Sneak under a rope. Get freebies to a pre-season game. Skip the new Air Jordans and hit up a scalper for a ticket. Bribe the usher. Become a sportswriter. Catch his charity game in his native Hampton, VA, over the summer. No matter what it takes, every basketball fan should not only attend a game Allen Iverson is playing in, but get close enough to hear him play. Not that watching a 6-0, 165-pound (including the ink) shooting guard go for 40 points isn’t entertaining—of course it is. It’s just that no matter how many games you see on TV or from the cheap seats, no sights can get to the essence of Philly’s finest the way his sounds do.

Even this hyperbolic mag won’t allow me to proclaim AI the best player in the NBA, despite his League-leading 31 points per game. That type of unofficial claim is too difficult to give any player these days, what with Shaq, TD, KG, G Hill and Vince all capable of nights that have you swearing Mike handed them the torch personally. I have no doubts about this statement, however: Allen Iverson is the game’s loudest player.

Forget Jock Jams 6, Tommy Boy should produce an Allen Iverson soundtrack. In the absence of that occurrence, or any courtsides coming your way in the next few months, lend an ear to a game in the life of Allen Iverson.

Slap, Slap. “What’s up?”

This is how it begins. The sound of love, given and received at the inner circle. Like we’ve seen greats receive in the past, Iverson is now offered a hug or kind word from nearly every opponent before the tip. There are no dismissive pounds for the League’s leading scorer. It’s as if his helpless adversary is thinking, “Hey, get on his good side and maybe I can keep my ankle cast-free tonight.” Good luck.

The way Iverson plays—all confidence, daring and speed—opposing defenders can do little to prepare for him. When the 24-year-old Iverson says after an All-Star Game which saw him beat up the likes of Payton, Kidd, O’Neal and Garnett en route to a game-high 26 points on 10-of-18 shots, that he felt like he could “get a good shot off against any of those guys,” how can you argue? How can you ignore the young Jordan in his speech (check Come Fly With Me, about halfway through)? And how can you stop it?

“There’s no way that anyone can stop him from, basically, scoring,” GP says. “When we go up against him, we just hope that his jump shot is off and try to contain him. But he’s really confident that he can score.”

Asked if an opponent ever takes it easy against Iverson, somehow translating his Dream Team dis or occasional bad press into doubts about what the guy can do, New York Knick and (according to each of them) kindred spirit of Iverson’s, Latrell Sprewell, combines a look of incredulity with one of amusement. “No way. Come on,” he pleads. “Allen is as feared as any guy in this League. This is a guy that may put up 35 shots, and any one could put you on a SportsCenter highlight. That’s the thing with him.”

Rightfully respectful of what Iverson can do, the opponents break hands with Iverson and get set for the game to start.

Screech!

Before the first TV time-out, AI is gonna hit somebody with the crossover. The sound is distinct, as Iverson’s signature Reeboks scream at the hardwood for trying to slow them. This is nothing new—Iverson’s killer cross was getting headz open back in the Georgetown days—but it’s worth noting that even now, with an ever-expanding arsenal, Iverson’s ultra-quick crossover remains his ultimate weapon.

“I’m working on my shot, [trying to get to the point] where the rest of the League respects my jumper,” Iverson says. “But if you come out, I can still use my crossover and go to the basket.”

“I learned about that crossover the very first time I played him,” says New Jersey Net and Villanova graduate Kerry Kittles. “We played Georgetown at the Spectrum, and here was this freshman kid—and he was coming into that game with a sprained ankle—who’s getting raves all around the country, and obviously in our conference.

“I remember he was limping the whole game, and even though I wasn’t really guarding him much, I got him on a switch one play, and he did that crossover on me with a sprained ankle and I was like, ‘woooooooh.’ [laughs] With a sprained ankle. From that point on I knew nobody would ever be able to check him because of his speed and his moves. You could just tell.”

NBA players have a great deal of pride. They’ll give their positive clichés about an opponent if you ask nicely, but it’s rare to hear awe. But that’s what Iverson inspires.

“You match up with him out on the wing, and with that dribble he’s just a nightmare to guard,” Pacers’ point guard Mark Jackson says. “He’s an unbelievable talent, and worst of all—if you have to play against him—I think he’s only getting better.”

