He went to the Sweet 16 with Santa Clara, and I said what a stupid haircut. He became an All-Star in Dallas, and I said good thing the dude plays with a 7-foot German. He won an MVP in Phoenix, and I protested that the voters were swayed by race. He won a second MVP, and I lamented his lack of defense. When Robert Horry checked him into the scoring table, I applauded the his writhing on the floor as the epitome of weakness, his chemical make up clearly anything other than championship caliber.
I was never a Steve Nash fan. My silver and black monk robes and daily ohm chants at the foot of a giant Duncan statue prevented me from objectively watching Steve Nash. My subjectivity subjected me to a world without grace and beauty. I lived my NBA fandom as an ascetic monk, my skin covered in the ashes of an urn, trapped in a cave of Keatsian ignorance, and as the eye of the beholder, I beheld nothing.
Steve Nash ran up and down the court, his hair flopping like the tattered ends of a wet mop--he looked homeless, conversing with dead men and alien invaders who no one else could see. His MVP trophies were aluminum foil wrapped around his head and the pizza box he used for a radio transmitter. Others saw a genius while I saw schizophrenia, leading me to conclude that the insane talents that made him Krishna in the eyes of the brainwashed were also responsible for his teams' playoff failings. He would drive under the basket, dribbling the ball like drops of splattered paint in the hands of Jackson Pollock, and when he finished, I would step back and say, "It lacks the focus of a Tony Parker or even a Devin Harris." I wanted to make Steve Nash into a false dilemma, a Mormon dichotomy, where one would view him as either the bold founder of a new religion or a dangerous radical, recruiting the naive to a blasphemous cult. In my mind, reading a Marc Stein or Ric Bucher articles during the 2000's was like trying on a pair of Heaven's Gate Keds, and for me, the shoe never fit.
I never thought my opinions would change, but they did. Maybe I just got older and more forgiving. Maybe the leaky faucets in my brain of Stein, Bucher, and Bethlehem Shoals began to seep into my consciousness, drowning out my criticisms with their untethered passions. Maybe I no longer feel threatened by Steve Nash and his sons. Maybe I'm accepting that the Spurs' window is closed also. Maybe I just have nothing left to write about my own favorite players, and need to find inspiration in all that I once despised; or maybe I found myself at home on a Friday night drinking a couple of New Castles, reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road, and watching Nash's Suns play the Magic.
I have yet to finish the book, but, last night, as I read, I could not help but find elements of Steve Nash's career in the character of the man.
Despite years of back pain and questions of "is this the year Nash's game slides into a ravine," Steve Nash still plays like an MVP. Last night, against one of the League's best defenses, Nash racked up 20 points, 18 assists, and 7 rebounds, and as it usually appears with this aging point guard, the effort appeared effortless. When Nash plays well, he can give off the appearance of not putting in work. His hair forms a tail behind his head, as if it were a comet, and he flies around the court as if there were no other trajectory he could take. Many basketball fans see this site, and they become true believers, ready to do anything in the name of Nash. Others see this puppet with no strings and draw back out of fear. His boundless energy and his 11.3 apg are rare acts of kindness on an apocalyptic road to oblivion.
Time and time again Steve Nash attempts to mount his charge to the top of the NBA, and time and time again, Tim Duncan, Kobe Bryant, or Dirk Nowitzki are waiting for him with lead pipes in their hands, ready to beat Nash back from the Finals. Most would give up, give into starvation, and let death take them, but Nash keeps coming back, with a bad back and hacking blood out his lungs. He hides the pain. He does extra stretches. He uses ice and heating pads when the rest of us are not looking. He takes extra care to make sure all the strings that keep him alive are well hidden. He has to. He has to make sure that all the true believers see him as a comet; otherwise, they would give up hope that a team as free-wheeling as the Suns could ever win a championship.
The Shaq years in Phoenix brought Nash and the rest of the Suns to the brink of starvation. Times were desperate, but last night, while reading The Road, I saw Steve Nash down on his knees, not praying, but banging against the wooden door of an underground bunker with all his might, hoping that on the other side of the door there might lie some food, some hope, something to keep his teammates and him alive for just a little bit longer. The act told me, "Okay. This is what the good guys do. They keep trying. They don't give up," and all of a sudden I realized--Steve Nash is one of the good guys.
