DRONE CONTROL

NASH APPRECIATION

One of the dirtiest, most filthiest, things just happened to me. In discussing the impact of Amar'e Stoudemire fitting back into the New York Knicks' newfound rotation, with sudden superstar Jeremy Lin effectively working the point, ESPN showed old clips from the Steve Nash/Stoudemire era from 2002—10 in Phoenix. The real disgusting and most offensive part, though, was not the steepening sense of disappointment, but, when the clips ended it was Bruce “Bowtie” Bowen, the ex-Spur, doing the analyzing with his dumb face. I had to take a shower to let all the aggression slide away.

Bowen was on the San Antonio team that beat the Suns in the Western Conference Finals in 2007 winning the championship that year, and it was Bowen’s multiple cheap-shots to Nash’s groin, and Stoudemire’s ankle the following year, that created a hostility between the two teams that will never die (Horry, Duncan, Ginobli: you are not forgotten). But this is not about holding a grudge the size of Texas, but rather paying tribute to the best point guard to ever play the game of basketball. A point guard who makes everyone he plays with (even Lopez) better. Stoudemire flourished with Mr. Assist and is now considered one of the top power forwards in the league. No one threads the needle with such grace or has the cool and calm to dribble in and out of human trees and wait patiently for the perfect pick-and-roll to present itself. And if none of that pans out, he’ll just do a quick hop and drain a three. That’s Nash 101 and we in Phoenix hold onto it with our collective grip like it’s a dying baby slipping from life’s grasp on a hospital bed. Steve Nash, 38, heads to his eighth All-Star game Feb. 26 as a reserve and he’ll be there representing the team that gave him the platform to be a star.

In today's hypercharged market, basketball stars are constantly chasing the next best scenario. Lebron James, Carmelo Anthony, Chris Paul, Deron Williams have all suffered from inflated ego and visions of gold and confetti, but still have had trouble controlling their destinies. Their anxieties have created an atmosphere of constant discontent in this league. If your name isn’t in lights and you’re not immediately deemed Larry O’Brien-bound by a bunch of ex-basketball star hacks, then you’ve failed by many. Forget chemistry, loyalty and honor, it’s nothing but a crab factory on this beach.

By all accounts, Nash could’ve asked to be traded from the organization in these last few seasons and no one would’ve blamed him. But that’s not his style. He stuck around when Coach D'antoni left; looked for the beauty in adding Shaq—the biggest, clunkiest player ever—into a “run-and-gun” offense; was patient after two early playoff exits and two years under .500; and still remains mired in the post-Richardson, post-Dragic, post-Carter era we now find ourselves in today.

“Maybe I’m old school,” Nash says, on honoring his contract amid all the terrible moves the front office has made. (It was only two years ago that we lost the Western Conference Finals at the hands of Ron Artest only to trade half the team away!) He could be shipped to New York or Orlando and get his ring by this June, but he’s hung around. That loyalty is next-to-impossible to find on any other team and before the unfortunate, damning event that he actually is traded, let’s pause and shout hallelujah for such an icon and one that may be the last of his kind. Steve Nash, you’re my hero (Monta Ellis ain’t nothin’ but a bitch to me).