Memphis Grizzlies Preview: "Self Portrait"

In an effort to gear up for the NBA season, we will view the upcoming season through the eyes of Edward Hopper. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Grizzlies in our comments section.A chewed up dog pisses on a garbage can that stoops by a rusty fire escape. Imagine Napoleon dragging on all four paws to plant a French flag in midst of a wasteland, and you have what this mutt has accomplished. A thick sludge made up of what appears to be either coffee or lava lurks in the curb. The whole street smells of urine and fast food. Hot air creeps up through the cracks in the sidewalk, as if the whole neighborhood rested over Hell's furnace. At night, devils walk in and out of apartments and down rickety metal stair cases, making deals and bargains, over souls and minds and time, whispering through televisions and crack pipes. The dog lowers its leg, pokes its nose up in the air, and smells the new day, already cloaked in yesterday's guilt. The canine barks at an oncoming car and then mopes down the street passing by the window of a first floor apartment.

The window is open, and flies buzz in and out of the slits in the screen. An old man rests face down on a cot that sits beside the wall opposite the window. Next to the cot is an old milk crate, coated in dusty magazines and newspapers. Piles of old clothes litter the floor. They look like they either came from or are on their way to the local thrift store. On the floor below the window is an old television set, complete with an aluminum foil antenna and a knob for changing the channel. The television has not been usable since the switch from analog to digital.

The man on the cot rolls over and places his two feet on the floor. With his toes, he can feel that the floor needs to be vacuumed. Hard bits of dirt and old toe nail clippings nibble at the bottoms of his feet. His head rests in his hands. The day is not met with enthusiasm.

He takes an old pair of slacks off the floor and pulls them up over his legs to his waist. An old leather belt still weaves its way through the loops; he tightens it to the third notch, to keep his pants from sagging like the young hoodlums that roam the block outside his apartment. He doesn't bother changing his undershirt; it's only on day two. He puts a button up on over it, and tucks it in. His shoes are well worn, and the laces feel like they will fall apart in his hands as he ties them. On his way out the door, he grabs his hat and jacket. He looks like an old newspaperman, like he knows stuff in books but is smart enough not to tell everyone he meets. The shoulders of the jacket show that he used to be a strong man, but, now, they curl like the cover of a paperback book that's been folded in half. The jacket looks worn like a book's broken spine. He passes the landlord, Mr. Stern, on his way out.

"I'm not running a charity, Iverson. You gotta give to get," Mr. Stern says these words without looking up from his crossword puzzle. " You gotta give to get in this world."

"Can you watch my door for me? Broke the lock last night when the key got stuck." Allen Iverson is only half lying. The lock on the door is broken, and it did happen last night; but a key never entered the lock. Allen lost his keys on his way home from the bar, and used his shoulder to force the door open, busting the lock. Allen didn't remember the ordeal until he put his left arm through the sleeve of his dress shirt. The sharp pain of a sprained rotator cuff helped him to remember everything from searching the bar for his keys, from his regular barstool all the way to the toilet, to his impromptu decision to yell, "Geronimo!" while charging into his door like a buffalo with a limp.

Mr. Stern responds to the request, "Gotta give to get. Give to get." He saves the rest of his vocabulary for his puzzles.

Allen eyes the gray sky as he walks down the sidewalk, wondering to himself, "How the hell did I wind up in Memphis?" He does not find the reasons to be all that revealing. He got laid off from his job at a Detroit auto plant, and he was told that his age made him an insurance liability. When he first heard the explanation, he planned on taking the company to court; but, on his way home that day, he slipped on some black ice and threw out his back. In court, the company's lawyers demonstrated that Allen Iverson could no longer physically perform the task of lifting up car doors hour after hour and day after day. Allen lost the case, and moved to Memphis because it was warmer than Detroit, cheaper to live than LA, and had a better bar scene than Charlotte. It was also as far as he made it on his way to Miami before his car broke down. Memphis meet Mr. Iverson, the man without a true destination.

Allen walks by a chain link fence. He holds his right arm out, and drags his fingers along the metal. He walks as if each joint in his leg has a bullet in it; each step presses bone to lead. The pain causes Allen to stop. He clings to the fence with both hands, and peaks through the diamond-shaped holes at some kids playing basketball on the other side. Two tall gangly boys are picking teams. To Allen, they look like teenagers. Their smiles look like their baiting the world to come close enough to their mouths to be swallowed, and their laughs suggest they are cocky enough to try.

"I'll take Gasol. Who you got, Rudy?"

"Conley."

"Thabeet."

"That's all there is, OJ. Who else am I going to pick? That old man with the limp? Puhlease. We'll take you two on three," he takes the basketball he's been dribbling between his legs this whole time and heaves it at the kid named Rudy. "You other scrubs can go play over there." He points to a backboard across the court with no rim. Streaks of brown mark where the rim should have been. As the game begins, Allen thinks how light the ball looks in the hands of these boys, like they're gods dribbling the earth. A sharp pain in his back then reminds him what a toll playing Atlas can have. He turns from the court, and walks on. It's late morning and time for a drink.