"Yes, but there are exceptions to everything. I’m that exception. I respect Ah Gan and like Las Vegas, but I don’t want to play ball with him."
"No, Allen, your contract doesn’t have a no-trade clause. Wherever we send you, you have to go."
"I can refuse to report to the Glory."
"Then you’ll have to pay a huge penalty, and... Ah Gan will personally come for you. Believe me, he will call you."
Allen Iverson tightened his grip on the phone. He hesitated, wavered. On the court, he was often a fighter, but in life, not so much.
After hanging up, he covered his face, wanting to cry but unable to. He took out a coin, thinking, "I always say, leave everything to God. So this time, let God decide too."
When Iverson encountered problems in life, he always chose to leave it to God, which was actually a form of avoidance.
Even basketball itself was a way of escape for him. It was indeed a great refuge.
There were flowers, applause, women, money. Nothing was more perfect than here, but if Ah Gan appeared, everything would turn unpleasant.
Even Iverson himself didn’t know why he was so resistant to playing ball with Gan Guoyang. He seldom thought rationally and always followed his emotions.
Just watch his interviews, and you’d know. He’s got a strong presence, a voice full of magnetism, and listeners can feel his energy and charm. But if you listen closely to his words, they often make no sense, and when he can’t continue, he attributes it to God.
It’s evident that Gan Guoyang left a significant shadow on him, no less than Satan.
"Heads I don’t go to Vegas... no, heads I don’t go, tails I go."
Iverson chanted silently in his heart, then tossed the coin into the air, quickly covering it with his hand.
He carefully moved his hand away to look at the coin on the back of his hand. It was tails!
"Shit! One more time!" Iverson tossed it a second time, and it still came up tails.
Iverson, unwilling to accept the result, tossed it a third time, and it was still tails!
Iverson no longer cared about whether to go to Glory; he was determined to flip a head.
Silently praying for God’s blessing, he tossed, covered, uncovered, still tails.
Iverson examined the coin up, down, left, and right. No problem, just a regular penny.
One side had President Lincoln’s image, the other said One Cent—no two-headed trick coin.
"Okay, one more try, one more time, the last time. If it’s still tails, I’ll go to Las Vegas and embrace the fires of hell!"
The coin was tossed in the air, finally landing on the ground, rolling under the couch. Iverson crouched down to find it; it had rolled deep.
At that moment, his wife hurried downstairs, shouting, "Allen! Allen! You’ve been traded! You’ve been traded! We’re going to Las Vegas!"
Iverson was still reaching for the coin, shouting gruffly, "I know! Stop yelling! I’m not going there!"
"What? Why, are you going to refuse the trade? What are you looking for?"
"I’m looking for my future path! Shit, how did it roll so deep."
His wife came over to help move the couch, saying, "There’s no need to struggle so much. Just move it, and it’s underneath."
"I don’t need you to tell me what to do." Iverson was gruff with his wife, and their relationship had been deteriorating since 2002.
Iverson saw the penny lying behind the couch, Abraham Lincoln engraved on the round metal coin, quietly staring at him.
It was heads, meaning he didn’t have to go.
"What’s wrong, Allen, did you find what you were looking for?"
Iverson paused for a moment before saying, "No, didn’t find it. Pack up and get ready to go to Las Vegas."