Deadspin presents to you a look at the burgeoning genre of Dirk Nowitzki fiction. Featuring homoerotic thoughts about Steve Nash, a Christ complex, and Oedipal musings. We are through the looking glass here, people.
A helpful and possibly disturbed reader sent a link to this site which features writing best described as "experimental." This story, "The Consummation Of Dirk," is a dreamlike journey through the psyche of Dirk Nowitzki, interspersed with quotes from competitors and analysts, and other potential realities. To sum up, it's batshit insane.
I'm quoting some choice sections, but you really owe it to yourself to read the whole thing.
Then came the summer of Dirk's retreat-into the mountains? The desert? On a single-sailed raft, adrift in uncharted seas? Dogsledding out over northern tundra? Or was it Patagonia, on austral ice, flocks of penguins drawn to him like angels to the feet of the risen Christ? Do we dare see Dirk fishlike, submerged with open eyes, gliding through turquoise waters, abask in the uterine warmth of some equatorial sea?
On horseback a young Dirk Nowitzki races teammate Steve Nash down a thin strip of floury sand along the lapping shallows of some sub-tropical sea, the duo's long hair flapping like matched manes in the wind.
Dirk is clumsy on horseback, Nash skillful. Waiting at the finish line, Nash joshes his friend:
"Howdy," he says, doffing an invisible Stetson as Dirk's steed lumbers over the snapped tape.
Dirk chuckles, executes an ungainly dismount. A breeze flutters their similar white riding shirts.
"Steve," Dirk says later, the two of them sipping electric-blue drinks through complexly-looped pink straws, their horses happily gamboling a little ways down the beach. "What could be better than this, Steve? We've got the whole world, don't we?"
Nash stares out at the giant red sun, dipping into the Pacific.
H—: Well, for a guy who's seven-foot tall, his cock was actually surprisingly average.
B—: I always found Dirk to be a tremendously caring, tender lover. He would sort of gently cradle me against that mountainous body of his, stroke my hair almost how you'd like pet a kitten, and just say these really gentle, really just sweet, loving things.
Stanford University's A. Horowitz rejects Litgenstein's essentially Oedipal thesis, viz.:
We can no more readily presume Nowitzki's ambivalence to stem from the "maternal lacuna" than we can suggest that the savor of a pretzel derives from the absence of sugar withdrawn: the notion preposterously reduces and self-serves.
And Kirk, who was once called Dirk, walked again among the people, bearing good tidings of great joy, peace to the strife-afflicted, communion to those who cried out from the pits of their solitude, hope to all who had abandoned hope, and the people received him with feasting and dance.
Yeah, for some reason Dirk becomes Kirk and is referred to as such for the rest of the piece. But that's not even close to the part that most requires an explanation, so we'll let it go.
The Consummation Of Dirk [The Collagist]