Let’s face it: As a society we love to hate LeBron James, and understandably so.

Six feet, eight inches tall. Two hundred forty pounds with the speed of a point guard isn’t necessarily fair. As a result, LeBron’s a physical specimen demonized more so than he is celebrated.

“He can’t shoot free throws,” say the haters. “He isn’t clutch. He lacks the heart to lead a team on his own. He took the easy way out. Quitter”.

Surprisingly, after two straight titles not a whole lot has changed. I thought more would, but it’s obvious LeBron James will never be the untarnished champion. He’ll always be the man who crushed the heart of a city, to ride the high life with his superstar cronies. The society has backed off a bit with from banging the not clutch drum though echoes can still be heard. but Lebron’s negative public image has held pat in every other possible way.

Shoot, last year it was “Ray Allen who bailed him out.” Mind you, James hit a three earlier pulling the team to within three, rebounded his own miss the next time down the floor, kicking the ball out to the wide open Allen, for one of his many assists. The year before it was “the three point shooting of Mike Miller.” Again: the man single handedly picked apart the Thunder to the tune of 28.6 points, 10.2 rebounds and 7.4 assists per game.

Even Michael Jordan was hated by some. By Joshua Massel. Cropped by en:User:Quadzilla99 (original flickr source) , via Wikimedia Commons

This Lebron hate is the same type New Yorkers held against Michael Jordan in the mid-90’s. They hated him because he was better than them. Because no matter how many people tried to beat him down, including the wild walrus sized elbows of Charles Oakley, he continued on winning championships, scoring titles, MVP’s, fame, a reverential nickname, and induction to the hall of fame.

The man is the best ever. Period. Nobody’s going to tell him, or me, otherwise. Despite that, there is still a small, lingering camp of idiots arguing against the perennial oneness of his Airness.

The same can be said for LeBron.

I love, love, love, the Indiana Pacers’ toughness and their young burgeoning superstar, Paul George. I enjoy Kevin Durant & his upstart small town Thunder and other teams and players, too. But I can’t help but find myself searching the box score for LeBron on a nightly basis. What did LeBron do today? How good are the Heat? Can he lead his team to a third straight title?

Tell me the last time you genuinely thought about Paul George. You’re working, going about your day, maybe walking to the water cooler or copy machine, when all of a sudden, ah, yes, there he is — the young Pacer and his encroaching legacy. Not a chance. He comes into view the moment he suits up against the best.

But share a cup of coffee with your boss & you’re bound to talk LeBron somewhere in there. The most dominant player of a generation breeds venom, vile slams. Like Kobe, Shaq, and so many others before him, he alone, can split a bar into ruckus thugs. The man is just that polarizing. And whole lot better.

Where does Kobe Bryant belong in the list of all-time greats? By Keith Allison from Kinston, USA, via Wikimedia Commons

It has been a week since LeBron James and the Heat took home their third title and second with ‘Bron Bron leading the charge. For those of us at Fansmanship, it put another spark on the gasoline marinated tinder that is our ongoing conversation about James‘ place in history.

To review — Luke has been quick to crown LeBron as an all-time great, even before he had won a title last year. Andy and I are hesitant to project. Several players in our generation in different sports have been projected to be great, or even the greatest of all-time, but have fallen short.

While Luke sat this pod out (I think he was worried about being proven wrong on his LeBron placement), Andy, Dianne, and I talked about what criteria we should use for GOAT status, who are the top-20 greatest ever, and how current players fall into the mix.

Because we are all under 35 years old, I think our lists are probably biased toward players from the 80’s and 90’s, but you can be the judge. Let us know what you think in the comments below.

Below are our top-20 lists and then the podcast below that. Hope you enjoy.

