Well, what a journey it's been.

Just six short months ago I was on a plane to England, sent on an assignment to dig up information on an Alphonse Norwich IV, knowing nothing about the rat beyond his name and a brief bio that stopped when he was eighteen years old. I found a young man steeped in hateful ignorance, some of it borne of poverty and loss, in an area of the world that I was more than grateful to watch shrink away in the rear window of my cab. At the time, I saw that he had both the talent and drive to succeed in the professional leagues, but questioned whether or not it was worth the risk, or if he even deserved that chance.

To be honest, I still don't know.

Within days of publishing my initial story, "Deep in the Heart of the Alley," I was inundated with calls asking about Mr Norwich and the home he so affectionately called Rat Alley. The purpose of these calls ranged from thanking me for shining a light on a city that needed all the help it could get to anger at me for giving such a specimen any time in the spotlight to incredulity that what I was writing was genuine. More than once I found myself accused of exaggerating or inventing wholesale some details of my time in Toxteth. Naturally, as others began to unearth more about Alphonse's hometown and the Biter Boys, the third type of call stopped.

In the time since, the media has picked up and run with the story of Alphonse Norwich IV and his circle of friends, but only rarely with the intention of honest journalism. More often than not, the stories about the scarred rat with the blue mohawk came up as a framing device to talk about specism in professional sports (or in more general terms), speaking of Alfie not as a person but as a concept. At other times, he would be used as a counterpoint to more uplifting stories, saying "and on the other paw..." before going into lengthy monologues about the Rat Resistance and the mostly apocryphal tales of what Alfie supposedly did in his youth. To hear them tell it, he would hardly have had time to practice his game with all the crimes he was committing throughout Toxteth.

Which isn't to say Alphonse himself made it any easier. Much as his agent Murina Beaubonique wanted his first visit to the United States to be inconspicuous, it wasn't long at all before the social networks were sharing pictures and local businesses were eagerly telling the local news about the terrible rat who'd stormed in and caused a ruckus. Then, just this past weekend, rumors were flying that Alphonse had been arrested within a few hours of arriving in Las Vegas.

Perhaps some of the maelstrom is my fault, if not all of it. I realize that without my article, the world would never have discovered Alphonse Norwich IV. Maybe if I'd followed my instincts to turn tail and leave the first time he threatened me, I could have simply told my editor that Alphonse was nowhere to be found and we'd have all gone on with our lives peacefully.

Maybe so, but to say that means we're only looking at half the story.

Perhaps the most remarkable, and ironically unremarked upon, aspects of the Norwich saga has been that of his agent. It's, of course, no surprise for an agent to become involved to some extent in the lives of their clients, after all if they're expected to groom them for a professional career and sell them to teams they have to know what they're dealing with. Ms Beaubonique, however, did something that none of the reporters on television or the bloggers on the internet did: she tried to learn about the real Alfie.

I've spoken with Murina Beaubonique on several occasions leading up to the draft, my morbid curiosity leading me to inquire just why she was willing to take on such a risky client and how things were coming along. Was I trying to assuage some of my own guilt at having effectively inflicted him upon her? Perhaps.

The picture that Ms Beaubonique painted was certainly one different from mine. I hadn't spent much time with the Norwich family, save wading my way through the sea of the little ones on the floor as I was led upstairs and then back out again after he and I had our illuminating chat in his bedroom. Murina had met the family, talked to them, listened to their stories. She told of an Alphonse who wanted nothing more than to provide for his family, an Alley that was as much isolating itself from the outside world as it was being pinned in by it. I won't go into details, as our conversations weren't on the record, but I was quite shocked to hear that the haggard brute I'd seen heaving his own friends about on the Hughes Park court wasn't all sharp teeth and boot tread.

So what does this mean? Does this mean that my initial impressions were wrong? Was Alphonse Norwich IV just a big sweetheart with a harsh exterior? Certainly there are some quarters claiming that. I've seen more than one post on this or that forum or blog professing their undying love for him, that all he needs is a big hug and he'd be all better. Those are no better than the cries for his head on a platter or that his home should be burned down to "exterminate the vermin." As is usually the case, life is never quite so black and white.

After all, what we now know about Rat Alley and Toxteth as a whole raises the very real possibility that having a light shone on their plight is just what they needed, and that if Alphonse's professions are genuine that he wants to put money back into the Alley, his drafting could mean a lot more than just an undeserving lug getting rich. It could mean that one of England's most poverty-stricken areas could be saved. It's a thought that should give even the most ardent anti-Norwich protesters pause. Additionally, for all my blather about treating Alphonse as a concept more than a person, it was certainly true that his presence raised the debate on whether or not hate is etched into the heart permanently or if there is hope. I'm optimistic, but cautious, in regards to that.

Thus, Alphonse's arrival in Las Vegas was met with understandably mixed emotions. The majority of the talking heads who had been so eager to spit in his direction were far less eager to approach him face to face, leaving only a young reporter named Daryl Conte to actually land what could loosely be called an interview with the Brit (and I'm still betting that this assignment was his superiors hazing him more than trying to get a story). There was a feeling in the air that it was in God's hands now. The dominos were all lined up, it was just a matter of the direction in which they would eventually fall.

When analysts managed to pull away from Alphonse the Biter Boy and instead look at Alphonse the Athlete, he was certainly impressive, but not superlative, in the field. The top 24 this year was nothing short of stellar, with the mid-season draft combine threatening to overshadow much of the season itself in terms of sheer electricity. As the time approached, the novelty of Alphonse's story had largely died away, and his name didn't come up when it came time to discuss the draft itself.

Then, the unthinkable happened. Alphonse was drafted fifteenth in the first round. The Hawaii Kahunas, in one of many surprises of the night, showed that they were willing to shoulder the risk, that they saw more in the rat than most were willing to. In what has become a viral picture since, the look on his agent's face showed the same disbelief we all felt. And yet, amazingly, he was magnanimous on stage, even affable. Cynics can say that he was just putting on a front to look nice for the camera, but even that was more than most had thought him capable of. Now, the ball is in his court both metaphorically and literally. I believe I speak for those on all sides when I say we're waiting with bated breath to see what happens now that he's been signed.

So congratulations, Alphonse. Against all odds, against the wishes of your many vocal critics, you've done it. You made it all the way from the alley to the big city.

• RR