Endangered Hoops

So as of today, Michael Jordan is now 48 years old. Forget the indifferent arguments that he could still play today; the man is old. And he’s getting older. Creating some type of MJ tribute almost never works and that’s mostly because the man has been the focal point of an unimaginable amount of post tributes. I still remember watching the time leading up to his second retirement in 1998. As a slight showcase of how iconic he really is, we stopped school to watch his retirement. When SportsCenter brought those old “Jordan Moments” out, I was there leading the 6th grade class in a unified homage. I still have the tapes.

But sooner or later, he will reach a point – if he hasn’t already – where he no longer resembles what we want him to. For now, we will continue to look back in the past at the expense of the future. Normally, running with such talk is stupid. But since today is February 17 and since today is another born day for the Greatest Athlete of All-Time, I will allow it.

Lets head back to Sports Illustrated – I’m sorry about the redundancy – to bring a nice story on His Airness from the fabulous Frank Deford…

Even allowing that we might overstate the point, it is not uncommon for the most memorable of our athletes to reflect their times. Certainly, the Babe was at one with the Roaring Twenties, just as Jackie Robinson perfectly represented the grand societal advances of the postwar years, and as Ali and Billie Jean so symbolized the turmoil of their period. Likewise, Michael Jordan is not merely so extraordinary for what he does. He also has been the right, best athlete for us now, for this relatively serene and altogether prosperous fin de si�cle, when the United States rules alone, as much superculture as superpower.

Read the entirety of the story here…

Follow Sean on Twitter at @SEANesweeney

What once was.

You feel old? I do. Sports can do that to you; it’s like one morning you wake up and everything you grew up with is old, aging or just plain forgotten. Call me obsessed. I seem to talk about this stuff a lot. But life would be worth nothing if it meant forgetting the past.

This morning, Philadelphia Magazine posted one of the more jarring and intimate looks into what it means to be a “has-been.” In this case, the subject is Allen Iverson. Written by Robert Huber, it’s one of the more honest evaluations of the once mighty star turned fallen victim:

Does Allen Iverson have a prayer of making it here? People who know him in America, or think they do, seem to find the idea laughable. How do you go from practically living in casinos and drinking heavily to Istanbul?

“I’m not like I was when I was in Philly,” Iverson says, “when I was 21. I didn’t have five kids. I didn’t have the responsibilities I have now.”

His old teammate Eric Snow tells me he knows Iverson wants to get back to the NBA. But Iverson says no. He’s done that, had his career there. He’s in a new place now, a city and country that have embraced him. There are millions more fans out there, all over Europe, that he can play for. And that’s what he intends to do, because the truth is, Allen Iverson has nowhere else to go.

Gerard Rancinan/Sports Illustrated

This was so fantastic, it reminded me. Flashbacks.

Predictably, the greatest story ever told on the Answer was written around the peak of his powers (2001) by a guy named Gary Smith, who just so happens to be called the greatest sportswriter on the planet. With varying reports coming back from Turkey, some saying Iverson can’t fit in and that the team is disappointed in his play and others offering up rays of light for an adventure that was supposedly destined to fail, this is as good a time as any to dig back into the Archives for a look by Sports Illustrated at the women in both Allen Iverson and Larry Brown’s lives…

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Two women waited in a tunnel, outside a door. Light danced off the diamonds dangling from the black one, and a red rose jiggled in her hand. She was 39. She couldn’t stand still. The white one stood by the wall, unornamented, holding her 92 years and her silence.

The door began to open and close. The younger one sang out greetings to the tall men coming out. Both women’s eyes stayed fixed on the door. At last the two shortest men of all exited the locker room. One wore the tailored suit, short gray hair and wire-rimmed spectacles of a tenured professor. The other’s hair was stitched in cornrows, his skin covered with baggy clothes and tattoos. It was unusual that they walked out together. They had always been so far apart.

“That’s my boy!” cried the younger woman. “My baby won the game!”

“That’s my boy,” the older woman said quietly. “He coached the game.”

The women turned to face each other for the first time. “What’s your name?” said the younger one.

“I’m Ann,” said the older one. “I’m Larry Brown’s mother.”

“Oh my God! My name’s Ann too!” hollered the younger woman. “I’m Allen Iverson’s mother!”

Read the rest of the story here…

Follow Sean on Twitter at @SEANesweeney