Some of us think he does, anyway. The ones, at least, who have eyes to see. He hits 3s from 30. We've seen it. He launches from the T-Mobile store down the street. We've seen it. He can do what 90 percent of the NBA can't do: Lob it in the cup clear out from shouting distance. Hey! Weeee've seeeeen thaaaaaaattt, tooooo!
Who's going to guard him from out there? Huh? Who?
Range for Jimmer isn't a limitation it's an invitation.
It's as vast as any stretch of imagination.
But he's more than a role-playing spot-up stiff. He's not J.J. Redick. He's not Kyle Korver. He's not Mike Miller. He's the Sundance Kid. He's more accurate when he moves as he shoots. He splits double teams. He carves up the floor with the ball. He comes off screens. If defenders sag off him on the pick-and-roll, the net dances.
Wait, there's more.
He's got tiger blood. He's got ninja reflexes. He's got heart and soul. He got toe-jam football. He got joo-joo eyeball. He come groovin' up slowly. He got feet down below his knee.
Dude's as cool as an Otter Pop. He's fierce. He wants to take the big shot at the big moment with the big game on the line. He laughs at the kind of pressure that causes lesser men to shank jumpers and cry for momma. He clutches up in situations that make LeBron crawl into a ball and shrink away.
He played against hardened inmates when he was a mere schoolboy. Walked directly through the yard into the prison gym, all as convicts bet cold, hard cake on him to beat their cellmates. And he beat them, all right. Kicked their butts. Scared half of 'em straight, is what I heard.
He learned to dribble in a dark church hallway. He signed a contract as a youngster, in blood, that he would make every sacrifice necessary to play one day in the NBA. Signed it, right alongside his brother and mentor, T.J. And stared it down every night before he fell into deep REMs, dreaming of stopping and popping over Kobe Bryant.
You've probably heard that Chuck Norris has a poster of Jimmer on his wall. What you don't know is that Chuck slaps it every day as he exits his home, ready to play like a champion.
Jimmer is like the Most Interesting Man in the World.
He doesn't always drink root beer, but when he does … well, you know the quotes:
He doesn't sweat. He glistens.
His blood smells like Old Spice.
He lives vicariously … through himself.
He bowls … overhand.
He once thought he made a mistake, but was mistaken.
When he's being modest, it sounds as though he's exaggerating.
There are thousands more, but every ordinary man would be embarrassed if we listed them.
It's just that this guy is something extra-extra-extraordinary.
And he's personable and polite, too.
He can knock it down from downtown without big-timing anybody. He can play hard and be nice. He's what the NBA needs. He's good on the court and he's good to fans. He can ball on the street, then help your grandma cross it.
A nation wants him to succeed.
He's all over the Web. He has his own mania. Film crews are documenting his life.
Here's the thing: A whole mess of NBA teams including the Jazz, if it happens like that are going to rue the day they passed on Jimmer Fredette, the day they thought he was too small, too slow, too unathletic, too risky, too Adam Morrison.
Remember when Steve Nash came out? Same thing happened to him. He was described in one scouting report as "not quick; a poor defender; has trouble getting his own shot against quality opponents."
If Fredette didn't play defense in college it was just because he didn't feel like it or wasn't asked to play it. He could have if his team needed him to. And at the other end, nobody can guard him one-on-one. He'll be fine in the NBA. No, he'll be beyond fine. He'll be finer.
He's … The Jimmer.
He walks on water.
Pretty darn close to it, anyway.
GORDON MONSON hosts "The Gordon Monson Show" weekdays from 2-6 p.m. on 104.7 FM/1280 AM The Zone. He's at email@example.com.