The Mighty Derrickles, Road Warrior

Brooding on the sidelines, a dark and lonely inhabitant of the aptly-titled Underworld, Douganos Collins watched as his men squandered away a fourth quarter lead. "Underworld" his coaching mentors called it, better  known as "NBA Purgatory," is where Douganos finds himself. He is struck with the realization that his men, though spirits high and judgement swift, do not possess the strengths of one thousand NBA Champions. This is what he lives for, for this very moment, to take a group, many of whom were discarded by the previous regime, and have them competing with the best. Douganos is no idiot. He understands the limitations of his men. He pleads with them to get out and run, fearing the contest will become a half-court game -- a game he knows his men are unequipped to win. 

Douganos favors his point guard Jruedeus. In Jruedeus he sees himself. A dedicated young man, willing to put the team on his back for stretches, and a man who possesses no conscience. Any shot is a good one and any shot can fall given the right balance of skill and determination. For all his offensive exploits, Jruedeus lacks size and defensive valor. He fronts his opponent but is unable to alter his desired path. He withstands the crushing blows presented by cross screens but eventually relents. Douganos has to do something. The game is getting away from him. He admires Jruedeus' heart in the face of adversity, but can stick with him no longer. It is time to make a change.

Douganos reaches back into the depths of his memory. He remembers his decorated collegiate career, Illinois State Redbirds in the faraway town of Normal, a town that was anything but. He still checks up on his former university, in fact, they named their gymnasium after him, the only such Division I university gymnasium named after a former player. Douganos recollects the 1972 Olympics in which his men were robbed of their gold bounty. The bad taste never left his mouth. Some lifetimes later in Normal, they revealed a statue of him and his former mentor, coach Will Robinson. The statue looked most unsavory when viewed at the right angle. Some might say it was built in the Greek tradition.

Douganos knows his past glories count for very little in the current NBA landscape. A man's prestige is only worth what he has done the previous day. His mentors warned him of the coach's life -- the sleepless nights, the stress upon familial relations, and gradual loss of one's mental faculties. It was not a life for everyone, and had led many great men to their early graves. Douganos willingly accepts the possible side affects. He simply loves coaching too much to ever leave it behind. He once lived a life of leisure, providing simpleton analysis for the dolts watching at home. The job was pleasurable and afforded him the opportunity to stay close to the game he loved, but the job was not coaching. Nothing was. He knew one day he would return, and return he did to Philadelphyus. 

Douganos sits helpless as the mighty warrior Derrickles carves up his defense. Douganos' past success, three straight wins against Derrickles, worries him. He knows the humble warrior to be of keen memory. Surely Derrickles will find it within himself to bring a little extra to this battle. And then the idea dawns on him. Yes, yes, that is it! That was it all along! Douganos calls timeout and rallies his men.

"MEN," he shouts. "We shall commence a new strategy. Thadysseus, Andronis, Evanthea, come forth!"

The three men, Douganos' boldest defenders, step forward, welcoming the task at hand.

"I need you three to blanket the mighty Derrickles. What say you?"

"YAY," the three defenders chomp in unison. 

"Very well then. CERBERUS COMMENCE!"

On Douganos' word, Thadysseus, Andronis, and Evanthea morph into one hellish creature. Their body becomes that of a maddened hound and their tale a poisonous serpent. 

"It is your duty to protect our basket," instructs Douganos. "Now GET!"

The beast unleashes its fury all over the court. Derrickles is powerless, forced to give the ball up to his teammates. His teammates, though well-seasoned and supremely confident, lack the composure of Derrickles. They turn the ball over and take bad shots. Douganos lets out a bellowing laugh. I've done it, he thinks to himself. I've reenacted the strategy many have used before me. But THIS! No one has seen anything like THIS!

Douganos rests on his good fortune. He possesses three men, all 6'7 or taller, athletic, with long wingspans and quick feet, who can combine and make battle difficult for Derrickles. He knows no other team possesses the resources he does. Two players, yes maybe, but not THREE. The lead once 13 points in Derrickles' favor, has now dwindled to two thanks to the effort of Douganos' three-headed monster.

91-89. 37 seconds left. Derrickles dribbles the ball at the top of the key, milking the game clock. Douganos' beast lurks. Evanthea had been inexplicably discarded. The beast, Thadysseus and Andronis, stand alone. They force Derrickles left, his weaker side. Derrickles progresses undeterred into the lane and leaps with the grace of a spotted tiger. Thadysseus and Andronis have been left behind, the job of basket protection now lies squarely on the shoulders of their teammate, Eltonia. Once a feared warrior in his day, Eltonia no longer inspires fear as he did in his youth. Derrickles contorts his body midair, as only the truly battle-tested can, and floats a shot with his right hand over the outstretched arm of Eltonia. The shot is good! The most beautiful of songs ring out from the gymnasium sky and a single phoenix perches itself on the top of the backboard. The remaining seconds become a free-throw shooting contest of little regard. 96-91 Derrickles.

On his way back to his battle gathering, the normally stoic Derrickles lets out a beaming smile. He relishes in the victory the Gods have bestowed upon him. On the other side, Douganos rests his head in his hands, grief-stricken. He longs for the day he gets another chance. "Derrickles must fall," he tells his men. Even his three-headed beast has failed him. What more could he have done?

