ZingSync

I don’t have a life coach, but I know who I’d want. It would be a pasty, puffy 29-year-old who can’t jump over a four of clubs, wears a $9 haircut and is bored with his job.

He’s the best player in the National Basketball Association and yet seems to rank the sport as about his 10th favorite thing in the world, behind his wife, his kid, his brothers, his buddies, his beer, his horses and not picking up his phone.

There’s so much to love about Nikola Jokic, the Denver Nuggets’ 6-foot-11 hesitant hoops hero, but the thing I like most about him is that he doesn’t want to be a hero at all.

“When I finish my career,” he told an interviewer this winter, “I really wish nobody will know me.” He dreams of being “a normal person” who can “live in the moment.”

This is some moment he’s living in right now. He has the Nuggets with a shot to repeat as NBA champions. He’s pretty much a lock to win his third most valuable player award — and yet when you ask him about it, he looks like somebody just stabbed him in the knee with a melon fork.

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Reporter: Nikola, I don’t think we … have asked you a single MVP question this season —

Jokic: Yes! Good job!

I love him for all the things he doesn’t do. He doesn’t Facebook, X, Insta, Tik or Tok. He has no social media accounts. Is there another star in pro sports like that? When he retires, his goal is to “not have phone.”

You watch him and you have to pound the side of your head. He never seems rushed, never seems tired, never seems like he’s doing much of anything. But he’s doing everything. Last year, Jokic became the first NBA player ever to lead the playoffs in points, rebounds and assists. Then again, the playoffs are only 77 years old. “There’s no muscle definition on him,” former NBA star Tracy McGrady marveled last year, “and he’s just wearing you down.”

He’s just so wonderfully odd. Jokic seems to have wandered out of a YMCA lunchtime game somewhere, but he throws passes off the backboard to teammates, passes to guys 180 degrees behind him, passes through defenders’ legs, around their necks, under their armpits. He launches long-bomb football passes and fashions left-hand-behind-the-back-no-look-David-Blaine passes. He’s a Nugget that comes with all kinds of sauce.

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This guy is the all-time NBA leader in player efficiency rating, which is just a fancy way of saying that when Jokic is on the court, he improves his team more than anybody in history, including Michael Jordan (No. 2). Yet get this: Jokic was picked in the second round of the 2014 draft, 41st overall, while ESPN was airing a Taco Bell ad. Turned out he was the supreme deal.

And, oh my Lord, his shots. He sails up these high, soft ones that come down the chimney like skinny Santas. Hardly hits net, and if he does, the net barely notices. “I hate it when he makes shots,” the Phoenix Suns’ Kevin Durant said during the playoffs last year, “because he’s so unorthodox and it’s like, ‘Oh, yeah, that’s a miss,’ and then it goes straight in.”

I also love him for the things he does. I’ve never seen a photo of him wearing his NBA title ring, but before every game, he takes his wedding ring and ties it to his left shoelace because “family is something that is really important to me. … I just want to give them the love.”

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He’s sweet like that. After every game, win or lose, the first thing he does is try to thank everybody on the other team, all the way down to the equipment guy. Even after the Nuggets won the NBA title last June, he held off celebrating with his teammates until he’d congratulated the entire Miami Heat.

He finally let his nearly-as-huge brother Strahinja pick him up and spin him around like a toddler. Then a reporter got a mic in Jokic’s face and asked him how it felt to be an NBA champion. “It’s good, it’s good,” he said, shrugging. “But the job is done. We can go home now.”

That flabbergasted people. Later, he was asked to elaborate. “Well, nobody likes his job,” Jokic said. “Or maybe they do. They’re lying.”

Somebody asked if he was looking forward to the victory parade. Jokic spun with horror toward the Nuggets’ PR people, “When is parade?” Thursday. “No,” he moaned, rubbing his face. “I need to go home.” Who rains on their own parade?

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Home is the sleepy town of Sombor, Serbia, where Jokic drinks beer, rides his bike and dotes on his family-owned horses for harness racing. That sport, he says, is his “passion.” The trotters might feel otherwise when he crams his 284 pounds into a sulky.

The Joker might not want to be remembered, but it’s too late for that. He’s Hall of Fame, first ballot, guaranteed.

“Don’t bet against the fat boy,” he once said.

I never will.

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