Recently, I had the privilege of watching the Cleveland Cavaliers play the lowly Washington Wizards. And let’s get the obvious out of the way: LeBron came as advertised. First, the man is physical perfection. (Not gay. He raises every metaphoric bar that exists in the world of athletics. He surpasses every other player on the floor in every major category—height, weight, speed, coordination, ball handling, earning potential, explosiveness, etc. In fact, the only player who exceeds him in any category is the taller Zydrunas Ilgauskas, a 7’3” Lithuanian who likely grew up miles from a volatile nuclear reactor chewing on pellets of Miracle Grow. People say shit like this about a lot of athletes, but LeBron actually does it. He is, by all accounts, a total freak of nature. The most incredible part of his game, though, is that despite LeBron’s size, between the foul lines he compliments his physical attributes with a gear that nobody comes close to. Incredible. He is all the Monstars from Space Jam put together, except LeBron is covered in tattoos and does not want to procreate with Babs Bunny (who, coincidentally, is way underrated).
But this I expected. I know he is the most gifted athlete on the planet. What I didn’t expect was how strangely, emotionally volatile he was on the floor, an aspect of his intelligence lagging far behind his hulking physical dominance. Although cool in interviews, when challenged on the court LeBron shows character traits that resemble multiple personality disorder. One moment he is an enforcer, the next a whiner, the next a court jester. Multiple times during the game, LeBron followed a dunk thrown down with biblically awesome force with a double-palms up plead to the referee begging for a call. Why not flex? Pretend to snort the baseline. Go hump a cheerleader. That is what a great player would do. I know, I know — he’s young, handsome (still not gay), yada yada yada. Shut it. If you are in the “greatness” debate, there are no excuses. Play like a fucking champion.
Champions play in a controlled rage, the essential word there being controlled. Although LeBron possesses the body control of a leopard, he has the emotional control of a seventh grade girl and for a king it’s not exactly regal. Although you may see this as a minor problem, I believe it will in part prevent him from attaining the greatness the media so dearly desires for him. And the great irony of it all is that it is not his fault.
LeBron plays with a sense of entitlement. He is an aristocratic player in a democratic league. The only other NBA player with comparable superstar status, Kobe, earned it with two years of bench play, a successful evasion of a media scandal, and three NBA titles. LeBron was born with it. As a result, LeBron commands only physical respect, and that is not enough. Look, LeBron is not just a few championships away from the other man he is often compared to, Jordan, but rather a lifetime away. His legacy will never touch Jordan’s. Even if James outplays his greatness LeBron won’t even be remembered as “LeBron.” Matrix moment (buckle up): LeBron never really was LeBron, nor will he ever be, at least to you and I. He has always been and will always be King James—the man that we are all Witnesses to. Unlike his predecessors, LeBron is celebrity first and player second (even though I don’t think he wants to be).
See, LeBron has never had the agency to determine his legacy. It was not his choice; it was ESPN’s. LeBron thinks that he is the best player ever and why wouldn’t he? He has been told this since he was 16. Now as a result, he sees every no call as a personal attack on his legacy, as a blasphemous act in basketball’s very real hierarchy. If you do not believe me, look at his quotation after the loss to the ‘Zards (which was just staggering by the way): “That’s not fair. I was fouled.” For the basketball fans out there, this was the infamous “crab dribble” game. Let me remind you, this was against Washington Fucking Wizards. It’s this sort of shit, let’s call it elitism for now, that prevents him from intimidating on any level other than the physical. LeBron strikes fear with stats; Jordan struck fear with intangibles. LeBron’s biceps prevent him from doing so, which presents an enormous irony: no one would use the terms LeBron and greatness in the same sentence without his precocious musculature, yet it is that same image—the specimen—that prevents him from achieving the greatness he so desires.
Now, here’s one to grow on: what LeBron and Nike don’t realize is the Monstars always lose, even when they win games. They stole their powers in the same way that James stole his status. Jordan’s legacy is untouchable in the current sport’s zeitgeist because it rests atop an enormous resume of sweat and success. It’s organic. LeBron’s is synthetic, just like the St. Vincent—St. Mary High School jersey you bought when James was a senior. ESPN has put the cart in front of the horse, and even though this horse would probably blow by Secretariat, I don’t see it arriving at its intended destination anytime soon. Well, until he signs with New York apparently.
-Written by Tripp Prescott the Third
