There will never be a European player better than Dirk, I won’t allow it

Luka Doncic seems like he could be a really good player. I mean honestly I have no idea if that’s true, I don’t watch basketball, being generally too rapt in the contemplation of mysteries deep and awful beyond the imagining of more frivolous minds. But I’ve heard things, and those things make me wonder – might we once again, some day soon, be asking ourselves the question: could he be the greatest European player ever?

The answer is no, and I’m here to tell you why — because I love Dirk Nowitzki so much that if it begins to seem like a remote possibility I’ll kidnap Doncic, and imprison him in my underground lair. As the years of his prime pass, he’ll be kept comfortable, and well fed, but aimless. We may well wonder what might have been, but never be able to say for sure – and isn’t that what it’s all about?

READ MORE: Murder on the Doncic Express

Of course, for all I know some of you heathens might say Dirk Nowitzki is not the best foreign-born player ever. But of course, that’s ridiculous. Despite what you may have heard, Tim Duncan is not foreign born — they are called the US Virgin Islands for a reason.

And that reason is that they’re islands.

Or, then again, a lot of people who fetishize all-around play might express a preference for Hakeem Olajuwon over Dirk, but I’m here to tell you the gospel truth: defense is boring, and lame. There is a 100 percent correlation between people who think, say, James Harden should have won the MVP over Russell Westbrook last year because of petty stuff like “having had a better season” and thinking Dirk isn’t the best foreign player, and there is a 100 percent correlation between those things and being a huge lame-o who should be shoved into a locker.

Incidentally, a locker, is, metaphorically at least, where Doncic might feel he has been put if he encroaches too far on the sacred space of Dirk’s immortality. It won’t actually be a locker, though. More like a bungalow. Cozy in its own way, once you get used to it. Once you get inured to the feeling of your dream passing you by, day by day.

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I’m not crazy.  I know some day there will, in all likelihood, be a better European player than Dirk Nowitzki. All I’m saying is it will be after I’m dead, or at least too enfeebled to pull off daring capers. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. After all, shouldn’t the best European player be able to avoid the traps I’ve laid, each more fiendish than the last? Isn’t that kind of in the job description? I don’t know why I’m telling you people these things — surely most of it goes without saying. Like the inexpressible grief of spending your youth away from the sun, each moment dropping slow, to land with a thud in the midst of your solitude like a cat among the pigeons. Just like that.