He wore black from top to toe. Black fedora. Black jacket. Black jeans. Black shoes. He even wore black-rimmed glasses, the sort of concession to age that he was never willing to make as a player. You had to look at him. It was stark. It was arresting. It was Allen Iverson. It was perfect.
He came back to the Wells Fargo Center on Saturday night for a ceremony to retire his Sixers uniform No. 3, for a night thick with nostalgia, much of it genuine, much of it carefully crafted and cherry-picked. Time has a way of distilling our memories, of purifying them so that nothing but the positive remains and all wrongs are forgiven. So the darker aspects of Iverson’s life and career, of the talent he had wasted through his hard living and oft-selfish behavior, would be kept off to the side. What remained, what was recalled and celebrated, was Iverson at his best: a remarkable threshold for physical pain; an intangible and indestructible bond with those who loved to watch him play; a talent for basketball that, given his spindly, 6-foot, 165-pound body, surpassed any in the sport’s history. (The Inquirer)
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Il gabbianone 
Posted on 2 marzo 2014
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