NBA 2001: White, suburban America, meet Allen Iverson Allen Iverson has always done things the hard way.  So when it came to winning over a skeptical basketball public, Iverson didn't clip his cornrows into a crewcut. He didn't put on a suit to cover up his tattoos. And he didn't smooth over his street slang with million-dollar words.  He swallowed his own blood.  The NBA in 2001 will be remembered for a lot of things. It was the year Shaq and Kobe began building a new dynasty in Los Angeles. It was the year a high school degree became enough of a qualification to play in the league. It was the year Mike came back, again.  But most of all, it was the year Allen Iverson won over America. White America. Suburban America. Corporate America.  From the jerseys that dot every corner of the country to the sneakers that every kid has to have to the petrifying crossover dribble that every playground wannabe tries to imitate, Iverson has imprinted his image as a sports superstar on Americana.  How did he do it? Five years ago, Iverson was the poster boy for everything that was wrong with the NBA. A checkered past that included jail time. A kid, then another, out of wedlock. A defiant attitude. A marijuana arrest. A selfish game, with lots of style and very little substance. A knucklehead, as they say in the trade.  How did he do it? He swallowed his own blood.  White, suburban, corporate America is always the last to get it. Those folks are too busy catching a tag sale at the mall, or raking the leaves on the front lawn, or hosting a dinner party on Saturday night.  So on Memorial Day, when white, suburban, corporate America was honoring its country by overcooking red meat on its gas grill, it may have had the TV on in the background. A basketball game. Philadelphia vs. Milwaukee. Playoffs, right?  That guy Iverson's in this game, isn't he? Look at that hair! And all those tattoos! The guy shoots about a thousand times a game. What a terrible pass. Slow down!  But a funny thing happens to white, suburban, corporate America when Iverson is on TV. More and more, it is compelled to watch.  That is what Iverson does. He makes us watch. There is something about him that almost subconsciously hypnotizes us into believing that if we change the channel or head for the fridge, he is going to do something we may never see again.  Like swallow his own blood.  One night between games of the NBA Finals, several writers were sitting in the hospitality suite of a Philadelphia hotel, doing the two things writers are best at -- drinking free booze and talking shop. One writer asked another to explain the otherwise inexplicable appeal of Iverson.  Steve Bulpett of the Boston Herald, who has the longest current uninterrupted run of any NBA beat writer, made an interesting point. Steve harkened back to the 1980s rivalry between the Celtics and the Lakers and talked about the incredible drive of Larry Bird and Magic Johnson.  He explained that what made those players appeal to the masses was not 3-pointers or no-look passes or triple-doubles but their desire to compete. You watched Bird and Magic play, and you knew they were not faking it. It was genuine, and that was all the viewer really wanted -- honest, hard-nosed competition.  And, he added, that's what you get with Iverson. Beneath the rows and the ink and the ice and the Timberlands was a raging four-alarm fire of desire that everyone from the classrooms to the boardrooms of this country could identify with.  The fact that he was five-foot-nuthin', a hundred-and-nuthin' just made him even more compelling. Someone knocked him down? He'd just bounce back up, ready for more. Someone blocked his shot? He'd just go at 'em again, harder and faster. Like Bird and Magic, he was genuine. He would do whatever it took to win.  Including swallow his own blood.  It was the end of Game Four of the Eastern Conference finals, a game the 76ers had to have. Already nursing a bruised tailbone and elbow bursitis, Iverson made sure they got it. Now, with the Bucks making a final, futile scramble, Iverson took a hard elbow to the mouth and went down.  There is a rule in the NBA that says any player who is bleeding must come out of the game and cannot return until the bleeding has been stopped. Iverson had a huge gash on his tongue that was filling his mouth with that unmistakable thick, salty taste. Spitting it out would only get him a seat on the bench, and he was not coming out of the game.  And while white, suburban, corporate America was swigging down a beer or sipping on a wine spritzer, there was Iverson, looking like a 7-year-old with a mouthful of castor oil. He tipped his head slightly and gulped hard.  You can keep your parades through downtown Los Angeles and your ever-expanding video collection of Michael Jordan highlights. We choose to commit 2001 to the memory bank with a far more lasting image.  Allen Iverson, swallowing his own blood.  Iverson could have worn a milk moustache or built a hospital or visited ground zero. There is nothing wrong with those things, but they are what white, suburban, corporate America wants to see. They are not Allen Iverson. He has always done things the hard way.  Without changing himself at all, Iverson changed how we all feel about him. By compelling us to watch, he made us look closer. And when we did, we saw things that we'd like to think we see in ourselves, our friends, our spouses, our children. Things like honesty and courage, determination and heart. Things you can't fake. Things that are genuine.  Five years. What took us so long?		Author Chris Bernauca   Source Sports Ticker   Return to Articles