Andy’s Top-20

1. Michael Jordan

2. Bill Russell

3. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

4. Magic Johnson

5. Wilt Chamberlain

6. Kobe Bryant

7. Shaquille O’Neal

8. Larry Bird

9. Tim Duncan

10. Hakeem Olajuwon

11. LeBron James

12. Oscar Robertson

13. Jerry West

14. Moses Malone

15. Julius Erving

16. Elgin Baylor

17. John Havlicek

18. George Mikan

19. Bob Cousy

20. Isiah Thomas

Dianne’s Top-20

1. Michael Jordan

2. Bill Russell

3. Magic Johnson

4. Larry Bird

5. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

6. Tim Duncan

7. Oscar Robertson

8. Jerry West

9. Wilt Chamberlain

10. Shaquille O’Neal

11. Hakeem Olajuwon

12. John Havlicek

13. Kobe Bryant

14. Lebron James

15. Julius Erving

16. Moses Malone

17. Elgin Baylor

18. Dirk Nowitzki

20. Bob Cousy

Luke’s Top-20

1. Michael Jordan

2. LeBron James

3. Ervin “Magic” Johnson

4. Wilt Chamberlain

5. Bill Russell

6. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

7. Oscar Robertson

8. Larry Bird

9. Shaquille O’Neal

10. Tim Duncan

11. Hakeem Olajuwon

12. Julius Erving

13. Kobe Bryant

14. Dirk Nowtizki

15. Jerry West

16. John Stockton

17. Elgin Baylor

18. Karl Malone

19. Rick Barry

20. Moses Malone

Luke’s Second Top-20, post-podcast revised edition… if that’s allowed….

1. Michael Jordan

2. Magic Johnson

3. Bill Russell

4. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

5. LeBron James

6. Wilt Chamberlain

7. Larry Bird

8. Oscar Robertson

9. Tim Duncan

10. Shaquille O’Neal

11. Kobe Bryant

12. Hakeem Olajuwon

13. Julius Erving

14. Jerry West

15. Dirk Nowitzki

16. Elgin Baylor

17a. John Stockton

17b. Karl Malone

19. Moses Malone

20. Bob Cousy

Owen’s Top-20

1. Michael Jordan

2. Bill Russell

3. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

4. Magic Johnson

5. Larry Bird

6. Wilt Chamberlain

7. Kobe Bryant

8. Oscar Robertson

9. Shaquille O’Neal

10. Elgin Baylor

11. Hakeem Olajuwon

12. LeBron James

13. Jerry West

14. Moses Malone

15. Tim Duncan

16. Karl Malone

17 John Havlicek

18. Julius Erving

19. Charles Barkely

20. Rick Barry

Around the time I was beginning to understand the importance of the Olympic games, the great track star Carl Lewis was the biggest name on the block. I tuned in daily to the 1988 Olympics to see Lewis win his sixth career gold medal.

How sweet. How tear jerking. A young American inspired by one of his countrymen. It is the sort of story “Little House on the Prairie” and actor Michael London were great at. But hold on a second. Lewis’ epic run of glory ended rather bluntly. Let’s just say, like so many before and after him, Lewis thought he was more than just a track star. He attempted to belt the national anthem with sweet harmonies, but what occurred that night at a New Jersey Nets basketball game against Michael Jordan’s Bulls was downright deflating. The man was a miserable uneventful singer who gave Roseanne freaking Barr a solid run for her money.

I learned a good lesson that day: Do what you’re best at. If you don’t you look worse than a woman with the eyebrows of a broom.

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=3kU9XwcOIfI

Or

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=ru2BYd3c90w

?

And then I couldn’t leave this one out because it makes my point even more. Cuba Gooding Sr thinks he’s more than just the father of his famous son. Think again Sr.

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

I tuned in last night to watch the gazelle of a sprinter, Usain Bolt, glide to his record breaking gold in the 100 – meter sprint. The Jamaican moved with the softness of a feather over the course; his body built by bricks; the man adorned with the physique of a Roman God. Here’s to hoping he sticks to running and not some makeshift rap or r&b career. With a rock star name like Usain Bolt anything is possible, and that’s what scares me.

I grew up idolizing Michael Jordan, like one would a god. Collected his cards, modeled my jump shot, the tongue wag and the up and under layups after him. The man was divinity. He was other-worldly. Alien. Someone unparalleled throughout time.

But now that I have grown up I see reality for what it is. MJ, like any other human, was full of luck, flaws and failures. Thus this Fansmanship series was born, beginning with Mike’s imperfectly perfect legacy.

**************************************************************************************************

1) Space Jam? Seriously? Who knew Mike in the peek of his career needed a face lift from bugs bunny? He was a three – time champion at the time and ruler of the league.

But ruler of space? It just can’t get more shame – worthy than that. The man was a brand in and of himself, and he sold out to become a lead of a cartoon and one of the most ridiculously cheesy songs in musical history.

Then again, he was playing baseball, and dropping routine fly balls.

