Allen Iverson looks like he’s finally found stability and inner peace. Let’s hope so.

Allen Iverson turns 50 next year. He has not given the milestone much thought. “That’s next year,” he said as he strode through the 76ers’ practice facility Friday afternoon, not long after the franchise had unveiled a statue to honor him. It is a milestone for him. He has gone through enough, put himself through enough, through every stage of his life, that someone might wonder whether he would reach that age. Iverson never did.

“I believe in God,” he said. “I put all my trust in God. There’s not one day that I don’t think I’m going to live forever — not one day. I don’t think about death or nothing.”

He left that to everyone else. Through the roughest of upbringings, through his MVP prime with the Sixers, in a post-playing life that at times teetered on the edge of financial and existential ruin, that was always an unspoken, underlying fear with Iverson: that it would all end quickly and tragically. So many familiar faces returned Friday for the statue ceremony, Larry Brown and Pat Croce and Billy King and so many of Iverson’s Sixers teammates and even Terrell Owens. And the warm memories of what Iverson accomplished here and how he did it — always the smallest, toughest dude on the court — were cut with a sense of pride and relief that maybe, just maybe, he had finally made it through the last of his dark tunnels.

From 2002, when he was charged with criminal trespassing and brandishing an unlicensed gun, through his struggles with alcohol and his stormy marriage to his former wife, Tawanna, to the reports that he blew through $200 million, Iverson forever seemed one false move from total disaster. King admitted Friday that yes, there were times that he doubted Iverson would live this long. But then the two of them were together in January, and Iverson spent a half-hour talking to King’s daughter Emery, who is 7, telling her that she could grow up to be anything she wanted to be. The words sounded so familiar to King … because he had heard people say the same thing to Iverson.

“Worried — I just worried about his lifestyle,” King said. “But as I’ve seen him, the appreciation for everything he’s gone through in life, and to see him talk to my daughter and the passion that he showed, I don’t worry anymore. It’s a natural progression that I don’t know that I thought was going to happen, but it did.”

That’s the thing about Iverson: Everyone has always wanted the best for him. Everyone saw the person and player he was and could yet be if he could curb his tendency toward self-destructive behavior. The skill and passion on the court, the intelligence and willingness to be vulnerable in public, the status as a cultural and countercultural icon for his tattoos and cornrows and defiance, the smile that could stop a cloister of nuns — there was so much to him, so much that drew people in, so much sensitivity and potential buried within that hard and jagged exterior if someone, anyone, could reach him once and for all. And there was always hope that someone would.

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“He listened,” Croce said. “I never had to go twice at the same thing. It’s not like it didn’t come at me, but I’d address it. I had to punish him in Boston, in Miami, at certain times. Bubba Chuck loved the discipline even though he didn’t like it.”

When he was coaching Iverson, Brown always referred to him as a kid. Maybe he still thinks of him that way. “Fifty — I can’t believe it,” Brown said. When John Thompson Jr., Iverson’s coach at Georgetown, maybe his most influential father figure, died in 2020, Iverson was 45, and he called Brown with a desperate request: Coach, you can’t die before me. Coach Thompson just passed away, and I can’t have you die before me, too. Brown was a month from turning 80. What was he supposed to say to Iverson? How could he reassure him?

“I think that’s how he feels,” Brown said, “about everybody who’s been part of his life.”

His time is more oriented toward his family than it has ever been. In truth, that bar wasn’t so high to clear when he was younger. He has five children, and the eldest two “never really had a father who was there,” he said. “I was always ripping and running through their younger childhood. Now my other three kids, I’m there. I’m in their life. I’m talking to them when they don’t understand things, when they don’t feel good about things. I’m there. I’m that voice that’s there all the time. I’m taking them to school. I’m picking them up.

“Other than that, my life is what it is — same old, same old. I’m trying to survive in life like everybody else in the world.”

Friday wasn’t about survival for Iverson. Friday was about saluting him. He pulled that cover off his statue — no smaller or bigger than Julius Erving’s or Wilt Chamberlain’s or any of the others lining the walkway to the Sixers’ headquarters. He had made it, had been there to see it. He was on their level. He was their equal at least. “You talk about Wilt. You talk about Jerry West, Bill Russell,” Brown said. “People are going to forget those guys unless somebody mentions what they’ve accomplished. I don’t think anybody’s going to forget Allen and what he’s meant to the game, especially here.” Allen Iverson has always believed that he’ll live forever. In that way, he’ll get his wish.

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