7 - Game Five
DETROIT______88
PHILADELPHIA_78
Allen Iverson:
Minutes Played: 48 FGM-A: 14-30 3GM-A: 1-5 FTM-A 4-4 Rebounds: 1 Assists: 7 Personal Fouls: 3 Steals: 0 Turnovers: 4 Blocked Shots: 0 Points: 34
Allen Iverson's Sixers storm into the Palace hoping to preserve their playoff dreams. Things look good; near the end of the first Quarter they lead 24-17. Thanks to Allen Iverson indomitable will in a tight situation they continue to lead for most of the first three Quarters. With eleven minutes remaining in the game, coming down from a 3-point attempt, Allen Iverson breaks his ankle. Due to his remarkable pain threshold he is able to conceal the full extent of his injury from his team and the tens of thousands of fans watching at home in Philadelphia. Andre Iguodala replaces Allen Iverson, who then treats his own injury with a combination of King's Leaf and solemn prayers to Stilletta the Goddess of Feet and Ankles. He cunningly conceals the various magiks which he has wrought from the television cameras. In only 19 seconds he has made an almost complete recovery from what would have been a season-ending injury for a normal mortal and re-enters the game. In the remaining minutes he makes 3 shots and 2 free throws and also dishes 2 dimes. Despite his remarkable heroism and unvincelike invinceability, in his heart of hearts he knows that he has already decided to lose the game in order to save the Kingdom of Vague Areas, his childhood home and the seat of his father's Empire. Otherwise, we all know full well that Allen Iverson could not have been defeated.
In the postgame wrap-up, he appears confused, his mind is tied up with the unpleasant necessity of returning to a life of warfare. When asked how he feels, he wistfully remarks that he feels like doing it all again. Only you and I know how true this statement really is.
After the game, he steps the long-way through a shadow and appears in Philadelphia where a black Cadillac with tinted windows picks him up and takes him home. He enters his private sanctum and picks up his 'cordless' phone.
"Father, I will come to your aid."
"Oh, thank the four hundred heavens, this is the best news I've heard in a decade."
"I will arrive within your present month."
"You can leave that soon?"
"Yes I need only make a few phonecalls and pack a bag."
"Very good. Oh, one more thing, your cousin, the King of the Mermen, he has also concealed his true nature to play in your basketball league, is this not true?"
"I'm not sure, there's five immortals playing in the NBA this year."
"Hmm, well I could really use his assistance in this campaign. You know who I mean, the King Mackerel, Lord of All Mermen, he has the head of a gigantic catfish."
"Oh yeah, Tracy. No, the Rockets haven't been eliminated yet, so I don't know. I'll call him though. Maybe he'll throw the series too. The earth will come to understand our ways in time."
Allen Iverson hangs up his golden cordless and picks up a regular phone and calls yours truly.
"Matteus Von Mustard, I have a favour to ask you."
"By all means Allen, how can I be of service?"
He goes on to describe to me the ins and outs of his recent playoff series and the conversations with his father (and so, dear reader, you can believe what you read, for it is only one step removed from the lips of Iverson himself) and then asks if I can protect his family from any supernatural forces which might threaten them during his absence of five earth days, he informs me that I will not have to deal with earthly dangers because he has a "Thik Cru" which will look after them. As a billionaire, swashbuckler and paranormal investigator, I assure him that no otherwordly peril shall beset his family while he is gone.
And so, while the other eliminated players go off on vacation to Tahiti and Miami and the Bikini Atol, Allen Iverson slips out of our era and enters into the Vague Areas to ride at his father's side in a five-century battle against the Fairie Brown and his field generals Chance Buildups, Richard "The Ripper" Camel-Tonuge and Ssssuh Benwalla. Such is the life of a true hero. I hereby wish him whatever luck remains to him after Chance's meddling.
"Godspeed you Black Emperor's son, may you return to us for another illustrious season in the autumn!"
PHILADELPHIA_78
Allen Iverson:
Minutes Played: 48 FGM-A: 14-30 3GM-A: 1-5 FTM-A 4-4 Rebounds: 1 Assists: 7 Personal Fouls: 3 Steals: 0 Turnovers: 4 Blocked Shots: 0 Points: 34
Allen Iverson's Sixers storm into the Palace hoping to preserve their playoff dreams. Things look good; near the end of the first Quarter they lead 24-17. Thanks to Allen Iverson indomitable will in a tight situation they continue to lead for most of the first three Quarters. With eleven minutes remaining in the game, coming down from a 3-point attempt, Allen Iverson breaks his ankle. Due to his remarkable pain threshold he is able to conceal the full extent of his injury from his team and the tens of thousands of fans watching at home in Philadelphia. Andre Iguodala replaces Allen Iverson, who then treats his own injury with a combination of King's Leaf and solemn prayers to Stilletta the Goddess of Feet and Ankles. He cunningly conceals the various magiks which he has wrought from the television cameras. In only 19 seconds he has made an almost complete recovery from what would have been a season-ending injury for a normal mortal and re-enters the game. In the remaining minutes he makes 3 shots and 2 free throws and also dishes 2 dimes. Despite his remarkable heroism and unvincelike invinceability, in his heart of hearts he knows that he has already decided to lose the game in order to save the Kingdom of Vague Areas, his childhood home and the seat of his father's Empire. Otherwise, we all know full well that Allen Iverson could not have been defeated.
