Croce, calling him by his nickname, said: "Bubba Chuck is who he is, and he will not change."
And he wouldn't, even if he could.
Because he had the Posse to support, the ones whose loyalty was guaranteed.
Their numbers varied day to day, week to week, most of them from the old neighborhood in Virginia. There might be as many as 50 for tickets to a home game. There was a hair stylist who traveled, did his corn rows two to three times a week.
Moderation was not in vogue.
There were excursions to see the Ice Man, whose handiwork included a platinum pendant made in the shape of a '3' as a tribute to A.I.'s jersey number, with 63 diamonds embedded on it. You could land airplanes on it. It was worn on a gold chain, by A.I.'s mother, Ann.
Told that she was "a real trip," Ann Iverson said: "Honey, I'm the whole package."
She was the buffer. Her word was law for the Posse. She could intuit trouble, of which there always seemed to be too much.
A.I. said: "They made me." He meant they had protected him from all of the casual violence, especially in the early days, allowing him to get where he was. Literally, they kept him alive.
And he owed them.
One night, during the playoffs, in a hotel suite darker than a coal mine at midnight, you saw the depth of his debt: There were bodies everywhere in that suite, all the furniture occupied, the floor, too, the snoring rivaling a 747 takeoff. It was the Posse and assorted hangers-on and remoras, and this thought struck you:
It may take a village to raise a child, but in A.I.'s case it has been the other way around.
