
What were they missing? A point guard.
I learned that Croce was part of the new ownership group. They’d bought the team that year. Croce was a fitness freak, had sold his personal training business and formed a partnership with Ed Snider, who already owned the Flyers. Croce was the minority owner, but he was president and the face of the franchise.
It wasn’t just ownership. Everything was new. They had a new general manager, Brad Greenberg. They were about to hire a new coach, Johnny Davis. They had also just completed a new arena, the CoreStates Center, right next to the Spectrum. Maybe it was a relief that I didn’t have to go back to where those Villanova students had said I was the next O.J.
Nana had always said that everything happened for a reason. When I saw the 76ers get the first pick, I knew it had to be them. And I will be honest, I didn’t like the look of the next few teams. Vancouver and Toronto? Wasn’t any way I wanted to live and play in Canada. Milwaukee and Minnesota picked fourth and fifth. Cold weather and small markets.
So after we had kind of begun to see that I would be one of the top picks, we decided on a strategy where I would go work out for one team and one team only—the Philadelphia 76ers. David Falk, my agent, knew if I became the first overall pick, that would raise my profile and my value.
But I had to earn it. I remember going to Philly the first time. They hosted me two weeks before the draft that June. While I had gone to the pre-draft camp in Chicago earlier in the month, I had only gotten measured and met with everyone, rather than doing any on-court work.
When I got to Philly, I met with Croce and Greenberg in the hotel. Croce just went straight to questions about my past, the bowling alley, all that shit. So I told them what happened, and they listened. I mean, it was a concern, but the motherfucking appeals court had already said there was insufficient evidence! They also asked me about my mom, rumors of drug shit, my friends, all that. Later I heard some detective from the Sixers was down in Virginia asking questions about my past, my family, my friends.
The first time people started talking about my friends and my family, I was in high school. So these questions weren’t new to me. But I wasn’t used to being asked directly about it since I got to Georgetown. Coach Thompson had prohibited any questions about my past, from that first press conference my freshman year up until I left Georgetown a couple weeks earlier. During the NCAA Tournament, a reporter asked me about it, and Coach Thompson cut it off quick. The “child” wouldn’t be answering those questions. But Coach Thompson wasn’t around anymore. Now it came up repeatedly—at the pre-draft camp, when I came to Philly, in other pre-draft settings. I dealt with it. Answered the way I knew how. My friends were my friends, and the case was over and done with.
So after talking to Croce and Greenberg, I went out there and hooped. That’s when I felt free, not answering some bullshit questions. Funny part was, at ninety minutes, the basketball was the shortest part. After that it was meeting with the coaches, meeting with Mo Cheeks, who was in the front office then and later became an assistant coach. Then they had me meet with a psychologist for two motherfucking hours. He asked me about how certain things made me feel, watching the way I responded to questions that had nothing to do with being an athlete, taking notes. It was totally foreign to anything I had ever done. I didn’t trust that shit at all and only did it because I had to. It almost seemed like basketball was the last thing on their minds.
I heard the next day the Sixers hosted Marbury, and after that, Ray Allen and Marcus Camby got workouts. No one guaranteed me I would be the first pick. When I was leaving, I spoke to the Philly press for the first time and said, “Now it’s up to them. I haven’t come out and told them this is where I want to be, but they know. The decision rests in their hands now.”
