We differed in our opinions. Some of us thought he’d land in LA LA, to stake his claim to an acting career and play the Superman savior role for the dwindling career of Kobe Bryant. Others of us thought he would go to the New Jersey/Brooklyn Nets, Dallas Mavericks, or even stay with the Orlando Magic. I hoped he’d flounder in a miracle sign-and-trade to the New Orleans Hornets or Charlotte Bobcats. And I’ll tell you why.

For one: I didn’t really care. I was more interested in the winding down of the NFL.

For two: I was anticipating the return of baseball and salivating over an Albert Pujols’ new beginning with my beloved Angels.

For three: I was gearing up for the NBA playoffs, that so far have been brilliant with the performances of Kevin Durant and LeBron James.

A sign-and-trade to one of the above two teams made for good news and even better conversations. Can you imagine swinging a club with a few cronies, drinking beer, talking about Dwight Howard in a Bobcat uniform?

“Billy did you see where Howard went to?”

“Nope.”

“The Charlotte Bobcats, dude.”

“The who?”

“The Bobcats, they started from scratch when the Hornets moved.”

“Never heard of em.’ You gonna swing or not?”

The irony behind that trade would have made sense to every one of us who resent Howard for one ridiculous reason: He stole the “Superman” name from Shaquille O’Neal and hadn’t the decency to think of anything else. Just because he jumped nine inches in a superman cape to win a dunk contest, doesn’t mean he can stake claim to a mantle only real superstars can carry.

What has Howard ever won? A dunk contest. Oh, and Defensive Player of the Year, a rebound title and I’m sure, somewhere someplace, a body building competition. But besides that? Best Smile his senior year in high school?

Look, I’m not denying the man is gifted with incredible height and an athletic intangible to go along with it. But Howard has never and never will be, a franchise player. He will always be the raw inefficient offensive player who needs three other scorers to make him relevant.

Case in point: 2009. Howard and the Magic propelled passed LeBron James and the Cavs en route to their first Finals appearance since Penny and Shaq in 1996. They were manhandled by a superior Laker team in five games, a series during which Howard never scored more than 21 points and shot just 39% from the floor. Instead of Howard, it was Hedo Turkoglu who made a name for himself in the previous series against the Cavs, leading the team in scoring and hitting clutch jump shot, one after another, in the closing minutes of the fourth quarters.

Dwight Howard has been lucky enough to be a big partly skilled man in a moment in NBA History so parched for big men it makes Ron Jeramy’s addiction to sex look geriatric. In fact, Howard hasn’t, technically, been the best big of his generation.

Had not, Yao Ming broken a femur every time he stepped forward, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. We would be discussing the monumental career of Yao Ming, the man who bridged the basketball gap between two hemispheres. Instead we all know the unfortunate end to Yao Ming. A stoic soul with a keen, sensible, personality, and a meek humility, not to mention a 15-foot bank shot better than most guards and the body of a giant. It ended prematurely short, as all good people do, according to Bill Joel.

But Howard on the other hand, has had a relatively painless career. Until this year, Howard had played in 90% of his games. This is the only dividing factor critics use in discussing another big of his generation, Andrew Bynum, who like Yao, has been brushed off with injury woes. This year Bynum played an injury free year and equaled Howard in most categories (considering he shared rebounds and points with two other stars: Kobe Bryant and Pau Gasol).

2011-2012 season

Andrew Bynum             Dwight Howard

Games Played: 60              Games Played: 54

Points: 18.7                          Points: 20.6

Rebounds: 11.8                   Rebounds: 14.5

Blocks: 1.9                             Blocks: 2.1

Field Goal %: 55.8              Field Goal %: 57.3

Free Throw %: 69.2           Free Throw %: 49.1

MPG: 35.2                             MPG: 38.3

When I originally heard the Lakers wouldn’t part with Bynum for Howard, I though they were absolutely crazy (And they still might be)! Bynum was a spoiled-brat, pampered by Laker ownership since he entered the league as an unproven and awkwardly lanky nonathletic 18-year old. He’s been injured often and shown little to any drive at using his god-gifted frame. Howard was the proven somewhat likable and consistent veteran. And then this year happened and my philosophy went to horse manure.

