The Evolution of a King: LeBron James and Us

The light man stands, tears in his eyes, hands in the air. He has conquered the mountain; the one they needed him to climb before he could be accepted. His brothers surround him, and though they have scaled it as well, the moment is his. Kind words are spoken, cheers and boos rain down, and the idol he has lusted for changes hands. He is invited to take it first. He does not hesitate. As he raises the golden sphere towards the sky, he is validated. The condemnation, the second-guessing, the pain: each have been relegated to steps in a process, a process he has now completed. His friends and teammates surround him, patting him on the back and yelling his praises. A smile erupts, maybe the first true one in years. After nine years of captivity, the man whom we treated as beast has been set free.

 The heavy man sits, tears in his eyes, hands together. The nightmare repeats, at least for another year. The seat feels as cold as it always does, and it provides none of the support he requires. His eyes shift uncomfortably as loaded questions and verbal traps are lobbed his way. His expression does not change, his face spills no secrets. He is a statue among men, but only because he must be, because anything else would give them exactly what they want. His friends sit on each side, but neither can protect him. Another year, another misstep. Another eternal summer.

            By the time this article has been finished, one of these scenes will take place. One will completely change the narrative of LeBron James’ career; the other will merely prolong it for another season. This may become a story of redemption, a guide to the trials and tribulations that have lead to LeBron’s first championship ring. It may end up as the preface to another dramatic failure in one of the strangest careers in all of professional sports. But as I write it now, with the NBA Finals tied at one game apiece, I look at it as a series of snapshots that have progressed the career of the most talented and divisive athlete of our time. LeBron James has become the ideal microcosm for the changing landscape in sports and fan hood. He has been built up and torn down as dramatically as any athlete in recent memory, and his career has intersected perfectly with the rise of social media in our culture. The result is a man who is both blessed and cursed by once-in-a-generation talent.

            Two men are positioned front and center; all eyes are pointed towards them. Only one man actually feels them.

LeBron James is The Phenom

 

The first time I ever saw LeBron James, he was mugging it up on the cover of Sports Illustrated, looking like a toddler who just shit his pants. It’s hard to conceive nowadays, when we have YouTube and scouting services that track players as young as twelve, but most sports fans had never heard of James before his appearance on SI. But as far as first impressions go, LeBron’s certainly couldn’t have gone much better (minus the picture. Seriously, what is that pose?). In the article, written by Grant Wahl, LeBron is introduced as being the possible heir to Michael Jordan. Danny Ainge is quoted as saying that "If I were a general manager, there are only four or five NBA players that I wouldn't trade to get him right now." Oh by the way, LeBron hadn’t even finished HIS JUNIOR YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL YET. He was 17 years old, and a future Boston Celtics executive already considered him more valuable than all but five players in the NBA. Not to mention of course, the moniker of “The Chosen One”. When one is labeled as “chosen”, it is indirectly implied that there is someone or something doing the choosing. In this instance, the insinuation would seem to be that there exists a basketball deity, one that picks and chooses attributes, and molds them together to create basketball players. One that ultimately decided to create the perfect basketball player, one with no equals and no physical weakness. In the case of LeBron James, this may very well be the most likely scenario.

When watching LeBron James as a high-schooler, the physical gifts and skills are impossible to miss. At 6-8, weighing 240 pounds, he already had the build of a grown man, with room to add even more bulk. His athleticism was off the charts, with elite speed, strength, and leaping ability. When necessary, he could lock down any player on the court. But most impressive was undoubtedly his passing ability. LeBron’s court vision as a high schooler was absurd, there is no other way to put it. Not only could he see where every player was on the court; he could see where they would be in 5 seconds, and had the touch to get the ball exactly where it needed to be. And it wasn't enough that LeBron had incomparable passing skills; he was also a willing passer, who understood the game and how it could benefit his team to get other players the ball. This is a concept that many NBA stars never fully grasp, and LeBron James was a master of at 17 years old.

As his senior season ended and the buildup to the NBA Draft began, the popular comparison for LeBron was Magic Johnson. If the casual fan scoffed at this, they would have good reason. All too often nowadays, we evaluate prospects based on how they stack up against current and former players. This not only devalues the greats of the past, it creates excessive pressure for these prospects to live up to expectations. But Lebron, once again, broke the mold. Experts and analysts reached for the Magic similarity because, in NBA history, he’s the only other player who shared LeBron’s size, rebounding, and passing ability. But, as insane as it may sound, the comparison actually sold LeBron’s potential short. Not only could he clean up the boards and run the offense like Magic, he could also put up 30 points a game. And defend every position on the court.

Needless to say, when LeBron James was drafted first by his hometown Cleveland Cavaliers, the hype surrounding him was deafening. With Michael Jordan finally calling it quits the season before, the NBA was ready for a new superstar. Before he had even stepped foot onto an NBA court, we knew LeBron James was going to be that next superstar. There was no reason he shouldn’t have been. He had the game, he had the personality, he had the marketability. We had never before seen a player that brought as much to the table as LeBron James. All that was left to see was how the meal was going to taste.          

