Years ago, an enterprising reporter (me) packed up his laptop and notebook and stat sheets and whatnot and ventured out into the night in Philadelphia, where said reporter was based as a sports writer for the Associated Press.
Philly was a great basketball city back then, believe it or not, and there was never any shortage of great basketball stories to tell if you knew where to look.
On this night, I knew exactly where to go. The story that night wasn't in any NBA arena -- not even the one where I'd just watched Allen Iverson score 33 points on the final night of the 1998-99 regular season in a 105-100 overtime victory over the Detroit Pistons.
The story was where I knew Iverson would be after the game -- a TGI Fridays on City Line Avenue along Philadelphia's Main Line. It's where he hung out after home games; indeed, it's where he hung out at least once during a game that he missed because he was supposed to have been sick. That was A.I.
That night, Iverson was at Fridays enjoying a beverage or three and also watching the late game between Portland and the Lakers to see if Shaquille O'Neal would catch him in one of the tightest scoring races in NBA history.
Shaq needed 40 points to eclipse Iverson, but only got 18 -- falling .44 points shy of the man who became the shortest scoring champion the league had ever seen.
When the Lakers game was over and Iverson realized what had happened, he embraced the friends who surrounded him and said, through tears: "I've worked so hard. All my dreams are coming true."
Another one did on Monday, when Iverson and O'Neal headlined the 2016 class of the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame. Shaq was always a giant, though perhaps not as destined for basketball stardom as one might have assumed. Iverson, though, was a true original. There'd never been anyone like him in the sport, hasn't been since and never will be.
"He'd attack from the beginning of the game to the end of the game," Kobe Bryant said. "He's a player that I always had to pay attention to. He always had me on my toes. There's not another player that did that. I mean, he kept coming."
Iverson is 40 now, which says something about how fast basketball time has flown. An 11-time All-Star, four-time scoring champion, a Finals appearance against Kobe, Shaq and the Lakers -- the resume speaks for itself.
The iconic crossover dribble against Michael Jordan, the step-over on Tyronn Lue, the gold chains, do-rag and hip-hop style that brought plenty of angst and a dress code to the NBA; his cultural significance off the court is no less important than what he did on it.
Just look at what NBA players are wearing today.
"They should have a dress code now," Iverson said after the news conference announcing him as a Hall of Fame finalist during All-Star weekend.
Yet as impactful as this class is, it's also strewn with regrets -- with the exception of O'Neal, who won four championships, three Finals MVPs and has gone on to a prolific career as a broadcaster and pitchman. But as broadly as Yao Ming influenced the sport, we are left wondering how great he might have been if not for recurring foot injuries that ended his career.
And Iverson? There's so much to admire, yet so much to lament. No one can ever question how much he gave on the court -- everything he had, every night -- but the problems arose once he left the building. He came into the NBA with Kobe Bryant in 1996, yet faded away ingloriously in 2010 at age 34. Bryant, 37, is still taking a victory lap as he soaks in the final days of his 20-year career.
Iverson came in like a meteor and was gone just as abruptly.
When the late, great Red Auerbach coached Iverson on the Eastern Conference rookie team at All-Star weekend in 1997, he said: "The kid is coachable. With all of his great talent and flamboyance, he's coachable. I love him. I love him."
But that was just a snapshot. How great could Iverson have been if he'd just been a little more coachable? How much longer could he have thrilled us -- how much more could he have added to his legacy -- if taking care of his body had been just a little bit more important than blackjack and booze?
"Most competitive player I ever faced, without question," Bryant said. "Oh, my God, he was relentless."
In all aspects of life, it turned out. And you know what? That's who he was; that's who he is. Nothing was ever going to change that.
Ages ago, in a much different NBA era, it was good enough to win his first scoring title while partying in a suburban chain restaurant.
On Monday, it was good enough to be called a Hall of Famer.
As if there was ever a doubt.
