Basketball isn’t my game. Admittedly, I’m of the mind that the three-run home run is the best play in sports.
My idea of Xs and Os is more pencil and paper at the kiddy table than pre-game strategy.
That being said, I’d like proffer my two cents on LeBron James.
Frank Deford’s recent SI column doesn’t do justice to the revulsion I feel towards LeBore. However, the sportswriter does tap into my literary proclivities when he writes: "Imagine three of the best actors in the world playing Hamlet, Ophelia and Horatio for eight months and telling the critics they can't quite get their cues down yet."
Like so many other casual fans, my disdain sparked the night of the hour-long ME-FEST, when LeBrat told Jim Gray (who, incidentally, I also despise for his untimely hack job on Pete Rose) that he was taking his talents to South Beach.
(Insert sound of Chuck Berry striking gong here.)
What bothers me most was the message that LeBlight’s actions sent the young basketball fans around the world. That is, winning is more important than loyalty, integrity, or by the Ghost of John Wooden, humility.
It would have been preferable if he’d gone quietly, like a Baltimore Colt in the night.
I dunno, I guess I’m of the mind that a team should develop organically, to the extent that it’s possible. (Note: inasmuch as the Evil Empire is accused year in and out for buying championships, fact is I’ve been a fan since the days of Reg-gie.)
And so, this past Thursday night, when the Heat choked after being up by 15 with seven minutes to go, I felt a glimmer of hope that King LeBum, Boshy Spice and Dwyane Spice could wind up eating humble pie this post-season.
In the end, I’ll be shocked if the Heat loses.
But for now, I’m just a casual fan, a kid pretending that Dirk Nowitski is Larry LeBird in disguise.