A.I. = Philly
There is a legend that goes around Philadelphia boxing circles about a local fighter named Eric Harding, who, back in 2002, was good enough to get a shot at Antonio Tarver. In the middle of the fight, Tarver catches Harding flush with a left and knocks the local kid down. Somehow Harding gets up and back to his corner, but the assault continues — the next round it happens again, and Harding is clearly standing on weak legs. Sensing this, Bill Paige, the match's referee, comes in at the eight-count and checks on Harding. "Can you continue, are you OK?" he asks, needing only a simple nod to keep the fight moving. But Harding doesn't reply "yes" to Paige. "I'm from Philadelphia," he snaps back instead. The fight goes on. (In the end Harding lost, but that part barely matters.)
The stereotype, that around here you have to be dragged out of the ring, is fitting. Think about not only fighters, but also Philly guards, and the debate between smashmouth football and the spread offense. We're a town that may know Andy and Donny are great, but won't ever be able to love them like we did Buddy and Randall. Here, we embrace guys not just because they win, but because of how they try to win.
Or, at least, we should. For years, Philadelphia embraced Allen Iverson as our own. He was the quintessential Philly athlete. Now, with the era of new stats suggesting that he's no better than a glorified Will Bynum, the 76ers and the Nuggets improving in his absence, and the rumors about his next location ranging from the depressing (Memphis, the L.A. Clippers) to the bizarre (Olympiakos in Greece) — the only question Iverson seems to be the answer to is "Who needs a sideshow?" Worse, an entire generation of kids will remember him like this.
Look, maybe The Answer isn't a championship-level player anymore, but around these parts he should still be remembered that way. Allen Iverson was the most talented athlete to come through Philadelphia since Erving and Schmidt ruled the early '80s. He was McNabb's talent crossed with Brian Dawkins' heart (hell, he might have been a better football player than either if he'd pursued that route), half Bernard Hopkins, half Cole Hamels.
Another legend: A couple years after the Sixers' 2000-01 championship run, there as an awful snowstorm — bad enough that most 76ers were unable to get to the stadium, and the organization was threatening to postpone the game. In the middle of all of this, A.I. pulled up (for the first time in memory he had driven himself), hopped out of some giant SUV and started jogging into the tunnel. There an exec stopped him and told him the game might not go on. A.I. didn't understand. "We got four other guys?" he asked. The exec said yes. "Then let's go!" Iverson yelled.
So the next time we hear about how Iverson was bad for the league, or about how someone like Nate Robinson is the new Answer, or about how some new glorified role player is better — remember that, despite his Newport News upbringing and his current undisclosed area code, A.I. is Philly: You'd have to carry him out of the ring. And in Philly, that should still mean something.
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