Barkley, Shut Up and Jam: Gaiden, The Steve Nash Khronicles

Warning: This Story is Canon

Act Two: The Toss of the Ball

Renowned point-guard Steve Nash followed Goose the knowledgeable hobo down the dark and forgotten tunnels of Neo New York. The air was getting cooler and damper, and the tunnels continued to slope downwards. Pipes were starting to become visible between the bricks, and the stench of sewage was gradually becoming more pervasive.

"Who are you taking me to see?" Steve Nash asked as he ducked underneath a jet of steam escaping from an old pipe.

Goose didn't reply at first. Eventually he said "Do you enjoy life, Steve?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Nash questioned.

"It has to do with everything, my boy."

Steve pondered this as they continued walking. "You know, I can't say that I really do enjoy life, Goose. At least not since..."

"The great B-Ball purge?"

Steve was silent. "Y...yeah. The purge. We used to live in a world where B-Ball was accepted and even encouraged. Now it's looked upon as something to hate, to despise. What kind of a world is that?"

Goose nodded. "These are hard times, especially for former B-Ballers."

"Don't I know it," Nash continued. "I'd been living in Neo New York in secrecy, lying low for years, not causing any trouble. The next thing you know, the B-Ball Removal Department is bursting in, demanding that I come with them. I had to run. I had no choice. I'm...I'm good at running."

"But aren't you getting tired of running? Don't you want to stand up and fight for what's well and good, my boy?" Goose raised his voice, "Don't you want to restore B-Ball to it's former glory?"

Nash paused. He stopped in his tracks, and Goose turned around to face him. "Well?"

"Of course I do," Nash responded. "But I'm just one man, and I'm but shadow of my old self. I can't slam with the best, let alone even jam with the rest."

Goose put a greasy hand on Steve's shoulder, and looked up into his eyes. "Don't ever stop slamming and jamming. You were one of the best. You still could be. Don't ever forget that." He pulled his hand away and continued to amble down the tunnel.

"..." said Steve Nash.

"We're here, boy." Goose said as they rounded a corner.

Nash gazed at the sights before him. They were at the entrance of large, cavernous room with a high, vaulted ceiling. Large pipes pumped waste into the chasms below, which were bridged by thin metal catwalks. Nash saw what he assumed to be houses carved into the brick walls. Strange-looking creatures walked around, going about their daily lives.

Goose looked at Nash and grinned. "Welcome to Cesspool X."

. . .

The man longingly held the jersey in his hands. He ran his palm over the large, white number 36 on the back. He inhaled and closed his eyes. He exhaled and opened his eyes. He sat down in his rocking chair, which always faced the door, and began to rock.

He heard two pairs of footsteps approaching, and smiled. Goose had done good. He had been afraid that they wouldn't be able to find anyone left to listen to their cause, but maybe there was hope after all...

The hobo and a small white man entered the room. The white man instantly went whiter when he saw the man in the rocking chair, who stood up.

"You-you're-" Nash mumbled, awestruck.

"Hello Stephen." The man holding the jersey held out his right hand. "It's nice to meet you. My name is Meadow Lemon. But you can call me Meadowlark."

. . .

Nash fell to his knees. It couldn't be, he thought to himself. It just couldn't be... "You're Reverend Meadow Lemon!" He stammered. "A Harlem Globetrotter and one of the best B-Ballers this Earth has ever seen!"

Goose grinned. "This is who I wanted you to meet. He is indeed Meadow 'Meadowlark' Lemon, a Globetrotter so good that he was one of the only five to have his number retired. Number 36."

Meadowlark beamed at Nash. His tall frame was made even more impressive by the perfectly spherical afro mounted on his head. "Stand up, we have much to discuss."

"But what are you doing here?" Nash got to his feet again. "Why are you here in Cesspool X?"

"Goose, if you will please excuse us..." Meadowlark said, and Goose nodded cheerfully, disappearing back outside. Meadowlark offered a chair to Steve Nash, who took it gratefully. Meadowlark went over to his closet, got a hanger, and slipped his Jersey onto it carefully. He put it in and shut the door.

"I've been in hiding, much like you have been," He sat down in his rocking chair. "Thank Clispaeth I was able to find you before Chamberlain did. That could have spelled disaster for us all."

"What do you mean, Meadowlark?"

"We're reaching a crisis point. Ever since Wilt Chamberlain took over the B-Ball Removal Department, they've been cracking down on Ballers even harder than before. Why, I've heard that half of the former Nuggets were put to death just last week."

"No! Not Jimmy Darden!" Nash sat back in his chair, stunned.

"'Fraid so. If something isn't done soon, B-Ball as we know it will become extinct. And so will we, in the process. For players like us are nothing without a sport to play." Meadowlark lowered his voice. "Sorry I had to bring you down here, but BLOODMOSES has ears everywhere."

"BLOODMOSES? That's the second time they've been mentioned! Surely they were destroyed when Barkley-"

"Hah, Barkley tried, Clispaeth rest his soul. But BLOODMOSES runs deep. Necron 5 was important to them, that's for sure, but have you ever considered that there may be 4 other Nercons we haven't even heard of?"

"NO!"

"Yes, it's a thought that keeps me up at night. And, of course, the B-Ball Removal Department is just a front for BlOODMOSES itself. They use it to take out as many Ballers as they can, since we are the only things separating BLOODMOSES from completely taking over the world."

"Have you heard of the KA-J project?" Nash asked.

