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).