The Exaggeration

For almost a week, I’ve been listening to commentators talk about Iverson. They all say virtually the same thing.

1) Iverson remains a potent (if not the most potent) offensive player despite his size and the mileage tread under his soles. He’s still capable of averaging more than his age and, on any given night, can drop more than Bird’s.

2) The baggage Iverson carries isn’t packed quite the way the media stuff it. His “no-practice” mantra isn’t for real, and his trouble winning has more to do with Van Horn, Stackhouse, and C-Webb than the Answer himself.

Here’s the thing…or, at least, my thing: I don’t believe it.

The dude can still score; that much is true. But, he’s far from a good shooter. With a career 42% stroke, the Answer throws up more than a $20 million share of junk bonds. At 3.5 threes attempted per, Iverson’s bricks fill a small arena with long rebounds and fast breaks for the opposition. Consequently, his astronomical 4.4 TOs per game is actually a little higher. Insofar as long rebounds, like turnovers, result in easy scoring opportunities for the other team, Iverson’s errant shooting contributes to his already inconsistent defense.

How many Iverson misses lose a ball game?

As far as the baggage goes, well, we’re not exactly talking pocket-books, are we? Iverson comes with a rap sheet of disgruntled teammates, fed-up coaches, jail time, missed practices, tardiness, and an entourage large enough to make Suge Knight quake. And we haven’t even talked partying yet. Iverson and his crew make Paris and Lindsay look like the high school yearbook editors.

Now, I know most of Allen’s bullet biography is ancient text; these days he’s more spouse and father than chair-tosser and truant. Even those misshapen blots on his record—as a player and criminal—weren’t entirely his fault. Everyone keeps telling us that. Bill Simmons, Scoop Jackson, John Thompson—they all keep saying the same thing.

Yet, has Iverson really been stirred from the nightmare of his history? Do the ghosts of his past flee when he changes uniforms? Or do they haunt his locker like the memory of Stephen’s mother and Sethe’s daughter?

Instead of the Answer, I’ve always thought he’d be better dubbed the Exaggeration. Iverson’s game, his past, his look, his posturing—it’s all hyperbole—like neck tattoos and the filigreed ink on the backs of his hands. More bark than the Big Dog with less sting than the Mamba, he zips by perimeter defenders in a single bound. He’s the Answer to the riddle of his own legend.

He’s…the Exaggeration.