Howard flaunted his egotism all year with a round about approach to answering one god damned question: Dwight, would you like to be in Orlando or not? And while his teammates concocted a decent year swirled with media malaise, Howard embarrassed his coach in live interviews and bowed out early with what some critics describe as a makeshift snot nosed injury.

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzORXMDvJzQ

Dwight, clearly, is not Shquille O’Neal. Shoot! He isn’t even the quiet gamer Al Jefferson is. I am beginning to think Bynum has more upside because of his offensive skill set and now for certain, Yao Ming with a dose of good health would trump him in ever major statistical category. You just can’t like a guy who flaunts himself around like a two-dollar hooker in a mismatched set of heels.

Howard fooled us all into thinking he was the funny charismatic star with a humbled determination to make his teammates better. Howard can’t even make himself better.

He shoots free throws wore, yes WORSE than Shaquille O’Neal.

He is outspoken a’ la bridal-gowned Dennis Rodman.

He is a quitter.

Dwight Howard is a quitter.

Dwight Howard is Baron Davis with a better body. You can blame God for that one. He is wielding a shredded cape, and shooting straight to Hollywood, collecting endorsement money and what will soon be one of the largest contracts in league history. But the O’Brien trophy will never be his if he wins one. It will belong to guys like Turkoglu, with the ability to hit a big shot and knock down free throws. Howard will be the face of the project but the men beneath him, the glue that holds his bloated self-ego together. If I were Magic owner Rick DeVos I would approach the Hornets and ask for the rights to Anthony Davis and a montage of role guys, and wash my hands clean of him.

O! But if only the world worked that perfectas. If only the world was just that damn ironically poetic it would be too good for words. Damn.

There is only one man who can answer these pondering’s, that being “Big Shot Bob,” otherwise known as Robert Horry, who made a living with the Rockets, Lakers, and Spurs, en route to seven rings by nailing the clutch shot.

Why does this matter? He was never a star, but he has rings galore bronzed on his swish- svelte fingers. 

In today’s NBA we judge  all-time greats by how many rings they’ve won and whether or not they led their teams to title town. But is this a fair assessment, considering a life-long bench guy like Horry can be carried to seven?

Never was Horry the franchise guy. In fact, as great as he seemed in closing minutes, Robert Horry never became the player we expected him to be after his timely three point shooting for Houston’s 2nd title run.

Horry’s brief stint in Phoenix after a trade in 1996, proved he was not endowed with a star motor. A hot tempered, dramatic and aloof head case, Bob languished averaging 6.9 points at a career low shooting clip: 41.8%. A trade by mid-season to the L.A. Lakers–a team filled with Kobe Bryant, Shaquille O’Neal, Nick Van Exel, Eddie Jones, Elden Campbell, and Cedric Ceballos changed the trajectory of his failing career.

So why then is Bob a champion? Why not franchise guys like Barkley, Malone, Stockton, Dominique, Ewing, or Reggie Miller?

Each of those listed above were worthy of winning gold, were they not? All of them were respective franchise pieces with the heart, skills, and late game heroics to hold the O’Brien.

The answer to their problems was Michael Jordan’s Bulls: a team of role guys surrounding the king of the sport with that IT factor needed to win it all. Something today’s critics use to gauge greatness and rank the all time elites.

So what is the issue then with the tautness of this old-time equation? Why not turn a blind eye and allow this to be the answer to everything?

Simply because it just does not add up. It does not offer enough answers. If Big Shot Bob has seven, or the likes of Jack Haley–former twelfth man for Jordan’s final three peat has three, the equation’s a bit off. We need something else, a new perspective when thinking of the greats and why and how they never hung the O’Brien.

And I believe individual luck IS the partly the answer, luck, a maddening machine random like the California Lottery. Historians prefer the term historical happenings–a notion that choices are made for no other reason except that they were made, and the dominoes re-arrange the cosmos of a world more closely inter-connected than we might wish it to be (think guy who smells like farts at the movies, or the swine flu victim winding a cough onto the back nape of the neck.)

Luck.

To think Michael Jordan fell to number three in the 1984 draft could be easily overlooked for a variety of reasons: Sam Bowie, the number two pick before MJ, was a  college superstar and a big man compared at the time to the greats. The Blazers already had a gifted wingman in Clyde Drexler andat the time the league was built around bigs: Kareem, Sampson and Olajuwan, Robert Parish, Patrick Ewing, and Moses Malone.

