The Magazine's Chris Palmer spends some time with an Allen Iverson few know.

I've played against Allen Iverson. I've interviewed him many times. We even know some of the same people. But like everyone else, I can't figure him out. So I decided to find out what an average night with The Answer is like. Pay attention, NBC.

MSG, the other night, Sixers vs. Knicks. Iverson headed out for some pre-game work on his pull-up. Samuel L. Jackson, who was sitting courtside, gave him some love and encouraged him to "Show Me Something." On his way back into the locker room, Iverson stopped in front of a crowd of about 20 young fans and signed for about five minutes while making small talk with the youngsters. This just four days after he traded insults with hostile Pacers fans. Back on the court, just before the game, he trades hugs and pounds with Chris Rock, Bill Cosby and Jay-Z. Every time Iverson hit a jumper in the second half, The Coz stood and turned to the crowd as if to say "Don't act surprised." The old man's legs were quite tired by the buzzer.

As he does after just about every game, Iverson gets out of the shower and puts on a brand new sweatsuit. This time it's an ultra-baggy blue and gray number by Shooters, instead of the Sean John jeans he wore to the game. Iverson gets a call on his new Nokia phone and answers it: "Who dis?" Dis is his longtime girlfriend and the mother of his kids. "Where you at? Who you wit?" he continues. His voice gets louder and a touch angrier. "Why y'all leave so quick without telling me?" He pauses for about 15 seconds and his raspy voice grows quieter: "I'm sorry I yelled at you just now. I just love you so much."

A nervous ballboy walks up to Iverson with a laundry bag he mistakes for Allen's. "That ain't mine," says Iverson. "Sorry," replies the backpedaling ballboy. "Don't worry about it man, you're just doing your job," Iverson responds. After he laces up his Timbs, one of his boys hands him several tattered manila envelopes. They contain enough platinum jewelry to pay for two years at Georgetown. His homey brings still more envelopes. They contain several wads of cash, mostly hundreds, one of them as big as a baseball and one still wrapped in bank paper. He stuffs them deep in his pockets. His boy shouts, "Hurry up, Jewelz (Iverson's rap alias)." With an embarrassed smile, all Iverson can offer up is, "Shut up, punk."

By now a crowd of 30 reporters surrounds Iverson's locker and they are beginning to get restless. Iverson is notorious for making the press wait, often walking away from his locker several times before speaking. Tonight is no different, and despite rapidly approaching deadlines, no one says a word. Reporters are paralyzed by A.I.'s a.i.(artificial intimidation).They don't want to piss the man off, lest he not speak at all. To speed things up, a reporter hands Iverson the last piece of his wardrobe: a black nylon skull cap for his cornrows. "Be careful how you handle that," Iverson snaps. "You grabbin' it like it's some old pantyhose." The group of reporters erupts into laughter. Iverson's got everybody in his hip pocket, and he knows it.

After a few questions about the night's game, Sixers PR woman Karen Frascona says, "That's it, folks." Shockingly, Iverson says, "Nah, I'm okay." Philly beat writers' jaws hit the ground. Iverson is clearly looking for something. Someone asks about the incident last week at Indiana. Bingo. He says the whole thing was blown out of proportion and he can't believe fans can stoop as low as they do sometimes.

"I've been called alot of things in my life," he says. "I used to hear "jailbird" all the time. But how can you say what they said? How can you be racist? How? I never understood that. Of all the things you can be, with the exception of a rapist or child molester or a murderer, a racist is absolutely the worst thing. I'll never understand how somebody can hate you by just how you look."

C-Palm writes hoops for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at christopher.palmer@espnmag.com.