Meadowlark stopped smiling his sad smile, and smiled a worried one. "Where did you hear about that?"

"In the alley, I overheard Chamberlain mentioning that the KA-J project was nearing completion."

"Clispaeth help us, this is worse that I thought." Meadowlark got up and walked over the closet. "We may have to act sooner than I anticipated."

"But what can we do?" Nash also stood up. "We don't have nearly enough manpower to take out BLOODMOSES or Chamberlain!"

"There may be something..." Meadowlark turned back to his closet and opened it up.

"What are you thinking?"

"We are just two men, it's true. It's too small a number, not even enough for a B-Ball team."

"We'd need 5 people for a B-Ball team."

"That's correct Stephen, I'm glad you still remember the old ways."

Nash looked down at his Nikes. "It's the only thing that keeps me going." He cleared his throat and looked up. "What was your plan?"

Meadowlark opened up the closet and pointed to his jersey. There were four empty coat hangers beside it. "I wasn't the only Harlem Globetrotter to retire a number."

"Of course not, there were five of you. Five that played the game so well they became instant legends." Nash paused to think. "There was you, Meadowlark Lemon... and..." He struggled to remember. It was so long ago. And yet, the names of the greats sat on the tip of his tongue. Slowly they came back to him. "And number 20, Marques Haynes, number 50, Reece Tatum, and number 22, Fred Neal. We used to call him... 'Curly'..."

"You do remember," Meadowlark smiled. "I need your help Stephen. If we can reunite the 5 greatest Harlem Globetrotters of all time, we may just have a ghost of a chance to take down BLOODMOSES once and for all."

Nash looked back down at the ground. "Why do you need me? I'm just a has-been. I've been running for so long I've even forgotten how to dribble..."

"Listen to me Stephen," Meadowlark took his jersey off the hanger and slipped it on over his plain white tee. "You were one of the best point-guards off all time. And you're a white boy! That's an incredible gift. Don't sell yourself short. I need you to help me find these players and round them up. I won't be able to do it alone."

"I don't know if I can-"

"Then don't do it for me. Do it for your wife and your siblings, and all the kids of the Steve Nash Foundation in British Columbia. Do it for them, so they can live in a world without fear that the final buzzer is just around the corner."

Nash looked back at Meadowlark. "I'll...I'll need a jersey."

Meadowlark broke into a huge grin. "Of course. I don't have a jersey for you, but here's the next best thing." He dug a hand into his afro and pulled out a sharpie. "Turn around."

Nash rotated so his back was facing the old Globetrotter. Meadowlark uncapped the sharpie and began to write on the back of Nash's grey tee: "Nash. Lucky number 13."

"That feels...right." Nash said when the work was done.

"I knew you'd come around." Meadowlark grinned and stuffed the sharpie back into his perfect hair.

"Where do we begin to look for the others?" Nash asked.

Meadowlark reached back into his hair and brought out an old piece of parchment. "A few years ago, I was running from Jordan and the B-Ball Removal Department. I wound up here, in Cesspool X, but I discovered that I was not alone. Do you know who used to live in this house, Stephen?"

"Who?"

"Abe Saperstein."

"The founder of the Harlem Globetrotters!"

"That's right, Stephen. And right before he died, he gave me a list of the known locations of the remaining four players. That's the list I have in my hand. I made Abe a promise that day, a promise that I would reunite them all and bring an end to this tyranny."

"So where are they?"

"First we'll go find Marques Haynes. He's supposedly living in the remains of the old Olympic basketball stadium."

"That's a good start," Nash said.

"But it won't all be so easy, Stephen. When you were listing their names, you forgot to mention the fifth retired number."

"Did I?" Nash thought back. "But there's you, and Haynes, and Tatum, and 'Curly'..." Nash paused. " You're right. I just remembered who the fifth one was. He was number 13. Same as me."

"Now do you see the problem?" Meadowlark wasn't smiling anymore.

"Of course...The fifth player is..."

Nash paused for effect.

"Wilt Chamberlain."

. . .

Goose the knowledgeable hobo pushed his way out from behind the debris that hid his tunnel home. His little slouching body ambled over to the dumpster where he had found some chicken before. If he was lucky maybe there was some he missed.

He climbed onto his little stool and peered inside. There were a couple of old banana peels, greasy newspapers, and the image of a face behind him, reflected in an empty pie tin.

"Hello there, sir." Wilt Chamberlain's voice boomed out. "You realize you are out past curfew, don't you?"

Goose spun around, "Uh, heelo there, my boy, what can I do you for?"

"I have it on good faith that a B-Ball playing punk ran past here a while ago. Name was Steve Nash." Chamberlain loomed over Goose menacingly.

"I've no idea what you're talkin' bout, bub." Goose turned around and continued to rummage for scraps.

"I'm sorry, but for some reason I don't believe you." With a swing of one large hand, Chamberlain knocked Goose of his stool and onto the ground. He lay there, unconscious.

"Take him back to HQ. We'll question him further." Chamberlain walked to the mouth of the alley while two lackeys picked up Gooses' limp body and threw it into the back of a TechnoCar.

"You street people disgust me." Chamberlain said to himself. "When we control the world, I'll make sure filth like you are completely eradicated."

He climbed back into the TechnoCar and moved the seat back to accommodate his long legs. "I don't know where you went, Nash, but rest assured, when I find you, I will break every bone in your little white layup-performing body. Rest assured."