Friday, December 21, 2007
Brethren: Back in November, we wrote a post about how we think Soccer Is Ruining Basketball and pointed to the dirty play that Steve Nash tried to pull on our Bobcat, Ray Ray.
Later that weekend, a buddy of mine sidled up to the bar next to me and told me quite possibly the greatest dirty play story he had ever heard second-hand. So while we sorta havefta stress it's rumor; after reading it, you tell me: How can it not be true??
Buddy who fears Steve Nash: The Ghost And The Darknes, a late 90s creature-feature about killer lions in Africa, ran the marketing tagline, “Only the most amazing parts of the story are true.” Although this ivory-tower assertion was incorrect with regards to the film—years later I was disappointed to learn that Michael Douglas is not, in fact, a rogue Sub-Saharan game hunter—I hope it applies to the hearsay detailed below. I’m sure it doesn’t, but I wish it would.
The narrative itself is simple. Out on the town, an attractive young woman spots a certain star Phoenix Suns point guard/mulleteer trying to make the most of his waning road trip. With the sort of go-getter determination we often associate with veteran car buyers and Yankees upper management, she decides that her night will not end until she negotiates a liaison with the hot-handed heartthrob.
“Hot-handed” takes on new meaning, however, as the young woman succeeds in her quest and lures the ball handler to her boudoir. After fine, rather unliterary hooking up, she falls into a deep slumber, only to be awakened by a dull but sure rectal pressure. Surprised and undeniably curious, she rolls over to find the point guard gazing at her with ambivalent professionalism.
In an adult reprise of connect-the-dots, she links the location of his hot hand to the source of the pressure. Oh my god. Really? Yes, really. And then she shrieks. Seeing that the game is officially up, he shrugs and says, “I’m Steve Nash.”
Buddy: NOW. Because this account has undergone a considerable trek through the grapevine, we should examine it less as historical record than as instructive moral fable, particularly regarding reader response to superficially shocking incidents. You likely read this story and are repulsed by the arrogance of the male protagonist, skilled passer but deficient gentleman, a baller so stuck on himself that he believes that he can justify deviant intrusions simply by stating his name.
To that I say, “Assume not!” Although we cannot rule out the perverse interpretation, can we at least admit the possibility of alternative readings? Maybe the pick-and-roller’s wayward fingers were simply the consequence of muscle memory stemming from a dream of cowboys and Indians. The pistol’s holster just happened to be a girl’s ass. And “I’m Steve Nash” was simply a slick way of signing off—the sheriff, in a sense, telling the town that the bandits have been dealt with. Or maybe our hero has a sense-of-humor only Dutch filmmaker Paul Verhoeven can appreciate. Maybe we don’t find this funny for the same reason we don’t find Starship Troopers funny (i.e. we’re not smart enough).
But in the spirit of the holiday season, when we are all inclined to minor, piddling acts of forgiveness, I prefer a gentler fable: what if he just didn’t know what else to say? What if he was just shy? I mean, good lord. We are who we are. A deer in the headlights can aspire to nothing more than being a deer. An aging pitcher can do nothing more than take HGH in the butt. Falcons QBs cannot resist the urge to pit other species in battle, and, in times of crisis, elite point guards cannot resist the urge to state their names as acts of atonement. Who can shun the healing power of brutal honesty?
This Christmas, why don’t you try it on for size? Sticking your fingers in someone else’s pie may be gross, but no one cares as long as you admit that you are you.
I’m Steve Nash. You’re Steve Nash. Santa Claus is Steve Nash.
We’re all Steve Nash.