An ode to Penny
Heaven cent
illustration by kevin doole
When I reminisce about my youth a few character traits stand out: a “Gordon Gekko-esque” (“greed . . . is good”) yuppie covetousness, an insatiable craving to slaughter everything different or weaker than myself, and a magnetism well over 40 “MegaFonzies” in magnitude, which led to a cult-like flock of subjugated followers. I was unequivocally the baddest fourth grader at Bairdmore Elementary School (equal-parts A.C. Slater and Tony Soprano), and well on my way to an infamy even Patrick Bateman would be envious of.
But then a beacon of light broke through the wicked, immoral fog that had enveloped my life. It came in the unexpected form of a 6’ 7”, 220-pound basketball player with a heart of something superior to gold — an untainted, righteous penny.
Soon he became my role model and idol. Sure, my parents and teachers were honourable, and my arms dealer and bookie were swell, but none of them had ever scored a triple-double or been named to an NBA All-Star Team.
So, this is my ode to the peerless Anfernee Deon “Penny” Hardaway, who, like an asunder guardian angel, was truly heaven-sent.
The task of choosing a nickname is a wholly narcissistic, masturbatory endeavour for professional basketball players. I mean have you ever really considered the egotistical monikers they christen themselves with: Dominique “Human Highlight Reel” Wilkins, “Larry Legend,” Hakeem “The Dream” Olajuwon.
I give thanks each day to every divine, omnipotent being that exists that in my misguided youth I did not follow or idolize these sick-balling golden calves, because I may have then added a God-complex to my already psychopathic resume.
Instead I became enamoured with the NBA player who had the least arrogant nickname in the NBA: “Penny.” Hardaway resisted tired, clichéd monetary nicknames like “Dime,” or “Benjamin,” and in their place named himself after those annoying, useless, metallic burdens that sit and irritatingly accumulate in your wallet with no end in sight.
It was a deeply profound moment: a prodigious sports athlete in his physical prime willing to label himself with such a modest moniker. And here I was a money-grubbing little rapscallion who thought greed was commendable, and was even in the midst of planning a string of bank heists with my prepubescent minions. I soon gave up any aspirations I had of an immoral life as a thief.
As a psychology honours student, I came across a psychiatric condition called antisocial personality disorder. Analyzing its characteristics, with regards to my childhood, I realized that I, as a youth, had many prophetic signs of a future as a psychopath. I made Jeffrey Dahmer look like Blair Waldorf.
The most vivid memory of these characteristics came when I was watching television: a tiny, pitiful figure made of wood, ridiculously dressed like a human and talking with the most annoying voice I had ever heard, appeared on my stolen television in an advertisement.
My blood began to boil and steam began spewing out of my ears; I could feel my psychopathic urges rising. I began to wonder how I could best make this thing suffer. But then my idol appeared on the screen. It turned out this wooden antichrist was Hardaway’s friend, and nicknamed “Li’l Penny.” Soon, my psychopathic urges receded into oblivion.
It was another deeply profound moment: if my idol could learn to find the best in others (including wooden humanoids), so could I. My once insatiable craving to slaughter became an insatiable craving to help. I now made Satan look like Ann Coulter.
Every kid has a dream. Some daydream about saving people’s lives as a doctor. Others aspire to explore space as an astronaut. I dreamt of ruling over a nation of subjugated inhabitants as a fascist dictator. I was a cocky little bugger and did not believe in following orders, or taking a back seat to any one. While some children read George Orwell’s Animal Farm as a cute animal story, or even as a condemnation of communism, I read it as a personal creed and manifesto. Stalinism was my religion.
Just when it seemed nothing could alter, or derail my dreams of tyranny, my guardian angel taught me the error of my ways.
Watching Hardaway play basketball was a bittersweet exercise. I saw him as the greatest, most complete player in the league, but he was kept out of the spotlight by a 7’-2”, 325-pound shadow. This shadow’s name was Shaquille O’Neal. Penny was Butters to Shaq’s Cartman. Surprisingly, he was fine with this secondary role, as he never showboated, and gave all the credit to his teammates.
With this realization, the number of deeply profound moments hit three.
As a result, I began to treat my peers as equal, and even superior. My acts of subjugation and dreams of being a dictator disappeared. They were soon replaced with acts of empowerment and dreams of Laguna Beach-esque utopia where everyone was equally hot, young, and chic, and super aware of it.
The prime of Anfernee Deon “Penny” Hardaway’s career was unlike any other in a league dominated by machismo and gluttony. As Hardaway left a legacy of humility, altruism, and fortitude, along with a heap of broken ankles, and walls packed with “posterized” defenders.
Not to mention one saved soul.
