Memories of the unforgettable

He had been talking about practice - not a game - and once Allen Iverson was finally finished lecturing those of us in the media who had attended his unforgettable 2002 news conference, he ducked out a back door with his boys.

I left hastily through the upstairs employee entrance to what was then the First Union Center, and as I was walking to my car, Iverson and his crew scaled a fence to get to two cars parked next to mine.

"Ash," Iverson said, lingering forever on the short "a" sound of my first name. He did that from time to time, usually when he was relaxed and happy, like on New Year's Eve in 2002 at the Beverly Wilshire hotel in Los Angeles, or a few days later at the Arizona Biltmore resort in Phoenix.

"Have a nice summer," Iverson said, giving me a half hug.

"You, too, Al," I said. "Hope to see you in the fall."

"I'll be back," Iverson said. "That there was nothing."

And so Iverson left, closing the book on one of the decade's most iconic moments in Philadelphia sports. I was there for a few others: Iverson stepping over Tyronn Lue in the NBA Finals against Los Angeles, Donovan McNabb laboring through the last minutes of the Super Bowl against New England, Drew Rosenhaus barking "next question" on Terrell Owens' burnt front lawn, and, most recently, DeSean Jackson torching the Giants on a game-winning punt return at New Meadowlands Stadium.

Now, after more than 11 years, my time here at The Inquirer is over. This is my last column. Next month I will become the NFL columnist for ESPN.com.

When I got my job at The Inquirer the day before Christmas Eve in 1999, a good friend of mine who grew up here suggested that I talk to her brother to get an understanding of the culture I was about to join. Philadelphia had uniquely tough fans, she told me, and a sports talk radio station that often fueled the fire.

I thought I knew. I'd heard the Philly fans had booed Santa Claus, and had thrown batteries at J.D. Drew. My view was typical of an outsider who relied on the national media's narrow, mostly negative, portrayal.

What I've learned is that the national reputation of the Philly fan is unfair and inaccurate.

Sure, there are those of you who have e-mailed me over the years, either when I was covering the 76ers or the Eagles or the NFL, suggesting I should get back into the kitchen where I belong. Someone once said my husband was less of a man because he "allowed" me to keep my maiden name in my byline after we first got married.

But for the most part, the Philly fan is a true representation of this city: blue-collar, hardworking, unforgiving of underperforming teams and players, intolerant of an impostor, respectful of effort, knowledgeable of history, and, most of all, hungry for a winner.

When you boo your team, it is because you sense a player or the team is not living up to expectations. You expect a player to play up to his capability, whatever that capability is. You want athletes to do what you would do: dive on the floor for a loose ball, take a hit for an extra yard, slam an opponent into the boards to get the puck, slide headfirst into a catcher to score a run.

When the great ones come back in another team's uniform, you greet them with the respect or vitriol they deserve. You gave Donovan McNabb a standing ovation for his 11 years of service, then booed his first completion to a Redskins receiver. You hissed at Owens for selfishly trying to firebomb the Eagles the year after the Super Bowl. Your applause earlier this season so touched a nervous Jayson Werth that he tipped his cap twice before his first plate appearance as a Washington National at Citizens Bank Park. And you overwhelmed Brian Dawkins, the Denver Bronco, to the point where Dawkins could hardly speak.

Your passion and enthusiasm and love are why men like Ike Reese and Hugh Douglas have settled here, and why my family and I have no intention of leaving. My two little people have something that will forever link us here: They are Philadelphia natives, brought up on the religion of Philadelphia sports.

I will tell them stories about Dikembe Mutombo's unmistakable laugh, about Troy Vincent's professionalism, about Owens' shortsightedness, and about Roy Halladay's intimidating focus.

I will tell them about Doug Collins' unfailing optimism, about Iverson's fearlessness, about Michael Vick's remarkable return. And I will tell them about the Philly fan's hard-earned joy the night the Phillies finally won the World Series, and about the parade and about Chase Utley. The championship drought in this city was too long, but the reward was rich. Utley knew it. He got it. He still does.

So I am leaving, but I am staying. Once there is football - and at some point, there will be football - I look forward to being back at Lincoln Financial Field, to seeing the place packed with fans in jerseys cheering and booing and hoping for a victory.

Until then, as Iverson told me that day in 2002, have a nice summer.