Allen Iverson walks into a gym, fresh out of the slammer after his infamous bowling-alley brawl conviction.

“Listen to the mandolin rain!”

Iverson was used to trash talk, but not from a middle-aged white guy who played keyboard for the Grateful Dead and dabbled in soft rock.

Bruce Hornsby was in nothing short of a lather, tickling twine from 24 feet time after time. He couldn’t miss, and he’d helped A.I. get out of jail, so now young Allen was forced to play Hornsby one-on-one to show his appreciation. 

“That’s just the way it is,” Hornsby could’ve said after sinking another 3. “Some things will never change.”

At this nascent point in his career, Iverson wasn’t a good 3-point shooter. Frankly, he never was. But he felt he could have smoked Hornsby were it not for the “Piano Hands Rule.” As the rule specifies, since Hornsby’s fingers were his lifeblood, there was no offensive rebounding allowed. Iverson thought this was B.S. He also thought he could take Hornsby blindfolded. He was wrong.

This story is not a joke. Hornsby confirmed that he beat a pre-Georgetown Iverson in one-on-one with the Piano Hands Rule. Iverson never confirmed this, but one must take his silence in the same way they take a recusal. If you say nothing, it’s true. And Hornsby said plenty.

“Sorry that you feel that way,” Hornsby might’ve said as he sunk a 3 to win it. “Every silver lining’s got a touch of grey.”

What were the odds that Hornsby could beat Iverson in Piano Hands One-on-One? Probably a juicy 30/1, and it would have been 90/1 without the Piano Hands Rule. And if Iverson was in actual playing shape and not fresh out of the slammer? That’s 150/1.

But every dog has his day, and if you look at Hornsby through the prism of Grateful Dead keyboardists, it’s no wonder he won. To tickle the ivories next to Jerry, Phil, and Bob is a great honor, but given the history of said key-ticklers, it’s important to consider the role of the Grim Reaper in all of this. Grateful Dead keyboardists fall like dominos, victimized by everything from haphazard nettle pricks to massive drug overdoses. 

That’s just the way it is. Some things will never change. Except when they do.

The Roaster 4w15e

“You got to know when to fold ‘em, Michael.”

Kenny Rogers — not the former MLB pitcher, but the white-wolf country singer — had just pump-faked Michael Jordan out of his jock before sinking a 20-foot set shot.

Luc Longley never did that in a Bulls practice, but Kenny just did. And this was Kenny’s home court.

“Now you know what it feels like to be in the Roaster,” the Gambler may have said, punctuating his swish.

This was a bender of a bookend, Kenny Rogers’ Classic Weekend, when the Gambler would host a bunch of sports starts and show them who was boss. Not only could Kenny croon and howl at the moon, but he could also don tennis whites and tank tops and school the pros at their own games. 

The secret to the Gambler’s success was moonshine. He had his maid, Adele, whip some up whenever the devils came down to Georgia. If they drank the moonshine, Kenny figured he would win. And he figured right.

But pump-fake His Airness out of Jordans? What were the odds of that? Probably 20/1, assuming MJ was nursing a massive tequila hangover. OK, maybe 10/1. 

The Gambler knew what he was doing. He had Big Mike in the Roaster, dancing his second-to-last dance.