By Kevin D. Williamson
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Before you get too distracted mocking Tiger Woods and his
problems, ask yourself: Would you pass the Iverson test?
I don’t think I would.
I was for some years professionally obliged to follow the
career and life of Allen Iverson, a gifted and troubled basketball star who
lived in the Philadelphia suburbs where I edited the local newspaper. He led
the 76ers to the NBA finals but could not keep himself out of trouble: drugs
and casual gunplay at first — he was great for my newspaper — and then, when
the show was over, money problems in his retirement.
The financial difficulties later in life subjected
Iverson to a great deal of ridicule: You can get busted for weed and an illegal
gun and it’s no big deal — not in Philly! — but if your money isn’t right, then
the world will never, ever forgive you. (Ask poor old Stanley Burrell.) During
what turned out to be an excruciatingly embarrassing divorce case, Iverson
exclaimed to his wife: “I
don’t even have money for a cheeseburger!” at which point she handed him
$61 in cash — the last cash she had. His problems began to become public when
he was ordered to pay a debt of nearly $1 million to a jeweler and was forced
to plead that he did not have the funds. He had earned more than $150 million
in his NBA career.
Some guardian angel at Reebok saved him from the very
worst of it, persuading him to take a modest $800,000-a-year stipend and leave
$32 million in a trust fund that he cannot access until he is 55 years old. So
he just has to eke out a living on the better part of a million bucks per annum
until he gets paid for real. Your sympathy, I am sure, is not without limits.
But how his story began is at least as interesting as
where it ended up: On June 26, 1996, Iverson signed a $9.4 million contract
with the 76ers. One year, ten months, and 23 days before that, he had been in
prison, having received a 15-year sentence handed down under a rarely used anti-lynching
law after a brawl at a Virginia bowling alley. Iverson has broken his share of
laws, but he was in prison for a crime that he probably did not commit; he was
granted clemency by Virginia governor Douglas Wilder, and his conviction
eventually was overturned on appeal for lack of evidence. In January 1999, he
signed a $70 million contract extension. He was 23 years old.
If you’d have given me that kind of money — and that
celebrity — at that age, it would have killed me, and, while my own upbringing
wasn’t exactly out of Ozzie and Harriet,
I think I was emotionally a little more squared-away in my twenties than
Iverson probably was with his despair-inducing background. Not that it occurred
to me at the time: When Iverson was having his problems in Philadelphia, I
rolled my eyes and thought the same thing that most everybody thought: “What is
the matter with you? You have everything you could possibly want — why be such
a jerk? Why mess it all up?” My views have changed over the years. What’s most surprising
to me about Iverson now is not that he turned out to be kind of sad and
feckless but that he didn’t turn out a lot worse than he did.
Iverson did not grow up with a great deal of social
capital: unmarried mother, 15 years old when he was born; absentee father;
charged with a felony at 17 and dispatched shortly thereafter to prison. The
knowledge that his life could have been radically different but for one or two
very close calls — and his terrific athletic ability — must have weighed on him
in some way: It might have produced deep gratitude, or it might have produced
deep nihilism. It probably produced a complicated mix of both. Iverson did not
grow up in a family or community with a lot of great role models or the kind of
social network that can guide an energetic, gifted, and competitive young man
such as himself in the right direction. Professional athletes often do not find
themselves surrounded by the best people — and shaping all of those conflicting
and terrifying forces into a happy, well-adjusted man would have been a
challenge even if he had been. Making good men is hard: Neither the Marine
Corps nor the Catholic Church nor the Boy Scouts has a perfect record on that
front. Neither does any other institution, or any family, for that matter.
Add to all those challenges the fact that the sort of
people who develop extraordinarily rare, world-beating talents — in basketball,
chess, music, politics — very often do so to the exclusion of almost everything
else that we mean by the phrase “having a life.” You see this all the time:
celebrities going broke because they just don’t know what things cost or how
much money they really have, rich and powerful people flummoxed by the simplest
things in life and unable to adapt to ordinary social norms, famous people who
do not have any friends. I suspect that if Hillary Rodham Clinton tried to get
from her house to Bill de Blasio’s on the Metro North and the subway, she’d end
up in the ICU. And whom would they call on her behalf? Her husband?
Having a life that is focused on the One Big Thing is
fine when you are at the apex of your career, when the money just keeps coming
in and the magical bubble of fame protects you from all manner of consequence.
But when the One Big Thing is gone, there is a double
loss — the thing that defined your life is now in the past, and, at the very
moment when your income and public profile both are likely to be heading south,
you face the real crisis: You have done something extraordinary, but it is
finished, and now you do not know what to do. The lucky ones have great
marriages and happy families, faith, community, and friendship to take the
place of being in the movies or playing basketball. The ones who don’t have
that will try to fill up the great empty hole in the middle of their lives with
other things: alcohol, drugs, sexual promiscuity, recklessness in personal and
public affairs, including financial ones. Do you know why so many people who
ought to be happy but aren’t happy develop problems with cocaine? Because cocaine
works exactly as advertised. It makes you happy, until it doesn’t.
We love a celebrity comeuppance. This is in part an ugly
species of envy: Why should Tiger Woods get to live like a Roman emperor just
for being really good at a game that is, after all, the very definition of a
trivial pursuit? And how good an actor do you really need to be to star in Pirates of the Caribbean? How many
hundreds of millions of dollars should someone get just for being pretty? There
is something in our puritanical national soul that is satisfied by the fact
that those who fly higher have farther to fall. These episodes bring out
something ignoble in us. But it isn’t just celebrities, of course: The high and
mighty are just the ones we talk about. An
astonishing share of lottery winners go broke, and it isn’t because people
with low character or weak wills are just lucky with the numbers. People like
Tiger Woods and Allen Iverson, who win life’s lottery, often have the same bad
luck in the end: the bad luck of being human.
Tiger Woods was arrested for driving while intoxicated.
This is not the first time Tiger Woods has run into trouble behind the wheel or
had embarrassing personal details made public. He, or whoever writes his public
statements for him, knows better: “I thought I could get away with whatever I
wanted to,” he said after the sex scandal that turned him from sports hero to
public laughingstock. “I felt that I had worked hard my entire life and
deserved to enjoy all the temptations around me. I felt I was entitled. Thanks
to money and fame, I didn’t have to go far to find them. I was wrong. I was
foolish.”
Woods apparently drinks too much sometimes, and, if the
tabloids are to be believed, he has expansive sexual appetites. I wonder how
alien those problems really are to the average American man. But the average
American man does not have $600 million, an almost universally known name, and
a face recognized by 98 percent of the people he encounters. Maybe you haven’t
behaved the way Tiger Woods does — but how many Playboy models do you have on speed-dial? How many of them were calling you at the peak of your career
or slightly thereafter? Maybe you lead a more virtuous life. Maybe you just
lead a smaller one. It is difficult to say without being tested.
And that may be why we love the ritual public
denunciation of fallen idols. If we convince ourselves that they are monsters
and moral outliers, then we do not have to face the much more terrifying
possibility that they are schmucks like us — and that we are schmucks like
them.
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