In the postgame wrap-up, he appears confused, his mind is tied up with the unpleasant necessity of returning to a life of warfare. When asked how he feels, he wistfully remarks that he feels like doing it all again. Only you and I know how true this statement really is.
After the game, he steps the long-way through a shadow and appears in Philadelphia where a black Cadillac with tinted windows picks him up and takes him home. He enters his private sanctum and picks up his 'cordless' phone.
"Father, I will come to your aid."
"Oh, thank the four hundred heavens, this is the best news I've heard in a decade."
"I will arrive within your present month."
"You can leave that soon?"
"Yes I need only make a few phonecalls and pack a bag."
"Very good. Oh, one more thing, your cousin, the King of the Mermen, he has also concealed his true nature to play in your basketball league, is this not true?"
"I'm not sure, there's five immortals playing in the NBA this year."
"Hmm, well I could really use his assistance in this campaign. You know who I mean, the King Mackerel, Lord of All Mermen, he has the head of a gigantic catfish."
"Oh yeah, Tracy. No, the Rockets haven't been eliminated yet, so I don't know. I'll call him though. Maybe he'll throw the series too. The earth will come to understand our ways in time."
Allen Iverson hangs up his golden cordless and picks up a regular phone and calls yours truly.
"Matteus Von Mustard, I have a favour to ask you."
"By all means Allen, how can I be of service?"
He goes on to describe to me the ins and outs of his recent playoff series and the conversations with his father (and so, dear reader, you can believe what you read, for it is only one step removed from the lips of Iverson himself) and then asks if I can protect his family from any supernatural forces which might threaten them during his absence of five earth days, he informs me that I will not have to deal with earthly dangers because he has a "Thik Cru" which will look after them. As a billionaire, swashbuckler and paranormal investigator, I assure him that no otherwordly peril shall beset his family while he is gone.
And so, while the other eliminated players go off on vacation to Tahiti and Miami and the Bikini Atol, Allen Iverson slips out of our era and enters into the Vague Areas to ride at his father's side in a five-century battle against the Fairie Brown and his field generals Chance Buildups, Richard "The Ripper" Camel-Tonuge and Ssssuh Benwalla. Such is the life of a true hero. I hereby wish him whatever luck remains to him after Chance's meddling.
"Godspeed you Black Emperor's son, may you return to us for another illustrious season in the autumn!"
posted by Matthew Lie - Paehlke | 6:00 PM
3 Comments:
You are a wonderful scribe Matteus, one worthy of your epic subject.
I have some information that might be of use to in your quest to chronicle The Truth about The Answer.
I have a friend who played AAU ball with AI's club (though AI was slightly older and on a different team) back in VA. This friend of mine was a country boy, and honed his game in his back yard, alone, far out on VA's isolated Eastern Shore.
AI's high-school exploits were local legend. He showed up to every game late - cool, calm, and collected after cheefing out in his car in the parking lot. He began every game by stealing the ball from the opposing point guard, taking a couple of dribbles, and unleashing a thunderous dunk. He did this for the first few possessions of the game, and then, point made, refrained from playing defense of any sort for the rest of the contest, which he continued to dominate, due mostly to the fact that he was faster than everyone else - even when cruising around the court at half-speed. Once he deemed his team's lead insurmountable and grew board he would proceed, to the crowd's delight and his coach's eternal consternation, to put on a dunk exhibition (windmills, 360s, etc...) on his own basket until he was finally removed from the game.
It must also be noted that in these games, as in his NBA games today in which he must exert a great deal more effort, AI does not sweat. Check it out next time you’re watching TNT. 48 minutes, OT, it matters not. Not a drop of perspiration may be seen on The Answer’s serious visage or slender, tattooed, frame.
Cont.
My friend witnessed these exploits, and saw talented defender after talented defender get burned effortlessly by AI and his unreal speed. Out there alone on the Eastern Shore practicing for hours on end, my friend fantasized about guarding AI, about being the guy that would stay in front of him, about shutting The Answer down.
One day at AAU practice he got his chance. My friend’s team was scrimmaging with AI’s older squad, both young men were on the court, and Allen came off a pick at the top of the key and my friend rotated over to guard him. It was just like he had envisioned. AI dribbled at the top of the circle. My friend clapped his hands, bent his knees low, bounced on his toes, and concentrated on AI’s belt-buckle. He would not be faked out. He would not be beaten.
AI continued to dribble. My friend continued to intensely maintain his textbook defensive stance. AI hesitated. AI crossed over. Bamf. AI disappeared. He did not “blow by” my friend. Nor did he “fake him out” or “beat him off the dribble.” He straight up ceased to exist and then reappeared at the rim laying it high off the glass over some poor big man foolish enough to jump.
My friend’s fantasy was not to be, but he was not ashamed. How could he be? He was but a man, AI was something else entirely.
Wow! An excellent comment Mr. Babylon. Well-written and entertaining, and the subtle reference implied by your use of your 'bamf' was brilliant.
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