ALEX LEN IS A PEEIIIIIMP!

   It was a rebel yell in enemy territory and it could be heard from two states away. Phoenix Suns center Alex Len, with the ball at center court, made a quick move to the right, shaking off a lumbering, swatting Tim Duncan. He dribbled the ball once, then cradled it with hepped up, childlike ambition, moving with intent and purpose.  The lane was his. It never mattered how many grey jerseys were in the way. 

   As Len slammed the ball, one-handed, with legs kicking outward in a perfect v-shape, he let out a warring cry and suddenly everyone in San Antonio knew what we in Phoenix have been lucky to witness this season: the expedited evolution of Alex "Steal My Sunshine" Len.

   The move, as Suns commentator Eddie Johnson pointed out, had "nasty intentions." Rolling past the Suns bench, Len pounded his chest and everyone overflowed with ecstasy.

   Allow me then to make a prediction: Alex Len, in three seasons' time (starting this year), will be on the shortlist of the game's best big men. It is only a matter of in-game experience before this Ukrainian Gumby is on the same level as the Gasols, Howards and Duncans of the league. And he will be a major factor in helping keep this young Suns team in the win column.

   In every game Len has improved his skills little by little. Early on, he seemed nervous, a kid amongst professionals. His rookie season last year was cut short by injuries, putting his much-touted potential on standby while Miles Plumlee came into his own.  

   After the first few games of this season, the fifth overall pick, began to find his rhythm. First his ball handing excelled; he wiped the butter from his fingers. Then, his defensive presence in the paint started to hobble opposing plays. At 7-1, it's not difficult. All he's got to do is put his long arms straight up and the blocks will come. But he's not just an immovable force; he looks for the shot, times it right and slaps away the potential point. We're only ten days into January and he's already averaging 3.6 blocks per game.

   Len's hard work hasn't been lost on Coach Jeff Hornacek. He's kept him in the starting lineup, making Plumlee a second thrust of defense off the bench. Between their four giant palms the Suns are on track to become a major defensive threat in the league.

   In a game against the Sacramento Kings, on December 26, Len and Plumlee each tallied five blocks--the first Suns duo to hit that mark since Amar'e Stoudemire and Shawn Marion did it in 2007. Anything that harkens back to the days of Nash will always bring a source of light to Suns fans.

   And Len's game just keeps expanding. In recent games he's found a jump shot and made a few quick passes to a cutting Goran Dragic. At this rate--even at his height--Len can't see the ceiling of his game.

DRONE CONTROL

Grappling with the Loss of Mother Nash

There were fireworks—yeah—they were going off.

“Lakers.” was all a text read sent from a friend in Arizona. In my absinthian July Fourth haze a few squabbles of information loosely gelled together. Free Agency had begun in the NBA and Steve Nash was at the top of everyone's wish list. A final tug of realization stitched them together as my computer turned on and flashed Espn.com showing Nash with purple and gold behind his grinning mug. Never in my young life have I felt such shock—a shock that diminished reality and turned everything one-dimensional. Nothing about the moment was real and it still haunts me when I see “Nash” and “L.A.” in the same piece. But writing is healing, God let it be so, writing is healing.

The two-time MVP put it succinctly: "Everybody knows there's no loyalty in sports." And if anybody in all of sports were to finally burn a period into the end of that sentence, it would be Mr. Loyalty himself after signing with one of Phoenix's longtime rivals. You're right, Mr. Nash, there really is no loyalty in sports, but as I watched Lebron James leave his hometown for Miami, then Carmelo Anthony demand a trade from Denver, then Deron Williams demand a trade from Utah, this year it’s Dwight Howard’s turn, I held out hope that MVSteve wouldn’t be the next domino to fall. Ray Allen skipped to Miami farting green the whole way, then Nash took the 10 West through scorched earth to his new residence. Oh, but it did happen. The air has left the lungs of amity leaving them deflated like two-week old party balloons. Yeah, nothing is cherished and who cares.

Get over it. I know. I’m trying. Undoubtedly, Nash will be a perfect fit in Los Angeles. He’ll never have to dribble over the three-point line if he doesn’t want to. Between Kobe, Pau, and Bynum he’ll have plenty of exit passes to take. They’ve easily wiggled into the top three of the West. It’s troubling, though, that I won’t be rooting for him, for to do that is to root for the enemy. Sorry, brother, but you’re not wearing my colors. Only in retrospect, maybe ten years after, will it be sensible to celebrate World Champion Steve Nash, because hoping for positive things in Lakerland just is not in the DNA of any Suns fan.

The post-Nash era in Phoenix has already had a few burps and snaps. Eric Gordon, for a moment, made everything feel okay. A decent consolation prize, but the New Orleans Hornets matched the Suns’ offer. We lassoed Goran Dragic back from Houston, stringing his teammate, Luis Scola, along in an amnesty victory and added Michael Beasley from Minnesota. A decent core is developing and Sarver’s got some money packed tightly into his back pocket. Let’s see what roster Phoenix ends up with and hope nobody comes in wearing number 13. We had Nash for eight straight years. By the rules of heartbreak, that means it’s going to take four years to get over this. To be continued…

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).