But that doesn’t make things less ludicrous.  Look at how the draft shaped the NBA forever. MJ goes to an ordinary Bulls team built in perhaps the greatest city in America, where he wins ROY, ultimately five MVP’s, slam dunk contests, becomes the games biggest mogul, and wins six titles. Alongside Oprah, MJ is easily the greatest name in Chicago history and can be attributed for an economical explosion that saved the lower West side of the city once run with crime: drug abuse, gang wars, and prostitution.

Bowie, in the annals of the NBA, is known as ‘the bust.’ He never won a thing in the pros: no all star games, no shoe deals, thus injuring the once bright ideal the Blazers had in trading their franchise Center Bill Walton to Boston.

This, my friends, is the Sam Bowie, a supernatural element that cannot be ignored.

Luck.

Yet like so many children born into inner city poverty without the tools necessary to change their lives, we cannot judge the stars through the a similar bias, because not all players are born lucky into a posh franchise. The gift of playing in Los Angeles or Boston does not come to everyone. Not every player is born into a showtime era, a team so deep they make the ocean look like a kids pool.

For some, seeking a new home is like divorcing an abusive wife. In order for Mitch Richmond to adorn gold, the talented and true shooting guard had to eventually break ties in the perils of Sacramento. Karl Malone found it necessary to join with Kobe and Shaq in 04′ after a long tenure in Utah. And even the humble Clyde Drexlerleft a hell of a situation in Portland to win it Houston. All three of which were great with or without (Sing it Bono) a championship.

The reality of the situation is heart breaking for most. We as childish dreamers wish our favorite player could be greater than the others, but this is not real. Embracing a pragmatic approach to the sport tied less to your heart strings will allow you to see greatness wrapped in many different packages. 

Reality 1: Great players DO NOT win championships, great TEAMS win championships. The 2004 Detroit Pistons are a perfect example of this. A team of role guys without a future hall of famer, the Pistons had the momentary IT. Call it faith, hard work, purity, and any other beautiful thing you want, but to explain why they won a title over an L.A. Laker team stocked with four future hall of famers would be absurd.

Reality 2: Like the stars in the sky, NBA STARS need other STARS. Think for a moment about the teams who’ve won championships the last thirty years. All of them have one thing in common: team depth and stars surrounding stars. Magic had Kareem and Worthy; Bird–Mchale and Parish; Dr.J–Moses Malone; Isaiah–Dumars and Rodman; MJ–Pippen; Hakeem–Clyde; Shaq–Kobe and Wade; Duncan–Robinson, Parker, and Ginobili; Pierce–KG and Allen.

Reality 3:  Winning titles does mean a lot, but it does not mean everything for a myriad of reasons. If the 1919 Chicago Blacksox or dirty referees like Tim Donaghy can throw World Series and playoff games, then how serious can we take this thing? Not very. Take everything with a grain of salt and learn other decided facets when it comes to judging all-time greats: MVP’s, All Star appearances, Career Totals, Game Winners, Ability to close, Athleticism, Re-defining the sport, dominance-ometer, and sociological affects.

LeBron James is not a sell out because the guy wants to win, he’s a realist. A star unselfish enough to admit that NO star including himself, can win a title completely on his own.

LeBron is stuck in the the Bill Clinton Vacuum. Though he does great things, he is brushed aside because of one unlikeable decision.

But greatness is not a grade school quiz on being friendly, it is brutal giftedness. And likeability is not the twin brother to being great.

LeBron made a  decision to better his career andhis life. Leading a Cleveland Cavs team the last seven years, that never boasted anybody better than a has-been version of Antawn Jamison warrants James departure.  No it does not warrant the overdone TV cinematic’s regarding “the decision,” nor the Pat Riley blowout introduction party in South Beach. Yet neither should it foster the illogical hysteria across America attempting to deny the man’s sheer dominance and greatness.

This isn’t patty cake kids. We are talking about a production entertainment, where all titles are but a decorative decor. They might help the woman look fine, but if that woman is not fine without the jewelry or the tight fitting jeans, I say run, run as fast as you can.

Drop by the nearest bar and have a scotch on me. Look through the world with freshness and at what is truly great (it is not the girl next to you.). It is the scraggly bartender able to whip up drinks faster than the average Joe.