All things considered, it was a relatively innocuous question: Who would you like to see pose for Playboy? Not who you'd leave your missus for, or anything else that might end up on SportsCenter. Just who you'd pick to grace Playboy's hallowed pages if you won the Hef-for-a-Day contest, and every woman on Earth was willing to pose. Honestly, have any sanguine males among us not answered or posed the pose question at the proverbial water cooler or corner bar?

	Maybe we were wrong in thinking NBA players would want to win a Hef-for-a-Day contest.

Over the last year, polls on Playboy.com have (un)covered our country's most attractive female golfers, sportscasters and hoopsters. But when prompted to name their first-round fantasy league Playboy pick, NBA players -- a group notorious for their generosity of spirit toward adoring groupies -- the query fell, if not on deaf ears, at least on ears pretending to be deaf. To be honest, I've had better interviews with Playmates.

It was the Knicks-Nuggets game March 25 at Madison Square Garden; Allan Houston, Marcus Camby, Antonio McDyess and Tim Hardaway were injured, and the teams were a combined 46-89. Frankly, there was little else to discuss in the locker room before the game. Juwan Howard laughed at the question, shook his head and examined the media pass around my neck to see if I was kidding, before issuing a polite but unwavering "No comment."

I put on the full-court press, and Howard slowly unfolded his 6-foot-9 frame, looked at me like I'd told him I'd picked Winthrop to go all the way in the NCAA Tournament, and walked on by, still shaking his head. It was more of the same with his teammates –- the older players sent me to the younger players, who took their cues from the vets and made like Gary Condit on "PrimeTime."

NBA owners intent on selling the game to families (while selling tickets to corporations, but that's for another day) take heart: Though your faithful employees' eyes light up at the mention of Playboy, their mouths, in turn, clam up. While the question made them giggle and whisper like hot-for-teacher schoolboys, when it came to going on record, they all turned mute as mimes.

	If you get tired of Cris Judd, Kenny Satterfield's got your back, J-Lo.

I next trekked over to the Knicks' locker room, where it was more of the same: the laugh, the head-shake, the polite "No comment." Questions abound: Have all the players suddenly found God? Is their mistrust of the media that persistent? Do they fear a backlash from management? Would I be forced to go to Knicks radio guy/bizarre sex guru Marv Albert for my elusive answer?

Had the scenario been different -- say, in a bar without the media around -- one can imagine a lively round-table discussion on the topic, Britneys and Berrys and Kylies and Connellys flying about the room like so many Patrick Ewing fadeaways. Lest we view the players' reticence as disinterest, let it be known that, for the record, several of these multimillionaires did at least inquire about free subscriptions. But with the suits upstairs, it changes everything. And when the suits come downstairs, it further changes things, including my mission.

"I'm not comfortable with the questions you're asking them," stated the suit who approached me as I posted up with politely laconic 6-foot-7, 270-pound forward Clarence Weatherspoon. "We've got a number of Christian players here. I'd prefer it if you left."

Perhaps said suit was wary that mention of Playboy would distract the players come gametime. Maybe his concerns were merited, as the Knicks surrendered a 19-point lead to give the Nuggets their sixth win in their last 32 road games.

	Our lone friend, Satterfield, shows his fearlessness in taking on Michael Jordan, right.

Knixed from the home locker room, my questions deemed un-suit-able, I ambled back to the Nuggets for a final rejection before tipoff. But lo and behold, I found a player eager to behold J-Lo's butt.

"Butt-ass naked, you say?" inquired rookie guard Kenny Satterfield, willing to venture his 6-foot-1, 176-pound frame where considerably bigger men were afraid to tread. "J-Lo," he stated, voice confident, eyes aglow. "I'd like to see what's up under them clothes."

Satisfied, I hit the free buffet in the press room, and Satterfield hit the floor for warmups. Weatherspoon went on to miss what would have been a winning jumper at the buzzer, and told reporters afterward, "You can't ask for a better shot. It's a shot I've just got to make." If I'm in any way responsible, Clarence, I sincerely apologize.

Satterfield, on the other hand, had a perfect night, shooting 1.000 from the field. Granted, the man I now call The Answer only took one shot, but it was a keeper.

Michael Malone's work has appeared in Playboy, New York Magazine, Gear, Stuff and Time Out New York.