The Evolution of a King - The Two Men

       
            The light man stands, tears in his eyes, hands in the air. He has conquered the mountain; the one they needed him to climb before he could be accepted. His brothers surround him, and though they have scaled it as well, the moment is his. Kind words are spoken, cheers and boos rain down, and the idol he has lusted for changes hands. He is invited to take it first. He does not hesitate. As he raises the golden sphere towards the sky, he is validated. The condemnation, the second-guessing, the pain: each have been relegated to steps in a process, a process he has now completed. His friends and teammates surround him, patting him on the back and yelling his praises. A smile erupts, maybe the first true one in years. After nine years of captivity, the man whom we treated as beast has been set free.

            The heavy man sits, tears in his eyes, hands together. The nightmare repeats, at least for another year. The seat feels as cold as it always does, and it provides none of the support he requires. His eyes shift uncomfortably as loaded questions and verbal traps are lobbed his way. His expression does not change, his face spills no secrets. He is a statue among men, but only because he must be, because anything else would give them exactly what they want. His friends sit on each side, but neither can protect him. Another year, another misstep. Another eternal summer.

            By the time this article has been finished, one of these scenes will take place. One will completely change the narrative of LeBron James’ career; the other will merely prolong it for another season. This may become a story of redemption, a guide to the trials and tribulations that have lead to LeBron’s first championship ring. It may end up as the preface to another dramatic failure in one of the strangest careers in all of professional sports. But as I write it now, with the NBA Finals tied at one game apiece, I look at it as a series of snapshots that have progressed the career of the most talented and divisive athlete of our time. LeBron James has become the ideal microcosm for the changing landscape in sports and fan hood. He has been built up and torn down as dramatically as any athlete in recent memory, and his career has intersected perfectly with the rise of social media in our culture. The result is a man who is both blessed and cursed by once-in-a-generation talent.

            Two men are positioned front and center; all eyes are pointed towards them. Only one man actually feels them.

In Search of The Answer: Why Allen Iverson was the Most Important Basketball Player of the 2000’s

June 6, 2001

NBA Finals Game 1

Sixers 103, Lakers 99. 0:47 remaining in overtime.

I don’t know whether to cheer or throw my hands up in disgust. I do neither. I just shake my head.

Allen Iverson has just finished the Lakers’ night with an exclamation point. He goes from zero to 60 in less than a second, dashing towards a baseline that only contains Los Angeles defenders, all eyes trained on him. But he knew this all along; it was predetermined. He stops in an instant, puts the ball between his legs, crosses Tyronn Lue and creates enough space for himself to throw up his unorthodox stepback. Lue leaps at him, more out of desperation than strategy, but Iverson has already released the ball, not with the typical follow-through that high school and AAU coaches drill into perfection. He doesn’t wave goodbye to the ball, he merely releases it, knowing where it’s headed. As it splashes through the net, Lue falls sprawling onto the court, a defeated man. But the hunter is not finished with his prey. He doesn’t step over him, he STOMPS, as if the Lakers’ hopes were an insect on the sole of his shoe, and Iverson has no tolerance for bugs. For a brief second, he stands over his victim, seemingly laughing, as Lue’s teammates on the bench stand helplessly only inches away. It does not mathematically eliminate the Lakers, as Eric Snow’s floater in the lane would do 30 seconds later, but everybody knows the game is over. The whole city of Los Angeles could not stop A.I. tonight, and he has reminded them in a brutal fashion.

Eleven-year-old me is conflicted. Despite my affiliation with Philadelphia sports, I am a converted Kobe fan, and since my childhood idol left the game in 1998, I had grown rather attached to this afro-wielding future superstar. This Finals was a meeting of the two teams I would most want to hoist the trophy. While some may view this as a favorable position to be in, my pessimism does not afford me such comfort. Every win for the Lakers is a loss for the Sixers, and vice versa. To ease my discomfort, I have already conceded victory to Los Angeles. The Lakers have not yet lost in these playoffs, are coming off a sweep of the San Antonio Spurs that toed the line between utter domination and public execution. The Sixers, on the other hand, took seven games to beat the Milwaukee Bucks in the Conference Finals, and boasted a starting lineup that included Aaron McKie, Tyrone Hill, and Jumaine Jones. Dikembe Mutombo was their second best player, and his joints would literally creak as he lumbered down the floor.

But tonight belonged to The Answer, as he single-handedly served the Lakers their first loss of the 2001 Playoffs.  While the Lakers would go on to win the next four games, and the series, that moment has forever been carved into my mind. In my lifetime, I can only remember watching three Playoff games in which a player seemingly won a game on his own, as if he could have picked four fans out of the stands to play with him and the result would be the same: Jordan’s last game as a Bull, LeBron’s 48 Special against Detroit, and what Iverson had just done to L.A. In these instances, the outcome was not a result of poor performances by the losing team; there was simply nothing they could do.

