Iverson hasn't changed; he has changed us People say Allen Iverson has changed, but I'm still trying to find the facts that support this widespread perception.  Perhaps they like his game the more they see it, and they're more willing to accept the fact their friends and kids are cheering for him, but that doesn't matter much to Iverson himself.  "I don't care," he says. "All I care about is what my family feels about me -- my friends, teammates, people I care about and know they care about me. Everybody else, I just don't care about them. I wish them well and God bless them, but I don't have time to think about people that don't give a damn about Allen Iverson."  That doesn't sound as though he has changed.  Iverson turned 26 last week, a significant milepost in his life, not only because he had friends who never reached this age, but because his mom always told him that you become a man at 25. It was an eventful year, no doubt about it: He decided he was tired of being branded as unprofessional, and the steps he took to remove that label represent a change. But he still had his coach close to quitting in December, and he also refused to yield to other forms of convention, like the time he put out a CD that bashed gays and women.  "Nothing easy about being Allen Iverson, where everybody is looking at your every move, criticizing you for just saying a curse word when you get mad," he says. "(You) feel like you're some type of villain. The smallest man on the court, but the biggest villain in life."  And still the world's smallest minority -- a gangsta rapper with a 401(k) plan. Still with the persecution complex.  That doesn't sound like he has changed.  It always is neat to see him carrying his kids up to the postgame podium these days, because the kids are adorable. And sure, we all get gooey over a father's affection for his children, and maybe this shows a softer side of Allen -- the one years removed from the bowling alley melee, the jail sentence and the gun and marijuana arrests. You think his life and priorities are in order, and then you consult Sixers president Pat Croce.  "I worry about him all the time," Croce says. "All the time, when he's not in our sanctum or where I can see him."  Interesting. That doesn't sound like he has changed.  On the court, of course, there never has been anything quite like Iverson. He was the league's MVP this year, but he really isn't so much better than he was a year ago. Maybe we just notice him more now because the Philadelphia story is the most compelling of the sports year, or maybe he's just the embodiment of an old John Madden line, the one about how winning is a great deodorant.  That's an easy explanation for the clay-brained among us, who watch slack-jawed as he pinballs his way through the postseason, doing things we often equate with courage. To wit: Allen gets knocked down; Allen gets up and scores. Allen gets flattened with an elbow to the throat in the first quarter; Allen gets up and punishes his assailants with 26 points in the fourth quarter. Allen gets his teeth knocked in; Allen guzzles his own blood and goes on. We watch him get hit, hacked, smashed, clobbered, folded, spindled and mutilated, and he always finds the strength to get back up.  "I don't play with my size," he says. "I play with my heart, and I think I have one of the biggest hearts in this league."  But there's nothing new there, really. He has played this way since grade school. He is utterly fearless, though he usually dismisses that with "it's only basketball." Surely, it's more than that. He plays the game as though his life depends on it.  For almost five years, we only had seen a homegrown kid so brutalized by life that he seemed to have no other feeling but anger. It was what made him so hard. It wasn't so much that he was bad, it was that good and bad seemed meaningless to him, because everything had been taken from him. All that remained was rage, and that rage sustained him, energizing that place intended for his soul.  For almost five years, the fury that governed his life and tailored his game was something we had come to fear.  Now it's something everyone seems so willing to embrace. The networks love him. He is a pop culture icon.  We'll ask it again: Has Allen Iverson really changed?  Hardly. He's the same guy. A lot more punctual when it comes to job responsibilities, perhaps, but the same guy.  It's the rest of us who have changed. We have come to realize that a person's drive and passion are the things that define him, and we have learned to overcome our stupid personal prejudices -- recognizing that there was another reality buried beneath all the cornrows, tattoos, chains and hip-hop attire.  Allen Iverson did that for us. And we should be grateful.  Ask Larry Brown: "Maybe I didn't give it enough thought or time to understand what this kid's about," he says. "That's been the neatest thing about my relationship with him. He doesn't always do it the way I would expect or sometimes like. But I know where his heart is."  If he can admit it, so can the rest of us.  Better late than never.		Author Dave D'Alessandro   Source Sporting News   Return to Articles