Spree keeps it succinct: “He can embarrass you with that crossover.”

Thhwaaackk!

Allen Iverson does not live to embarrass his defender, however. You’ve seen the dudes—on the playground, in college, even in the League [Mo Taylor, can you hear me?]—who consider their night complete when they’ve confounded their opposite number. That is not AI’s way, and it becomes obvious as soon as his body slams gracelessly against the floor.

As nice as he is with the ball, even Iverson’s crossover isn’t worth much in the paint. The plodding giants in there have no bones about using a brutish method to stop Iverson: they foul the shit out of him. The fact that through the Sixers’ first 52 games (10 of which AI missed with a broken thumb) Iverson was sixth in the League in free throws attempted indicates just how often AI is willing to take the punishment.

Piston reserve center Don Reid played with Iverson at GU, and was instantly impressed with his willingness to get hit. “He was always very determined to play that way. Coach [John] Thompson was always telling him, ‘Stay out of the lane. Stay away from the big guys.’ But he would keep going in there.”

“The best thing about him is his tenacity for the game,” Kittles says. “Sure, he loves the game, he plays to the crowd, he’s exciting and all that, but he plays hard…He’s a tough kid. When you have a guy that talented and that tough, nobody can stop him.”

And while Iverson—a former All-State quarterback, remember—will take a beating, he doesn’t just soar in blindly. Iverson knows exactly what he’s doing. His body control is such that in all but the most violent collisions, he can still get the ball reasonably close, if not in, a number of ways. He’s got the straight-at-the-tin finishes—fellow GU product and current Piston Jerome Williams remembers Iverson finishing off one pick-up game move by “dunking right over Alonzo Mourning and Dikembe Mutombo. Caught it right on them,”—the Stephon Marbury-style, high-flying banks and the Jax-like tear-drops. Pick your poison.

If you’ve read even one story, or seen even one interview with Iverson, then you already know what he says about his unique style of play. Like a mantra, Iverson repeats lines like “I play every game like it’s my last,” and “I rely on my heart before my talent and my athletic ability.”

As Marbury points out, it’s a risky strategy. “He takes a beating,” says the Nets’ leader. “I mean, six years from now, I hope he ain’t doing that, or he’s going to be hurting hard, man. I know, because I’m probably one of the biggest, strongest guards in the League—I go like 195—and I get bruises. So I know he takes a beating.”

Iverson retracts his fearless stance a bit when I repeat Steph’s quote to him. “If that’s what he said, that’s how it is, I guess,” Iverson says. “But I am not trying to get hurt.”

And after an ugly home loss to Phoenix that saw him receive far fewer free throws than the contact he took dictated, Iverson said, “They [the referees] think I was initiating contact. I’m 165 pounds soaking wet, why would I initiate contact? I try to avoid it.”

Regardless of his ultimate strategy, Iverson’s approach has earned hella respect. “Allen Iverson is a competitor, and he is very courageous,” says Jeff Van Gundy, coach of the Knicks and the Eastern Conference All-Star Team. “The way he throws his body around, drives to the hole and gets banged and yet comes back for more, I think that says a great deal about his courage and his will to win.”

Clang!

A missed shot may not sound different coming from the hands of Allen Iverson, but he sure makes this noise a lot. When you combine AI’s 31.2 shot attempts per 48 minutes [four takes ahead of second-place C Webb] with his 42 percent field goal percentage, it doesn’t take Stephen Hawking to figure out that Bubbachuck misses more shots than anyone else in the NBA.

“I’ve been taking a lot of shots since I was a little kid,” said Iverson after his February destruction of the Kings, when he went 20-of-40 from the field en route to tying his career-high of 50 points in a 119-108 Sixer win. “I’m the scorer on this team, like Theo [Ratliff], Eric Snow and Aaron McKie are the best defenders…[Asking me if I mind taking 40 shots] is like saying, ‘Theo, do you wish you didn’t have to play defense?’”

Not everyone is impressed with Iverson’s rapid-fire mentality. Grant Hill for one. Asked if he appreciates the way Iverson picks up his points, all quick and choppy as opposed to his own flowing grace, GH says simply, “No. I think he shoots too much.” Apparently undeterred by the fact that Iverson’s one career playoff series victory is one more than Hill has, Hill’s not finished.