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=lLeD-2Ebdaw

2) A true passing of the torch? Okay, I won’t go that far. But the young Iverson sure made the 34- year old Mike look geriatric in 1997. It was one of the only times in memory, I can recall an opposing player out dueling the great like that.

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CZbrVrX1tM

3) If it wasn’t weird enough seeing MJ play baseball and star in Space Jam, it got even weirder when he returned in 1995 to the game of basketball, wearing a number 45 jersey!  Jordan was clearly only a shell of his former self shooting,  7 for 28 from the floor with a mediocre 19 points.

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=n1LeVCwyHas

4) Forgive the long recording. In fact, skip ahead to around 6 minutes and watch from that point forward. What you will see will amaze you. A return to his infamous 23 (after wearing 45 for most the season) meant Mike was officially back, but not so fast. In the final two – minutes in a decisive game 6 with his team’s back against the wall, Mike shoots 0-3 from the floor, air balls a jump shot and turns the ball over twice.  There goes my fantasy of him winning every series en route to a title.

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=ntwR8ZGmLJg

5) Motivational, bla bla bla. Nothing was motivational about Mike in a baseball uniform. He looked awkward. I really couldn’t find anything better than this to describe his pathetic stint at baseball, where from 1994 to 1995, he hit .227 in the minors. Mike was the Luc Longley of his second sport. How awe-inspiring is that?

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=M0_KWGGvtWg

6) Let’s not deny the truth: MJ was a jerk. This is the guy who fought his own teammate, Steve Kerr, in practice because Kerr hit a three point shot over him. But one thing Mike wasn’t, was unprofessional. He was the consummate pro able to keep his cool in big game moments. Well…not so much this night against the Jazz, when he bumped the referee (yes bumped) en route to getting tossed.

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=vNt5jCwA9bs

7) I hope a bolt of lightning doesn’t strike me dead for this, but the infamous “shrug” in game one of the 1992 NBA Finals against the Portland Trailblazers was incredibly unlike Mike. At this point in his career, he was a 28 percent three point shooter. But on this night, the best defense was Mike’s lucky offense. He hit 6 threes in the first half, scoring an NBA Finals record 39 first half points.

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

8) I hated MJ in a Wizards uniform. It got awfully annoying watching him retire, return, retire. And this time I was, like a teeny bop Fresnoid, “over it.” He was fat and slow and looked more like post – 1999 lockout Shawn Kemp, than his usual slender athletic self. This missed dunk says it all. What is that vert? 14 inches?

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

9) Again, please no lightning bolts. But wasn’t Mike so good he could get open, fair and square, against anyone? Not.So.Fast. While I agree there is no better way than this for Mike to cap his famed Bull career, this was a serious push off on a superior defender Bryon Russell and an offensive foul. Mike needed a little shove off, to get open at the ripe age of 36.

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=vdPQ3QxDZ1s

10) So, I’m super bummed because my favorite all – time favorite player, came back one to many times and sounded like an arrogant buffoon in his hall of fame speech, forever tainting his legacy. I’m sorry Mike, but you just sound stupid. Real talk here. You sound comprehensively self obsessed. What happened to the man who made others around him better?

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=XLzBMGXfK4c

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.

For many of us, Summer means little to our fansmanship. As much as we try to appreciate America’s great past-time, Baseball is too slow and monotonous. We are seeking more than just an old timers’ game; more than five dollar English Leather cologne.

It is supposed to be the fun-time of the year. Many of us get time off of work to visit the world, sit on the beach, party with friends. Most importantly for us bachelors (and non-bachelors if we’re honest) the quadruple B’s are out in full force–blond, bronzed, bikini’d, bodies.

Head out to Avila Beach or Pismo for an hour and you will have plenty of memories by the time you’re done eye-surfing the summatime candy.

But hold on. Just hold up a bit. We don’t want to be creepers now do we? When you took the career job or said I DO, life took a turn for the better. Life was no longer a never-ending scene from Baywatch, and you are no longer David Hasselhoff and his abundantly woodsy chest.

Promiscuity is a bad bad word now, it will cause you to pull a groin or pat on tiger balm morning, mid-day, and night. It is not meant for us mature ones, but for the spry youngsters with a libido the size of Roseanne.

This my friends is no fun, I know. Yesterday I nearly pulled a hamstring on the stationary elliptical. I was trying to both watch ESPN and fake-run at the same time. Sounds easy enough, but nearing thirty, nothing has become easy. The “honey yes, honey of course, honey I will,” sorts of answers, are all that are easy. My life is a tedium glass house, I say no and the world comes crumbling down.

