The mission was clear: Go to the NBA. Take over. Do so in a way that told the basketball world a new era had arrived.
If you were not a part of his inner circle, Allen Iverson didn't give a damn about you. The thing is, he was atypical in that he wanted you to know it, specifically because it was his way of saying he knew you would never give a damn about him anyway, no matter how much you smiled in his face.
His talent would make you care.
His performance would make you salivate.
His achievements would make you kneel.
All the way to the Hall of Fame, someday.
Iverson's story is not foreign, of course. It's similar to that of many players in today's NBA. Most are African-Americans. Most come from impoverished backgrounds. Almost all strive to elevate themselves to a level of greatness that has forced a global audience to pay attention, to emulate, then join.
Yet very few have ever impacted basketball like Iverson. No matter how hard they try.
"I always tell folks I played every game like it's my last," Iverson said earlier this week, in advance of his Hall of Fame induction on Friday. "And I meant that. But sometimes I don't think people realize what I mean when I say that. It's not just about playing so hard; it's why I played so hard. You know what I mean? It's what I wondered would happen to me if I didn't do it.
"You've got to know my history and how I truly feel to realize where I'm coming from."
But few will ever know. No matter how hard they try.
During to a career that would culminate with Iverson averaging 26.7 points per game, winning four scoring titles and one MVP -- at 6 feet, 165 pounds -- folks witnessed his heroics but barely knew the intimate challenges he faced.
Iverson knew being incarcerated, then granted clemency, wasn't a likable trait for Madison Avenue; that he wasn't the ideal spokesman for the NBA. Iverson knew a visibly polished Kobe Bryant was preferable to the tattoos, cornrows and street persona proudly worn on the sleeves, neck and elsewhere on this former All-American out of Georgetown.
But Iverson also knew everyone couldn't be Bryant or Michael Jordan. He knew that if MJ and Kobe -- and no one else -- were the standard, society wouldn't have a true depiction of NBA stars to come.
"I was 6 feet, so folks could relate to that," he once told me. "I was 165 pounds, so folks could relate to that. But I was also someone who wanted to be me, judged for what I do and who I am, instead of what you say I'm suppose to be. It's true that some [people] don't want to play the game, but a lot of dudes don't know how to. And even the ones that do, most ain't going to be accepted. So what about them?"
Even today that is still a legitimate question.
LeBron James has helped provide answers by showing you he can be a champion, pre-eminent role model and global icon, even if tattoos are draped all over his body. Steph Curry has proven as much, as well, by being a baby-faced, long-range assassin who, at 6-foot-3, looks like a regular dude instead of a Goliath of a man.
From Carmelo Anthony to Chris Paul to Dwyane Wade and beyond, players are speaking not just with their play on the court, but with their willingness to address issues off the court. And although Iverson is no innovator in that department, his willingness to express himself certainly made it easier for athletes to open up more in a day and age that's demanding it, not asking.