“The main thing is, if you look at Jordan, he didn’t start to win and have success until he started to share the wealth. Some could argue Allen doesn’t have that kind of wealth on the team; some could argue he does. I know I couldn’t play with a guy putting up 30 shots a game, but I’m not [the subsequently traded] Larry Hughes.”

BTW, Hill is a whopping four spots behind Iverson in the shots/48 minutes race. And he plays with Jerry Stackhouse.

Where Hill sees a guy who may be holding his team back, Pacer coach Larry Bird, who knows a thing or two about taking big shots, sees a guy who does what he needs to. “I’m not turned off by the amount of shots. The thing with him is, they’re winning games with him taking that many shots. When you take that many shots, if you have an off night, you’re probably going to lose the game. But when you’re hitting your shots, you’re going to win going away.”

Snow himself has little trouble with the current arrangement. “What’s the difference between Allen taking those shots and Grant Hill and Jerry Stackhouse taking as many shots as they do?” Snow shoots back when asked what it’s like to play with the man with the rubber elbow.

“That’s a good answer,” I reply. “But still, isn’t it ever tough to—”

“What’s the difference though?!” Snow asks emphatically. “Instead of having three role players in the starting lineup, we’ve got four.”

“Booo. Iverson’s a hog. He’s a thug. He sucks.”

The hating may be rare at First Union Center, but some still whisper. And if you catch a Sixer road game, you’re sure to hear Iverson catch some frustrated drunk’s abuse.

In the Magic Johnson piece in ESPN’s top 50 athletes of the 20th century, Sports Illustrated’s Frank DeFord said something that made me think of Iverson’s image. “[American sports fans] don’t like angry black athletes,” DeFord said. “We don’t suffer them well, even if they have every reason to be angry. But Magic was so happy. You didn’t see a black player, you just saw a player.”

Allen Iverson might just be the player to change all that. He may not be angry—Sprewell’s adjective of choice is “grimy”—but he’s most definitely black, and the fact that Iverson has made millions and is becoming a fan favorite have hardly made up for his frustrations over a poverty-stricken childhood, a wrongful imprisonment and a lifetime of being criticized.

All-Star Weekend provides a chance to look at how Iverson has responded to the haters in the stands, and the League’s executive suites. By being himself. “There’s no question I’m proud of being elected a starter without ever really changing,” Iverson says on his way out of Saturday’s practice. “To be involved in all this is just a dream come true.”

The next day, after he has put on a show for a worldwide audience, Iverson faces the post-game media throng with unprecedented (for him) charm. “I’m feeling accepted more and more, just by getting the votes I got [1.8 million, third most of any All-Star],” Iverson says. “I mean, not every fan is going to love me, and every fan is not going to hate me. The fans I have, I do everything that I’m doing for those people.

“You can’t satisfy everybody…” Iverson continues. “I guess people are just tired of what people are writing, or saying on TV; they’re just trying to understand a person and just see who a person is before you judge them. I don’t understand how people could, you know, listen to reporters and then judge somebody.”

Any negativity heard in the stands is usually negated by the positivity that AI produces. By cupping his hands to his ears, verbally imploring Sixer fans to “Get the f**k up,” or simply by pulling off one of his wild moves, Iverson is often capable of driving his home crowd into a frenzy.

“Last season something came into focus,” wrote Michael Sokolove of the Philadelphia Inquirer last fall. “Iverson was the athlete Philadelphia sports fans had been craving. Who gave a rat’s tail if he came in an unfamiliar wrapping?

“The fans love him—he loves them back.”

“Aaaaahhhhhhhhh!” This rebel yell, birthed by irritation, comes often when you hear Allen Iverson play, directed at a variety of targets.

There’s himself. “The only guy I have trouble with is myself,” Iverson says. “A lot of guys play good defense on me and get up for me, but that’s something I have to deal with night in and night out. It shouldn’t stop me.”