This Old Jersey

Somewhere in the back of my closet is an Allen Iverson blue Sixers road jersey, circa 2003. While I can't imagine a situation where I'd ever wear it again, I also can't fathom throwing it away. You see, that jersey is the only remnant I have left from the Allen Iverson era. Were Iverson's prime years worthy of being an era's namesake? Probably not, but I tend to think so.
In the year 2000, the Bulls were coming off an Eastern Conference worst 17-65 record and were unable to attract any of that offseason's premier free agents. Clearly, they were no good and weren't going to be any good for a long time.
I was in eighth grade an used to a winning basketball team. I grew up with Championships and really didn't appreciate how difficult they were to come by. I decided to invest my rooting interest into Allen Iverson and the 76ers that year. It helped that the 76ers were Championship contenders, but more importantly, Iverson's game was the most intriguing of anyone in the NBA at the time.
He was usually the smallest player on the floor, yet was the most athletic. He was a poor outside shooter, yet led the league in scoring five times. He may have been the most inefficient player of his era, and also one of the greatest. Now that's saying something.
In eighth grade we didn't speak of inefficiency. We preferred a more scathing term: "ball hog." Allen Iverson was a ball hog. I heard that for the entire 20-minute lunch period everytime I wore my Iverson jersey. I began to think my classmates were more enraged with Iverson attempting 30 shots a game than anything else. It didn't matter whether he made 8 or 17 of them. Thirty shots was too many, especially for someone as disliked as Iverson.
His somewhat deserved reputation as a chucker is one of the only aspects about his game people remember. He's more known for one/some or all of the following: cornrows, tattoos, being the main target of the NBA dress code, a high school bowling alley brawl, refusing to accept a bench role towards the end of his career, a homophobic rap song, and of course, "PRACTICE, WE TALKIN' ABOUT PRACTICE, NOT A GAME, NOT A GAME, NOT A GAME, BUT PRACTICE."
Translation: thug, trouble-maker, selfish, bigot, and lazy.
If those are lenses which you choose to view Iverson then that's on you. Many have tried to defend him and are usually unsuccessful because he is such a polarizing figure. If you have an opinion on Allen Iverson, you most likely aren't changing it now.
The point of this post was not to reflect on Iverson's basketball legacy or the legitimacy of the negativity surrounding him. I simply wanted to relate how I remember him, and one image sticks out above the rest.
Game 7 in Philadelphia of the Eastern Conference Finals. The Sixers defeated the Bucks 108-91 to advance to the 2001 NBA Finals. If someone asked me to show them a video that summed up Allen Iverson I wouldn't show them the infamous "Practice" video, or the overrated 1996 Jordan crossover, or one of his 11 career 50-point games. I'd show them Game 7, or as I call it, the perfect actualization of an Iverson-led team.
Iverson poured in 44 points on 17 of 33 shooting, including 4 of 6 from behind the arc. He was only a career 42 percent shooter,  31 percent from three, yet made a variety of difficult outside shots that game. He took is customary plus 30 attempts, but did so efficiently.
In my opinion, the best description of Iverson's game was written by FreeDarko founding member Bethlehem Shoals:

 No player before or since has so sincerely believed in one-on-one basketball as a means to victory, imagining it fully while others had been unwittingly dragged into it by their egos. Iverson wanted the ball in his hands until the last possible second and seemed resistant to the idea that anyone else on his team could implement his plan for a possession.

The 2001 76ers were structured around allowing Iverson to take full control of the offense. Every other player fulfilled their role, which rarely included any input on the offensive end. Aaron McKie guarded the bigger guard, in this case Ray Allen, and fed Iverson the ball coming off screens. McKie finished with 13 assists. Tyrone Hill crashed the boards and scored garbage points. He finished with 11 and 10. Dikembe Mutombo was the heart and soul of the Sixers defense. He owned the paint, grabbed rebounds at will and rejected shots. Mutombo had the game of his life: 23 points, 19 rebounds, and 7 blocks. If you were to draw up a perfect game for a Iverson-led team, this would be it.
With a 18 point lead and just under 40 seconds left, Sixers coach Larry Brown took Iverson out:      



Iverson ran across the court with his hand to his ear, imploring the crowd to raise their decibel level. That's the image I will always remember. At that moment, Iverson was embraced by his teammates, coaches, and the basketball world. A player who was never supposed to sustain any level of team success finally did. The Sixers would go on to shock the Lakers in Game 1 of the Finals, Los Angeles' only loss of the playoffs, but Iverson's Game 7 exit will always be the most memorable moment of his career for me.
When I hear things nowadays that Iverson is broke, gambled away all his money, and watching the All-Star Game alone at the bar, none of it surprises me. People revel in the supposed downfall of former athletes, especially controversial ones like Iverson.
It just seems wrong that Iverson is watching an All-Star Game. He surely would have been voted in again this year. I watched ten minutes of his inaugural game in Turkey and he looked like another average player, trying to make a living playing overseas. I had to turn the game off -- it was that bad.
Allen Iverson's NBA career is over but in those who could appreciate his unorthodox approach to the game, he'll live on. Iverson's impact may get tossed aside, but like my jersey gathering dust, it will always be there -- and that's the important thing.