Athletes like Allen Iverson ill-prepared for life after celebrity

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Allen Iverson is averaging a career-low 12.3 points in just 22.3 minutes per game. NBAE/Getty Images

I spoke with Roscoe Word the other day. A standout defensive back at Jackson State in the early 1970s, Word spent his boyhood in Pine Bluff, Ark., dreaming of one day starring in the National Football League. When he was selected by the New York Jets in the third round of the 1974 Draft, Word thought he had it made. Lots of riches, fame, the good life.

Three years later, he was done.

"The worst-off person in the world," he said, "is the poor S.O.B. who tasted the good life and can no longer afford it."

Word wasn't actually referring to himself. A Mississippi-based cattle rancher who dotes on his grandchildren and looks back at his first 57 years with little regret, Word instead was talking about Allen Iverson, the rapidly fading basketball star who recently left the Memphis Grizzlies, seemingly never to return.

Initially, Memphis team president Michael Heisley said that Iverson had bolted for a "family reason." Now, reading between the lines, it seems a "family reason" is abbreviated terminology for "I didn't join this sad-sack franchise to play 22 junk minutes off the bench."

"What's that man going to do now?" said Word. "What can he do that'll ever match the last decade of his life?"

Blessed with a perspective I lack and experiences I'll never know, Word's word is -- as Iverson once dubbed himself -- The Answer. In modern-day America, what with our emphasis on fancy cars, fancy jewelry and (in the case of too many men) trophy women, nothing can match the complete and utter bliss of the life as a professional athlete. The first-class flights, the five-star hotels, the long-legged groupies, the Benz parked alongside the BMW parked alongside the Porsche. It all adds up to a certain heaven on earth -- L'il Wayne's "Lollipop" brought to fruition.

Yet if Iverson's 16 years in the NBA can be equated with a hip-hop video, then what awaits him now is an eternal April 15 trip to the post office. Or, to be more blunt, rarely in our time have we been had with an athlete seemingly less prepared for life after the NBA.

To begin with: There is nothing (short of a career in the adult film industry) I would wish less upon my children than to be ex-sports superstars. At best, you are a walking, talking cardboard cutout, asked to pose with this kid, that grandma, this dog. You are forever complimented for what you once were, which is really a reminder of what you will never again be. Just as it was depicted in Frank Deford's excellent book Everybody's All-American, the washed-up jock is forced to tell the same stories over and over and over again, until, as Gavin Grey hopelessly wails, "I'm not even sure if that was me anymore."

For all of her substance-abuse problems, Whitney Houston will almost certainly be able to belt a beautiful note well into her senior years. Dan Jenkins, who turns 80 next month, remains a remarkable writer. One can argue that Jason Robards' work in Magnolia (age 77) was as good as it was in The Disenchanted (age 37).

Iverson, however, will not follow suit. At the (real world) young age of 34, he has lost much of that which made him spectacular. Once able to create his own shot from any point on the court, he now struggles to surge past opposing guards and (gasp) forwards. Never a high-percentage shooter, Iverson has devolved into a full-fledged huckster; a modern-day Tony Campbell. He is not Whitney Houston at age 70. He is Whitney Houston with a voice box.

Whether he knows so or not, Iverson enters a realm where only the lucky/wise/well-educated/dedicated survive. Michael Irvin is not an analyst for NFL Network merely because he was a standout receiver with the Dallas Cowboys. No, he landed the work because he's charismatic, informed and -- not to be overlooked -- courteous and gracious to those around him. Dave Bing, the former Detroit Pistons star who now serves as that city's mayor, held a job during NBA offseasons working at the National Bank of Detroit, then retired and took a $35,000-per-year gig at Paragon Steel. In other words, he saw what was down the road.

As Carrie Fisher notes in her wonderful one-woman play, Wishful Drinking, "Celebrity is obscurity waiting to happen." Those star athletes who succeed when the cheering stops do so because, at a relatively early age, they recognize that the cheering will stop. Those athletes who struggle are the ones who say, "Everything will take care of itself" or "God will provide" or "My pal Jimmy handles all that stuff" or -- worst of all -- "I'm planning on opening up a [FILL IN THIS BLANK WITH RESTAURANT/BAR/CAR DEALERSHIP].

If this is indeed the end for Allen Iverson as a professional basketball player, he offers society the following: A former athlete with an inability to cohabitate with co-workers. His neck tattoo eliminates him from most white-collar jobs. His poor communication skills eliminate him from TV work (Iverson's odds of one day taking over for Regis? Not good). His oft-cantankerous approach toward the fans makes Iverson's Ice Cream Parlor or Allen's Greeting Card Emporium a long-shot.

If nothing else, we can hope that Allen Iverson invested his money well and has a passion for the game of golf.

Because casino greeters make eight bucks an hour.

Eight-fifty, max.

Jeff Pearlman can be reached at anngold22@gmail.com.