Before a surprisingly hard-fought preseason game between the Los Angeles Lakers and the Phoenix Suns on Oct. 22 at the San Diego Sports Arena, two-time MVP Steve Nash told this lowly peasant to get off of his throne.
As I nervously waited outside the Suns’ locker room for the team to conclude its pregame meeting, it occurred to me that I would soon be in the midst of some of the NBA’s premier players with the opportunity to ask one of them a question before they hit the court. Suddenly, a rousing shout came from inside the cold hole in the wall that was Phoenix’s locker room, and the two-time Pacific Division champions emerged from the chamber.
Most of the players kept to themselves, stretching or bouncing to ease the tension and get loose. Some unfamiliar players chatted with each other, but the stars appeared relaxed and quiet. Unlike the rest of the squad, Nash was talking to himself in a high-pitched voice, not really saying anything but scattering numerous f-bombs, as if to cleanse his system. After about 30 seconds of this ritual, I decided to approach the star point guard.
“Steve, can I get a word?”
He looked at me kindly enough, as if he was willing to give me a minute. I approached him, eager to ask some throwaway question about what the streaking Suns hoped to take away from the matchup against the injury-ridden Lakers.
As I approached, his easygoing expression remained unchanged, and I thought that he would be receptive of my question.
“Steve, the Lakers have been — ”
“Are you kidding me?” he said coldly. “I’m not doing an interview.”
“Not now?”
“No, not now. Tuck!” Nash said, calling for one of the assistant coaches. “Tuck, can’t you fucking do anything for me? Jesus Christ!”
“Tuck” looked at Nash with a look that almost said, “What do you want me to do, shoot him?”
No guns were necessary, and as I left, Nash said a few things about me that were largely inaudible except for a few “fucks” here and there. I’m not sure what he said, but some of the players — mostly the guys who were fighting to make the team and would have laughed at anything Nash said — looked at me and laughed, and how many six-foot, five-inch monsters laughing at you does it take to get embarrassed?
I hobbled away, red-cheeked and wounded. Nash was a man I had come to respect as a player, but I got to see the upstanding Canadian in an unfavorably arrogant light.
I probably broke every unwritten journalism rule by waiting outside the locker room before the game. I was the only journalist there, and that was probably a huge hint that I shouldn’t have been there. Players need to get focused and ready for the game, and they don’t have any desire to answer some pimply kid’s stupid question. The microphones should be shoved into the players’ faces after the game, when the blood has been spilled and the battle has been fought.
Nonetheless, Nash could have been a lot nicer instead of brushing this meek commoner off. It would have been more pleasant — not to mention classier — for him to have said, “After the game, kid.” Instead, he got a couple of cheap pregame laughs, and I got a big “fuck you.”
I’m not sure Nash’s harsh parting words fit the mold of the NBA’s criteria for the MVP, and I’m positive he didn’t adhere to the protocol that every two-time MVP follows when addressing the media. He handled the situation very poorly, and I wonder if his callousness was justified. I’d like to think no, because while he probably forgot the event after I was out of his sight, I felt lousy for some time after. He’s the NBA star, and I’m the college reporter, so I’m sure he’s run into many more eager journalists than I’ve run into professional athletes. Furthermore, a gesture of kindness wouldn’t have hurt him, but his uncouth behavior was an unfortunately rude introduction to professional sports journalism.
After further brooding about the situation, I realize that Nash’s reaction was mild compared to some sports personalities. I couldn’t imagine getting flak from Dennis Rodman or attitude from Terrell Owens. I certainly can’t fathom dealing with a slumping, cranky, PMSing Barry Bonds. Nash is probably one of the nicer guys in the NBA, but what he said hurt and it’s distressing that he didn’t have a little sense of compassion to make an aspiring journalist’s day.
Perhaps the best lesson to learn from this debacle is that sports stars should be admired from afar and we shouldn’t expect anything of their personalities. Players are primarily athletes, and any tact or personable skills they possess are definitely public relations pluses. Their main function is to put the ball in the basket, and if they’re as good as Nash is, it doesn’t really matter what degree of jerk they are. If a player was that great with diplomatic relations, he’d be negotiating a disarmament pact for the United Nations instead of playing basketball.
Although a battle between two outstanding Western Conference foes raged before me, my pregame experience with Nash preoccupied and bothered me greatly. I thought that our exchange — more so his telling me off — might have hung over his head or that I had somehow jinxed his performance by interrupting his pregame solitude, but it was foolish to think that at all. Just yards away by the Suns’ bench, Nash was sprawled out without a care in the world, absorbed in the realization of his own greatness.
After just 27 minutes of playing time, Nash posted 10 points and 11 assists, shooting a cool 50 percent in field goal attempts and an MVP-worthy performance of two-of-three from three-point range — all outstanding preseason numbers. In fact, he played so well that it made me wonder if he should start telling off more reporters to get into his rhythm. Whatever the case, Nash is still a phenomenal player, but he now has one fewer fan to admire his increasingly bigheaded character.
