Zach Lowe is from CT, apparently. Found this anecdote in an old Grantland article about All-Star Weekend:
I grew up in Connecticut, where we have zero high-profile professional sports teams. I’m just barely old enough that I’d already picked a Big East team by the time the UConn men’s basketball team became something like a national power, and I felt funny jumping on the UConn bandwagon when that happened. But I had paid zero attention to women’s basketball before Rebecca Lobo, Jennifer Rizzotti, and their teammates went undefeated and won the 1995 national title. I had no pre-existing loyalties, and these women were awesome. I was all-in and have been since.
The only players around whom I’m star-struck are the UConn women legends, in part because I still see them from the perspective of a fan, and not as a reporter/analyst. I could barely talk to either Lobo or Rizzotti when I met them in previous years. So when the great Swin Cash walked into the Houston bar where I was having a cocktail Thursday night and lounged on a couch 10 feet behind my bar stool, I reached “teen fanboy” levels of nervousness. Cash was with Ruth Riley, an old UConn nemesis, and a woman I didn’t recognize. Hall of Famer Bob Lanier and an NBA executive had walked in with them, and they sat at the bar next to us; all five had come from a day of NBA Cares events. I asked the league exec how inappropriate it would be if I introduced myself to Swin. Her response: “Pretty inappropriate.” I must have looked very sad, because the exec immediately changed course and said she would walk over and ask Swin if she might indulge the awkward gentleman at the bar for a few minutes of painful conversation. A couple of minutes later, I got the news: Swin was in.
And then I chickened out. Ten minutes passed, then 20, then half an hour. I glanced over at Swin and back at my friend approximately 55 times, hoping she might break the ice and invite me over. No dice. Then Swin’s meal came, and you don’t interrupt an athlete during a meal. My group was planning to leave at halftime of Heat-Thunder, and halftime was approaching. This was a crisis. We finally got up to leave, and I knew this was my only chance. I veered in Swin’s direction, and before I took even a half-step toward her, she had already put her plate down, turned in my direction and offered up a smile and a hand-shake. It was a grin that simultaneously said, “Nice to meet you!” and “I’m in full self-defense mode, ready with a smile and a stiff-arm, in case you’re a crazy person.”
I have no clue what I said. It almost certainly resembled those classic “Chris Farley Show” sketches from Saturday Night Live. I called her “great” at least twice, and I know I tried to include Riley in the conversation, that Swin called me “sweet,” and that I was sweating. And then it was over. I don’t even know how I got out of it. Another UConn woman, another terrible conversation she would never remember.
Two days later, as I was going down a staircase after bolting a bad All-Star Saturday party, I noticed Swin and her friends climbing up the same stairs toward me. Did I dare assume she might have some vague memory of me, and be game for a fist-bump or at least a happy “hello”? I summoned up some courage and just shouted and smiled as we approached each other: “Swin Cash!” Her immediate response: “UConn!” followed by a big hug.
Swin Cash: You’re awesome. Thanks for indulging me.
— Zach Lowe