Playing for the Phoenix Suns must be nice.
No, not because most of the players are making bank. Or because head coach Jeff Hornacek will babysit for free. Or because the arid climate compels you to go commando. Or because Goran and Zoran Dragic (probably) argue and celebrate and curse in Slovenian.
The Suns just seem fun in general. The camaraderie seems real, the enthusiasm genuine. I liken it to playing for the close-knit Los Angeles Clippers, without all the exposure and pressure and racist (former) owners. This group, again, just seems fun.
They also seem to be afraid of snakes.
The Suns staff—I think—played the ol’ snake-in-the-cooler gag on its players. Their reactions were priceless.
Watch the hilarity unfold here (h/t For The Win):
Oh my god, yes.
Things start off with a bang. And a lot of S-bombs. Markieff Morris repeatedly curses like he has no manners or something. He serves as a preview of—and is therefore a bad influence on—what’s to come. I expect a hand-written apology in the mail for having subjected my ears to such potty-mouthing theatrics.
That goes for you too, Mr. Goran Dragic. You dropped more F-bombs than Floyd Mayweather at a Las Vegas night club that just ran out of Grey Goose and complementary bling.
T.J. Warren looks totally confused, torn between “There’s no way this thing is real. You guys got me,” and “There’s no way this thing is real, right? RIGHT? YOU GUYS? Please tell me this isn’t real? I’m allergic to snakes and snakebites and Kermit the Frog and the color green.”
Gerald Green’s reaction was mostly cool. Plus more F-bombs. He didn’t seem at all fazed by the snake’s presence. Either he knew it was fake, or he throws chopped reptiles in his cereal for breakfast.
Shavlik Randolph was absolute gold. While the rest of his teammates were cursing up a storm, he went a different route. “Oh, gosh!” he exclaimed. Some mouth on that kid. By golly Miss Molly, he sure did overreact. That type of dirty, detestable language is enough to get him thrown out of his lawn bowling league.
Then there was Mr. God Dang, aka Alex Len. He looked mostly confused, then equal parts amused and ready to wrestle. Marcus Morris, meanwhile, didn’t curse as much as his brother. No apology letter from him is necessary. Zoran also didn’t curse as much as his brother, though he did walk briskly away from the cooler with one of those “I just sharted” looks washing over his face.
P.J. Tucker wins everything. He was scared shitless, and basically walked out of the building, seemingly laughing and crying and longing for the time, perhaps a few hours from then, when he could journey home, retrieve his binky and try to put this entire, life-altering nightmare behind him.
Ah, Suns. Good stuff.
We now anxiously await the next prank, which is obviously going to consist of a locker full of rabid possums, a fire extinguisher and shampoo bottles filled with fetid ranch dressing.
Dan Favale is a firm believer in the three-pointer as well as the notion that defense doesn’t always win championships. His musings can be found at Bleacherreport.com in addition to TheHoopDoctors.com.
