Some overly thorough sports hack in some part of the United States apparently reckons that Steven Adams' hands are the second-biggest of any NBA prospect ever.
I can't personally clarify if that's of any rookie ever, or any basketball player ever, or whether it was measured on the thumb-to-pinky or middle-to-palm ratio. I can only assure you I have little intention of confirming it myself, but that greeting the man himself is like handshaking a front-loading washing machine.
Fortunately for those of us with humbler extremities, Steven Adams favours the knuckle-saving "bro" style handshake. And when he walked off the NBA stage to a waiting posse of NBA suits, I slapped that giant hand like the belly of a fish.
"OKC! Meeeean bro!" he grinned as he ducked under the door.
Never have you seen anyone so enthusiastic about Oklahoma.
"You know they have tornadoes, eh?" I asked.
"You know that the city's claim to fame is as 'The Birthplace of the Shopping Trolley'?"
"Bro, the chicks in OKC are meeeean," he whispered. "And the team has it's own chef."
To them, he's Kiwi-as. Fresh. Unsullied by expectation or the glitzy behemoth that is US professional sport.
In reality he could be any other 19-year old Wellington kid.
The posse pushed in. There were interviews to do, managers to meet.
I slapped that fish belly hand and hoped he doesn't lose his grip.