Babe of the Week for April 27, 2013 is...

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The Allen Iverson Dilemma...

It's hard to fathom how modern-day athletes, with the insane amounts of money they make, can find themselves penniless within a few years of retirement or after being run out of their respective leagues, but that's exactly where Allen Iverson finds himself today. But before we go forwards, we must look backwards to see how this all played out.

Iverson developed what was at the time a well-deserved martyr complex after being thrown in prison while in high school over a racially instigated brawl in a bowling alley, where despite the number of people involved in the brouhaha and the requisite panic and pandemonium that ensued, only Iverson and three friends (all black) were arrested, with Allen singled out as the instigator and main protagonist. Turns out the motivations of the prosecution and the judge were nefarious and self-serving in a small-town type of way, but not necessarily racist, even though there was some of that thrown in for good measure.

Iverson attended a high school that was the direct rival of another high school which was in a more affluent part of town, where everyone who was anyone in his town graduated from. So Allen had the temerity to break the athletic stranglehold this particular school held by being the baddest motherfucker in basketball AND football, elevating his teams to elite status. For the bowling alley incident, where not one white person was held accountable for their part in the fight, Iverson was given a 15-year sentence that was rescinded after a pardon from the governor four months after he was jailed, just in time for the basketball and football seasons to end. No one is arguing that race relations in Virginia are peachy-keen, but the motivations behind this incident were mixed with jealousy, pride and envy just as much as it involved race.

For those of you who would like to see more on the trial and the ensuing madness, check out the ESPN 30 for 30 documentary No Crossover-The Trial of Allen Iverson"-

Hard not to have a chip on one's shoulder after all that, so I don't blame Iverson's defiant stance against the world, but it doesn't excuse his transformation from clean-cut high school athlete to wanna-be thug. Iverson was NEVER a thug. He wasn't much of a student, either, but that's besides the point. Here is the lesson black athletes who posture for the sake of street credibility fail to realize-once fans begin to universally embrace you, you can chill because everything's gonna be alright. Iverson never received that memo, and if he did, it was drowned out by his homeboys, an entourage that at certain points numbered around fifty. That's fifty jive-ass leeches, all with both hands out looking to bleed him dry.

Iverson's biggest mistake, aside from his idiotic allegiance to the very people that played a major role in his financial ruin, was having children he clearly neglected. He was never cut out to be a father, or any type of role model. He continually let his kids down with the constant boozing, gambling binges where he would sometimes lose as much as one million dollars in one night, and the irresponsible stewardship of his now depleted fortune. Yet he cries on cue whenever he speaks of them in public. I'm not a fan of this type of hollow, overtly emotional showboating, especially when we have records of his divorce proceedings where the judge himself stated he did not think he was fit to be around his own children.

How broke is he now is the question. nobody really knows. He's had his bank accounts frozen by the courts over unpaid child support, property confiscated, and half of his Reebok $30-million dollar endorsement contract, which he can't touch until he's 55, belongs to his ex-wife. What he does between now and then is pure conjecture, seeing as he's remained a recluse and refuses to get help for the only thing besides the cornrows and the attitude problem he'll be known for-a raging and out of control alcohol abuse problem. There is no "Answer" to this one. Blowing through an estimated $155 million in salary and $30-$40 million more in endorsements is inexcusable, especially given today's economic climate, so there will be no pity for this guy. What is unfathomable is how gullible these supposed street-smart cats are to let themselves be bamboozled by their useless friends, and in predictable fashion they all leave once the money's gone. I guess I would drink myself into oblivion too if I woke up one morning to find my career, family, cash, and friends all gone at the same time.

This is a disgraceful end to an incredible and highly improbable sporting life. At the age of 37, which is considered young by today's standards, Allen Iverson is already an old man, unable to pay for the necessities of his children and no longer able to cash any more checks doing the one thing he was ever good at. His problem wasn't just the booze. The drinking is a residual consequence from a life lived at the edge of two diametrically opposed worlds-the grinding poverty and family dysfunction of ghetto life and the bucolic bubble that surrounds any young star athlete. Most inner city dwellers who are out there catching all kinds of hell do so anonymously, where no one can see and no one really cares. They don't have the benefit of a community full of adults who gleefully find nothing warped about putting a teenager on a pedestal simply because he can play ball, and that's where the problem starts-with the enablers.