There are his teammates, who understandably have a hard time playing at his level. It’s clear Iverson knows the game, based on his underrated ability to find open men, usually in perfect spots to shoot. But his frustration is rarely directed at a guy who cost him an assist. What Iverson requires is effort. “I need guys to match my desire,” Iverson says. “If we play hard enough, we can go as far as we want to go.”

Picking up Toni Kukoc certainly helps, and the Eastern Conference lacks a powerhouse, but do Iverson’s teammates ever get upset with having to live up to his lofty (and potentially unrealistic) goals? “He’s very competitive and he wants to win,” Snow says. “It’s his whole competitive nature that makes the difference between him and some of the other guys in this League…It’s never hard for me to play with him.”

Lastly, there are the refs, who many Sixer observers swear are following a League edict to make things tough on their tattooed terror. In Stackhouse’s opinion, however, the way Ivey is seen by the officials has changed since his rookie season, when the two were teammates. “Because of our record [22-60], we were seen as a bad team, and bad teams don’t get any calls. There was a lot of frustration there, and it would build over to technical fouls and stuff like that,” Stack recalls. “But I think now Allen is getting more calls, and [when he’s unhappy] the refs understand that anything he says derogatorily towards them is just him being competitive.”

It says here that Iverson still doesn’t get the calls that a guy with his size and ability deserves, and he’s certainly not getting the Jordan Treatment, though Philly coach Larry Brown has started to look for it.

“I haven’t said this, and I guess I have to be like Phil Jackson, but if they can call three touch fouls on Allen in a half, they’ve got to call fouls when he’s driving to the hoop,” Brown said after the home loss to the Suns. “Everybody was worried the handchecking rule was going to benefit Allen. I don’t see it benefiting him one bit and he’s got a coach asking him to drive to the goal, and he’s getting no protection and he’s supposed to be a star in this league. There’s something wrong.”

Swish

Coming after another ferocious drive, or more and more often, on a jumpshot that he’s run off three picks to launch, Allen Iverson makes the game’s sweetest sound on the regular, often in the fourth quarter. As of late February, the Sixers are 12-7 in games decided by three points or less, and you know who’s taking all those key shots.

“He’s almost like a young Michael Jordan,” Reggie Miller says.

Miller’s an interesting player for Iverson fans to watch, because while the two guards have very little in common on the surface, Iverson’s halfcourt game is looking more and more like the petulant Pacer’s. With Snow bringing the ball up court and Ivey starting more and more sets on the baseline, he’s running off as many picks as Reg ever does.

“That’s something I’ve had to get better at, since I never did it in high school and only a little in college,” Iverson says. “It’s something that I work on every day at practice.”

He’s gotten good enough to find room for all those shots, and more and more of them are getting wetted.

And isn’t it the 31.2 ppg that has really quieted all the critics, while Allen Iverson has only gotten louder? His love for his two kids didn’t turn the tide of public opinion. His respectful acknowledgement of the deaths of Wilt Chamberlain and Bobby Phills [Iverson has worn a 13 wristband all season, and made a point to mention why he did it after the All-Star Game] didn’t do it. His love for the fans, specifically the younger ones—he was laughing and signing autographs on the sidelines at the rookie game—hasn’t changed his image.

But he’s taken his play—the only thing that commentators should worry about—to a level beyond reproach. AI is averaging 4.7 apg, 3.9 rpg and 2.0 spg, and his scoring has often been the only thing Philly has going. Iverson has led his team in scoring in 37 of the first 42 games he’s played, including 24 straight at one point. He has taken his undersized and undertalented (albeit well-coached) teammates on his skinny back and is leading them into the playoffs on a high that, thanks to him, they could stay on until the Conference Finals.

To have made it where he has, and to do it his way, is something remarkable. Iverson has been told to change his game, attitude, hair, clothes, friends, tattoos and who knows what else. He’s done none of it, and yet he has become one of sport’s biggest superstars. Allen Iverson has not conformed to the 76ers or the NBA—they’ve conformed to him.

Just watch, when they roll out the next Dream Team, the one that replaces scrubs like Vin Baker and Tom Gugliotta with real players, they’ll be begging AI to be there. And in an irony too delicious for even Iverson to ignore, USA jerseys adorned with the No. 3 will be the hottest shit out.

Ya heard?