Lebron no longer the laughing Cavalier as end game nears

If you were shaken from your slumber early last Friday morning by the walls rattling and the sound of a distant crash, it was probably just a giant falling to earth in a land far, far away.

Until now, Lebron James – or The King to you and me – has danced out a fairytale career in professional basketball, in a swoosh-ified world bubbling with expensive champagne. Though without a title, his was a career viewed under the soft lighting of that wonderful commodity: promise. Until now.

White-hot favourites to see off the rough magic of an old Boston outfit, the best-of-seven play-off series ended late on Thursday night, sensationally, after Game Six, with the Celtics winning 94-85, almost beneath a green tide of raw emotion. James seemed to stand alone from the madding, shamrock-wearing crowd.

Seemingly distilled to a hand-on-hips silhouette, it was like studying an unbeaten and seemingly invincible heavyweight in the very instant he drops to the canvas after shipping his maiden knockout blow. As a veteran Buster Douglas threw his arms to the bleachers in unlikely victory, this was Tyson on all fours pawing the canvas for his lost gum-shield, like a short-sighted man searching for his spectacles.

The cameras trailed James into the locker-room. Perhaps on purpose, he generously offered us the glib image we craved as he peeled off the claret-and-gold vest of his hometown club the Cleveland Cavaliers. It’s unlikely he’ll pull the colours over his head again.

Writers often quote a celebrated line of Guy de Maupassant (the 19th century French writer, obviously) as an example of sharp characterisation in fiction.

It goes: “He was an elderly gentleman with ginger whiskers who always somehow made sure he was first through the door.” It works, right? We get the picture. Though not sporting red facial hair, Lebron fit that description in Boston last Thursday night as he exited hurriedly, through stage left.

In July, he becomes a free agent and a lengthy queue has formed outside his door – as New York, Chicago, New Jersey et al carry with them briefcases stuffed full of expectation, pressure and parochial repercussion.

The Boston fans had not been shy in using the native Ohio boy’s reticence to discuss a move in the summer, as an advantage. Throatily singing Frank Sinatra’s New York, New York and chanting slowly ‘Knicker-bock-ers’ ironically, he was embarrassed between each buzzer.

Asked afterwards if he was indeed to bid farewell to those who needed him most – the town of Cleveland which has earned the unwelcome label of ‘choking-est town in America’ through a pattern of failure in a broad spectrum of sports – without bringing home the title that once seemed inevitable, James offered what Woodward and Bernstein would’ve called a ‘non-denial denial’.

But it does now seem that he will hastily pack his bags, reverse the car quietly out the driveway and leave town late at night like he owes his landlord a month’s rent. And it started, like the best hard-luck stories I suppose, so well.

Particularly as Tiger Woods remains caught between sitting shoeless on a shrink’s chaise-lounge and tugging on a set of spikes, it’s easy to say that James is the outstanding athlete now under the earth’s sun. And it’s probably true.

As Shakespeare’s Henry V said before the Battle of Agincourt: We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. Anyone who ever read Darcy Frey’s The Last Shot or watched the wonderful Hoop Dreams documentary will realise that those 10 men who bounce onto the court every night under the harsh glare of arena lights are indeed the lucky few.
The climb to the NBA is a cruelly meritocratic road. Left behind is a hard shoulder of broken promises and wasted talent.

Clawing through the grades and jumping – almost literally – through hoops for scouts, was never James’ journey, however. Though they call the Orlando Magic talisman Dwight Howard ‘Superman’, it was James that seemed to crash in from Krypton, ready to go. He skipped college and announced he was instead to enrol in the school of moderately hard, on-court knocks – the NBA.

In doing so he set himself on track for silly $50 million contracts and billboard-filling endorsements with Nike.
In a twist that seemed drafted on a Marvel comic drawing board, his local team – the middling Cleveland Cavaliers – had first pick in the 2003 draft and, inevitably, they brought their new franchise guy home.

From that coronation, he has become the east’s counterweight to the LA Lakers Kobe Bryant. He seemed to be the
natural successor to his hero Michael Jordan. If I may hop a cliché off the backboard: the world was at his feet.

But, as well as selling more shoes than Jimmy Choo, Jordan won titles. That’s just what he did.

In fact his championship rings stretch to six fingers. James’ mercury-quick hands are yet to be weighed down by one.

The famous old Celtics – a team that speaks in a broad Southy accent to the traditionalist in all of us – march on. They lead Orlando at the time of writing. And, on Tuesday, the Washington Wizards won the annual draft lottery giving them first dibs on the best pretender to the throne.

The king is dead. Long live the king.

Contact: Adrian.russell@examiner.ie Twitter: @adrianrussell