Allen Iverson, Reebok & The Mystery Of The Ice Cream In My Underwear
No, that isn’t the title of the worst selling Hardy Boys adventure of all time. It was our Editor in Chief’s Friday night.
Note: The following is intended strictly for the eyes of the guy I sat next to on the train at 1 o’clock in the morning last Saturday. All others should avoid reading.
Firstly, my name is Dan. I never caught your name, as we didn’t speak or communicate in any way as we rode home on the 1:09 AM train out of Grand Central Terminal Saturday morning. Right before my stop, you saw me do something that probably freaked you out a little and maybe gave you some nightmares, and I just want to explain my actions. The thing is, you were super quiet and it was really late and I honestly forgot you were there. Had I remembered you were there, I wouldn’t have done what I did in front of you. But alas, I thought I had the car seat to myself and that’s why at approximately 1:41 AM, as I was getting up to get off the train, you saw me pull an ice cream bar out of my underwear.
Let me explain. Please.
Earlier, I had the great pleasure of watching the Nets/Heat game as a lucky guest of the wonderful folks at Reebok. As a largish Knicks fans, I always enjoy watching either of those teams lose and as is the case with most basketball games, one of them did – El Heat! – so it was just a lot of fun.
Here’s my view of the game:
Nice, right? Compounding the niceness was the fact that, as you can see in the picture, Reebok was showcasing two brand new shoes: The Q96, which is a new interpretation of Allen Iverson’s signature kick from ’96, and the Pumpspective Omni, which provides incredible ankle support with a few quick squeezes. Both are available in a slew of color ways ($115 and $125, respectively at reebok.com) and I can’t recommend them highly enough. They look cool and feel great. Just stellar sneaks in every way.
So what does that have to do with ice cream bars in underwear? I’m getting there, I’m getting there.
So also in the sweet suite Reebok set up was LeBron James’s pick for the pound-for-pound best player in the history of the NBA, Allen Iverson. AI pleasantly and patiently fielded hundreds of questions hurled at him by the sneaker and b-ball obsessed journalists crowded around him in the suite. And also from me. I was able to elbow my way to the front of the pack and lobbed the recently retired legend a question that’s been burning in my brain for a long time now:
Me: Allen, what advice would you give to a 39-year-old short guy who one day dreams of playing in the NBA?
No, he didn’t then stand up and beat me senseless with an ice cream bar. He just turned to the next guy and answered a question about shoe tongues or something.
So when the final buzzer buzzed, AI left and the Reebok staffers led the group of journos (now stuffed with free chicken fingers and Bud Lights) down to the court to shoot hoops. On the floor of the Barclays Center! Dude, it was awesome. The court, the lights, the not-quite-evaporated sweat puddles. That’s me, the one who looks more like a little barrel with legs than I realized until I saw this picture:
And then it got even awesomer! New Net and super-friendly NBA champ Jason Terry popped out of the locker room and started up an impromptu game of Knock Out. (Spoiler alert: I got knocked out quite quickly.)
When that was over, some idiot (me, if memory serves) said aloud, “Hey fellas, we have enough for 4 on 4. Who’s up for a little half court?” And thus, a game broke out.
I dished, I swished, I mostly missed. But I didn’t care. It was fun as hell. I was working up a sweat, praying – I wouldn’t let AI’s advice go to waste! And then it happened. “It” being the horrifying POP sound that came from my crotchetal region while I was changing direction under the basket. It hurt. It hurt a lot. Too proud to admit I’m too out of shape to play basketball for 15 minutes without blowing out a nut, I lied between gritted teeth that I needed to get going to catch my train, gathered my stuff, and hobbled away to the subway.
I got all the way to Grand Central Terminal before the A LOT of pain turned into a RIDICULOUS amount of pain. I knew from the time I sprained my index finger in chess club that I needed to ice it as soon as possible. I spotted a Haagen-Dazs display case at the train station newsstand and after shelling out $5, I snuck off into a corner and applied this frozen Vanilla & Milk Chocolate directly to my nutsac.
It helped. Not a lot. But a little. And a little was good enough to get me from there to home. So dude, that’s why, at 1:41 AM one Saturday morning, you saw a sweaty little man pull a melted ice cream bar out of his underwear and get off the train. It wasn’t until I breezed past you that I realized, “Huh, that must have been an odd thing to see for my fellow passengers.”
So there it is. I hope that clears that up for you. And in case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t eat it. What the hell kind of weirdo do you think I am, anyway?
P.S. Fine, I did eat it. Why do you always have to be such a dick?