Before he turned his body into a tattoo canvas, I played against Allen Iverson. It was a July Thursday in 1996, late afternoon, the fading sun draping the playground at Jefferson Davis Middle School in Hampton, Virginia in burgeoning calm.
Before he turned his body into a tattoo canvas, I played against Allen Iverson.
It was a July Thursday in 1996, late afternoon, the fading sun draping the playground at Jefferson Davis Middle School in Hampton, Virginia in burgeoning calm.
My father had been stationed at Langley Air Force Base a year earlier. I had spent that summer, as well as the ’96 summer, toiling in the Hampton Roads area.
Iverson had just finished his sophomore campaign at Georgetown University, just been scooped up by the Philadelphia 76ers with the first pick in the NBA Draft.
As was Iverson’s habit then – and now – the purebred athlete returned to Hampton, his place of birth, during the summer months to hang out with his mom and the close-knit friends he’d cultivated through high school.
In 1996, Iverson and I were both 20. He, obviously, has improved considerably since that time; I’m quite certain I was at my athletic peak.
In other words, if I ever had any true basketball skill, the years between 19-22 were it. As such, I’d established a bit of a reputation in the Hampton Roads area for hitting the open jumper and finding my way to the hole when necessary. The incrimental prestige got me in the door at some fairly exclusive gyms, pounding various hardwoods with college players on summer break and handfuls of university graduates.
Though often the only white face in a sea of ball playing black, racial barriers crumbled under the weight of basketball talent. One thing led to another and I became friendly with my piers, so that one day I got the ultimate invite, though I didn’t know it at the time: Jefferson Davis Middle School, Thursday, 4:30 p.m.
The school itself is dilapidated; the outdoor court about an eighth of a mile from the main building shines like a lighthouse drawing in lost seamen. Many converge on the park, but at certain times, I learned, only the invited are allowed to play.
There must’ve been 100 people firing at the pristine rims of Davis’ main court when I showed up that Thursday at 4:15 p.m. Kids, teenagers and adults of all shapes and sizes shot jumpers and drove to the hoop with purpose.
Unable to locate the guy who’d extended me the invitation, I joined the fray and began warming up.
At 4:30 three guys began clearing the 100 off the court. Surprisingly, they all obliged and Iverson strode onto the blacktop. I stood on the sideline with the rest until the guy who’d invited me caught my eye and motioned me over.
Fifteen had been invited to play that day; the rest had come to watch and hope an invitee or two failed to show. I was the scrub of the group and sat out the first game.
Iverson, clearly not extending himself, scored some and passed more as his team won 11-8.
I took the floor with my five. Prior, I’d prided myself on never feeling the slightest bit intimidated by any basketball situation. There were times in pick-up basketball – during games played to 11 points – when I’d scored all 11 against respectable defense.
But 100 people were watching, and a first-team All-America, clearly destined for NBA greatness, was playing my position for the other team. Plus, I was thin, lanky and, most importantly, white.
Iverson chose to defend someone else.
The tension in my shoulders fell out quickly as we began the game: this was basketball, after all, game of passion for me since the second grade. I hit a jump shot; Iverson swept to the hoop for two buckets. I was priming myself to fire on all cylinders; Iverson was at the playground of his youth having fun. We approached that Thursday evening with drastically different agendas.
I wanted a permanent invitation to the exclusive club; the future NBA star wanted to steer clear of injury.
The score was 6-6 when I picked up a loose ball and plowed full steam ahead toward my basket. Iverson was among two defenders on his team retreating to protect their hoop. He moved toward me, becoming just another basketball player. I halted my sprint, and managed to keep my dribble as I executed an in-and-out move with my left hand. Iverson bit slightly and I pulled the jump shot from 18 feet. The rattling of the chain was pure; members of the crowd crowed.
It was my one chance to “score on” Iverson and I’d made the most of it. He didn’t guard me again that day, and I never received another formal invitation to Jefferson Davis. The friends I’d made said Iverson had left town.
Despite playing at half-speed, Iverson’s ability was undeniable, his quickness ankle-breaking and his diminutive stature eye opening. He’s no bigger than I, standing 6-foot and weighing 165 pounds. And yet, watching him on T.V., I see the thing that makes him a great player, the thing missing that Thursday in 1996: competitive fire.
But I’m still proud of my jump shot. Take that, Mr. Iverson.