When the adults in your life who are supposed to supply you with guidance, discipline, and tough love, morph into groupies hovering around you because of your fame, when a young man like Allen Iverson sees how easy it is to manipulate grown men and women for the purpose of avoiding the responsibilities we must all face, when you have ass-kissers and yes-men telling you nothing is ever your fault and that you're the greatest, this is the end result. A fortune wasted, a life on the brink, and innocent children left behind as collateral damage as a testament to a life napalmed to oblivion.

Iverson was the apotheosis of the ultimate playground basketball talent. As a player, he exhibited the prototypical streetball game-a selfish, uncoachable one-on-one chucker with an attitude problem of Pythagorean proportions. The streets are littered with cats like this. The difference is Iverson made it to the big time and excelled despite himself, garnering a rebel-without-a-pause, me-against-the-world persona along the way. It served him well because his talent was incandescent, and suburban white teenagers ate up the myth of the ghetto pirate who made it while bucking the system to the tune of millions of dollars in apparel and sneaker sales. But when the all-night partying, drinking and gambling binges caught up with him, he now has to look at himself and explain to his children what demons drove him to the type of freefall that, unlike his less talented inner city brethren, he was perfectly positioned to avoid and chose not to.

Film Recommendation of the Week...

Little Fugitive

Release Date-October 6, 1953.

Running Time-1 hour 20 minutes.

First, there was the post-WWII Italian Neo-Realist Movement, which began with some excellent films like "Bicycle Thieves" and others previously featured on this blog. Then came this film, an American independent production from 1953 which is credited with sparking the French New Wave of cinema of the 1950's and 60's. Shot on a shoestring budget with hand-held 35mm cameras that did not capture sound (the dialogue was dubbed after filming) and using non-actors for all the roles (not one actor ever appeared in another role for any other film), "Little Fugitive" has been an inspiration to countless directors and film makers and still holds its' own as an exemplary piece of fine film making. 

The plot is sparse, capturing a day in the life of typical Brooklyn youths, where adventure is found in the escapist wonderland of Coney Island. It's charm lies in its' lack of pretense and creative use of cinematography, capturing the vibe of the borough through use of a hidden camera. This technique allowed the director license to capture everyday people during the course of their day as if life were being lived one step at a time. This period piece may sound dated, but its' innate charm of a bygone era is what makes the work so riveting. If you're not a sentimentalist or a nostalgia buff, this film is not for you. There are no explosions, no car chases, no damsels in distress-just the tale of a little boy who finds himself on a journey of discovery that would be unheard of in today's jaded and dangerous world.

It is a world where the innocence of youth isn't marred by pedophiles, freaks, and the myriad of hapless assholes that would make spending a day at Coney Island in peace practically impossible today. The little boy, who runs off after mistakenly thinking he shot his own brother with a bb gun, becomes lost and at the same time becomes a part of the carnival world of what was then the most famous amusement park in the world. It's almost shocking to think of Coney Island as a refuge for a boy who believes himself to be in such trouble, now that in the year 2013 Coney Island is basically one gigantic and pathetic slum. 

This film was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Writing and Best Motion Picture Story and won the Silver Lion Award at the Venice Film Festival. It was shown in over 5,000 theaters world-wide and was selected in 1997 for preservation by the Library of Congress to the National Film Registry as being "culturally, historically or aesthetically significant". High praise indeed for such a small, independent project. 

Morris Engel and Ruth Orkin-

What makes the film is the cinematography. Both Morris Engel and Ruth Orkin were established photographers at the time, and they took an approach wherein every shot is akin to a black-and-white photograph shot in living time. They both collaborated in two more films, "Lovers and Lollipops" and "Weddings and Babies", and all three can be purchased via the Kino Video site, which along with Criterion do their best to keep films such as these alive. If you fancy yourself a fan of film, these are three that are a must-have in any collection. 

NCAA Final Four...

We've just witnessed the worst NCAA basketball tournament in years. Aesthetically, it was an unwatchable, excruciating nightmare of incredibly fit athletes masquerading as basketball players. We were subjected to point guards who can't run the point, obnoxious shooting guards who can't shoot, and absolutely no big men to speak of. There wasn't one player 6'9" or over that anyone would consider a proper, solid NBA prospect, much less a future NBA All-Star. The highly politicized and incorrigibly corrupt meat grinder environment that is the AAU high school basketball circuit can be blamed for much of what has lead to this egregious stunting of talent, but it continues on the college level. Coaches have become the stars, signing multi-year extensions for taking a bunch of overachievers deep into the tournament through sheer grit and determination, with their seven-pass minimum offenses and tenacious man-to-man defenses that have taken all the joy out of the game. Then again, if there's no talent to speak of, how fun could these games be to watch?