Eleven years later, AI sits in basketball purgatory. By his own admission he is still holding out hope that he will get to play in the NBA again, that one more team will give him a chance. He bristled at the use of the word ‘retirement’ in an interview with Lisa Salters at a Sixers playoff game this year, a game where he was honored at center court before the game. But whether he is willing to say the word or not, Allen Iverson is effectively retired. While he has been relegated to stints in the Turkish Basketball League, players that were taken after him in the 1996  Draft continue to play, and in many cases thrive, in the NBA.  There is no doubt that he could provide consistent scoring off the bench for a mid-level team. Hell, even Derek Fisher (taken 23 picks after Iverson) is playing major minutes for a championship contender. The issue Iverson has run into is the expectation that teams have for veteran role players. The function of these players is to provide minutes off the bench, limit mistakes, and provide a model for younger players to emulate. The first and last responsibilities are in question when it comes to The Answer. He has had trouble coming off the bench before, and the assumption around the league is that his pride will not allow him to do so. Not helping his cause is the Iverson image, constructed by years of trouble with the law, feuds with coaches, and endlessly replayed sound bites. In a nasty twist of fate, the public persona that once made Iverson arguably the most popular player in the league has assured that he will never play in it again.

Tip Off

               The genesis of every venture begins with a problem, a predicament that requires fixing. Some are nobler than others: providing for others, self-improvement, general betterment of mankind, etc. A majority of the time, the reason can be traced to the pursuit of financial assets. Whatever the case may be, each project is a result of a specific cause or affliction that affects its creator. This is no exception. Translation: I’m doing this shit for a reason, so listen up.

                The motivation to create this blog lies closer to affliction than anything else. More specifically, my stupid, useless head (insert phallic joke here). You see, ever since I was young I have had an unhealthy obsession with basketball. The first person I am going to lay the blame on is Michael Jordan. Now, he was pretty good at basketball. And he also happened to be in his prime during my formative years. Good enough reason to get into the sport, right? Well that leads us to the second (and final) person I am going to blame for all of this: myself. You see, when I enjoy something, it takes precedence over anything that does not entertain me as much. This can include eating, sleeping, primary body functions and the such. More often than not it ended up being homework. In conclusion, the individual factors of Michael Jordan being the shit and my obsessive personality morphed and created the monster that I am today. My first full memory is receiving one of those Little Tikes basketball hoops for Christmas when I was 3, and pretending to be MJ for hours before even opening any of my other gifts. While most adolescents were (I’m assuming) committing to memory the basics of science and mathematics in school, I was filling my mind with the names of largely irrelevant NBA role players such as Slava Medvedenko, Olden Polynice, and Lawrence Funderburke. I still have a DVD in my room called Dunks 2. That’s right, a DVD. That means I was at least 13 when I bought it. I don’t regret that purchase one bit.

Seriously, look at that form. Straight up balla'.

              
                 Fact of the matter is, I have not grown out of this fixation as much as I would like. While I retain very basic human functionality, I am limited in my ability to actually improve myself. What I’m getting at is that I’ve hit the inevitable point in my life where I have simply run out of room in my mind. I imagine that when I receive new information, it simply pushes aimlessly against the gray mush that is my brain, unable to find any new entry points. My head is literally filled to the brim with tidbits such as the complete roster of the 1998 Chicago Bulls (keep on representin', Scott Burrell) and theories about why Kobe inexplicably shaved his glorious afro. I’m afraid of what may happen if my brain conceivably overloads. I see myself standing in line at the bank, yelling at the poor soul next to me, “HOW IS HAKEEM OLAJUWON STILL UNDERRATED?! HE IS THE 4^TH GREATEST CENTER OF ALL TIME! LOOK AT OLD HIGHLIGHTS OF HIM! IT’S BASKETBALL PORN!!!” Needless to say, this type of behavior would have negative consequences.

                So here we are. I am trying to unload some of this potentially dangerous information on you people. “Thanks!” you say, “This is exactly what I was looking to do with my free time. Also, just wondering, what does the name of your blog represent?” Well gee, I’m glad you asked. I was actually wondering how I was going to shoehorn that into this dialogue. Simply enough, I have an end table next to my bed at home. It is relatively nondescript: wood, a little more than two feet tall. But it is where I dump everything. Looking at it now I see multiple bank statements, sunglasses, a camera, a tissue box, toenail clippers, the charger for something that I’m assuming I’ve never used before, and a pile of resumes. The parallel between that table and this blog is (hopefully) apparent. This is my landfill.

In all seriousness though, I do actually enjoy writing, and sports take up a large portion of my life. As my old roommates will tell you, I am more than willing to debate any topic in sports until I am proven correct. This isn’t my first attempt at a blog, although my previous endeavor was, admittedly, crap. It had no focus and tried to do way too much, and too little. My hope is that this effort will be incrementally better than the last, and that by my 14^th attempt sometime in 2048 I will actually approach genuinely inspired work. In the mean time, I can hopefully free up the room in my head to learn how to drive a car without rear ending whatever vehicle stops in front of me. That’s progress, ladies and gentlemen!