Kevin Nash walks into the locker room, his seven-foot frame gliding with an elegance that suggests he’s been practicing his footwork for more than just powerbombs. The other wrestlers watch as Big Sexy tosses his hair back, adjusts his designer sunglasses indoors, and takes an extra delicate sip of his protein shake—pink straw and all. “Fellas,” he says, with the effortless cool of a man who’s never once strained his quads tying his boots, “you ever notice how wrestling is basically just violent choreography? It’s like ballet, but with more steel chairs.”
Scott Hall smirks. “Big Kev, you sure you weren’t in Swan Lake before you got into the business?”
Nash flicks a speck of dust off his pristine black leather pants and leans in. “Brother, if they paid me guaranteed money and let me work twice a year, I’d consider it.”