Talent is elemental to the game. Without it, all we are left with are idiot, rage-a-holic coaches screeching at their players, while the scared-shitless players run plays with all the joie de vivre of an Eastern Bloc prison crew. Where was the charisma? Where was the panache? When was the last time we saw someone like Chris Jackson of LSU? Bobby Hurley of Duke? Kenny Anderson of Georgia Tech? Love him or hate him, Stephon Marbury was one hell of a player during his one and only year in college. He was incredible to watch. Even if you couldn't stand him, you had to appreciate the talent that put him head and shoulders above his peers-



What did we get THIS year? For the Michigan Wolverines, we got a bench scrub, Spike Albrecht (named after a WWII German general who was executed for taking part in the July 19th plot to assassinate the Fuhrer), a pasty white, unathletic 5'11" reserve who scored enough points in the first half of the championship game to land him a possible date with douchebag Hollywood celebrity Kate Upton. He tweeted her after the game, where no doubt her fleeting interest waned after he was held to ZERO points in the second half, putting paid to his underdog storyline. On the other side, the Louisville Cardinals busted out with the third-place podium finisher of the Minnesota Semi-Annual Paul Bunyan look-a-like contest, a burger named Luke Hancock, who is as dorky as his name implies. He won the tournament MVP and will never come close to being considered for an NBA tryout.

Corky going for his in the first half-

The law firm of Hancock and Albrecht-

As forgettable as the tournament was all the way around, Jalen Rose at least made it somewhat interesting with his incessant and non-stop whining over his former college teammates. Rose was the producer of the ESPN 30 for 30 documentary "The Fab Five", which featured the Michigan Wolverine team of twenty years ago that he cannot put in his rear view mirror. He has grossly exaggerated the cultural importance and legacy of a team that played together only two years, won absolutely nothing, and was party to the biggest bone-headed play in sports history, the infamous time-out called by Chris Webber that sealed their fate against a North Carolina Tarheels team that had no business being on the same court with these overrated cats.

Rose made a big stink on the airwaves of ESPN over the fact that Webber hadn't committed to going to the championship game to sit hand-in-hand with his old teammates, which being played in Atlanta, was about 15 minutes away from his crib. Newsflash for you, Jalen-maybe, just maybe, Chris Webber doesn't give a fuck about the whole contrived Fab Five mystique you've concocted out of thin air. Maybe that brotherhood you guys developed in college doesn't means shit to him anymore.



 Let's go into detail over why Jalen Rose can't let this shit go. Rose feels compelled to fetishize the Fab Five storyline because he feels the university owes it to them to honor the team and their achievements. The history books indicate a different reality, since their very existence has been completely stripped from the record books. According to the University of Michigan and the NCAA, the Fab Five never happened. I believe Rose thinks the university owes Chris Webber a personal apology, when the reverse is true. Let's not forget the school-imposed sanctions would not have come down if Webber hadn't lied to a grand jury about his relationship with Michigan booster Ed Martin. Not only was Webber found guilty of lying to a grand jury, he had to pay $700,000 out of his own pocket to pay for University's legal fees. None of this happens if Webber just tells the truth.

It's in Rose's best interest to keep the memory of the Fab Five alive, because he benefits financially from the promotion and sales of the documentary, the highest-rated doc in the whole ESPN 30 for 30 franchise. But it seems as if hindsight is blinding him to the realities of what the experience meant for others like Chris Webber. This is understandable, given that despite the talent on that team, two members never made the NBA, and Rose and Juwan Howard became pedestrian journeymen professionals with careers that were nothing to speak of. The only one who lit it up in the pros was Chris Webber, considered one of the most talented big men to play during his era. Collectively, the did pretty much nothing in the NBA. The only player from the Fab Five to win anything was Howard, who won an NBA ring last year riding the pine for the Miami Heat.

Since Rose had a forgettable pro career with almost no highlights to speak of, maybe this is why it's so important for him to let everyone know how badass his college team was. Impotent and ineffectual is a more accurate description of the legacy of the Fab Five. Maybe if there was some justification for how things turned out this would make sense. But from the current standpoint all this bellowing and posturing is nothing more than the flatulent, flailing gasps of a man who, despite having gotten paid very handsomely playing pro sports, still cannot let those all-too-fleeting glory years go. All two of them. And oh yeah, Michigan lost, so it doesn't matter.