Summatime…

Remember playing ball nine to five on the blacktop with a few friends? It’s seventy five, a clear ardent blue coats the horizon, and the dead day just slumped on your shoulders with not a thing to do. Each one of your pretended for an eight hour period you were MJ, Scottie Pippen, Penny, Shaq, Larry Johnson, Zo, Grant Hill, or Hakeem.

Those were the days. Now, as a tax-paying citizen you’ve grown to resent the group I listed above. As you collect your unemployment from your poor paying teaching gig, your rose colored glasses including your young affair with believing in the impossible have slapped the basement of your life and crumbled into a million little pieces.

Summatime…

Relax, at some point all of us end up washed up. If an epic duo like Will Smith and DJ Jazzy Jeff could never produce anything more than their one-hit album, then trust me, you and I will be forced to scan, fax, make copies, and staple for a living.

But what Summatime foreshadows are feelings of freedom. Despite our limited free time and fading memories of running the black top with skinned knees and soda pop, we all have a place within us that can go there.

Who would of thunk watching men’s professional tennis could excite me like Pam Anderson’s bobbing twins used to? Now as an unemployed man I have the ability to depressingly relive the glory days and bring back the first loves of season: sports, sports, and more sports.

Yes, sports.

Currently, A-Rod is stepping closer and closer to Barry’s all-time home run mark, Tiger is trying to return to form and assume his rightful place as golf’s all-time greatest, and the best living tennis player is still playing at an extremely high level in Roger Federer. Not to mention on Sunday, Jeff Gordon won his 84th NASCAR race, ranking fourth all-time on the list and assuming at forty one, he may go down alongside Richard Petty as the greatest driver in World history.

All this and it’s Summatime. Some things to keep an eye this Summer as you either bum it or find the time in your hectic life to Tivo something. Keep an eye on the Boston Red Sox, who after starting the season 1-9, currrently own the second best record in Baseball and are on pace to be just the ninth team in league history to eclipse 1,000 runs scored in a season.

Watch A-Rod continue his climb to home run greatness, as he sits just thirty four shy of the great Willie Mays mark of 660 at fourth all-time.

The NBA draft on June 23rd is always an intriguing experience. For NBA fans, this not only can shape your future (think Boston in 07′ with the trades of both KG and Ray Ray), but offers a glimpse in the leagues future. This year the popular names are the tweeners, Jimmer Fredette of BYU and Kemba Walker of Uconn, both highly talented but not sure lottery choices as of now.

Normally the draft would be all fun and games. That is if there was not a looming NBA lockout. According to NBA analyst Charles Barkley, the owners are at a “point where they are going to try and break these players unions down.”

Like the NBA’s situation, the NFL lockout has to be the most intriguing situation for sports fans. Most of us wait the two dead  Summer months: June and July, for August when football training camps report and news regarding trades begin to swirl. As of now, both sides remain at a stall and the idea of living without football for many not only kills their Summer, but does away with Sunday beer drinking hoots around the tube. Now Church is the only sad option.

June gloom is definitely upon us. A marshmallow cloud bank over the Pacific does it justice. Not only are we concerned about our lack of freedoms living as grown adults but we also may have to live without two of our favorites next year. In order to keep the faith, now would be a good time watch Baywatch re-runs or finally take up those dance lessons.

LeBron James’ career has burst into flames, after his self-aggrandizing title prophecies with the Miami Heat ended Sunday in a game six loss to the Dallas Mavericks. The NBA’s darling just one year ago–a mild tempered family man, with the dribble speed game of MJ, and the passing and rebounding finesse of Magic, is not only the league’s most wanted but is now left for another off-season to ponder his lowly 2-8 record in NBA Finals games and dismal 2-6 record in must-win elimination games.

As much as the league has tried to endorse James as the predecessor to MJ’s greatness, one is left to wonder whether he will go down as the games biggest bust. Despite this ever-evolving debate in the eight year relationship fans and critics have had with James, the man himself seems undeterred.

“I pretty much don’t listen to what everybody has to say about me or my game or what I’ve done with my career,” James said. “I don’t get involved in that. This is year after year after year for me. Me as an individual, people write or say what they want to say about me. It doesn’t weigh on me at all.”

This is yet another form of kindling for the LeBron hatred across the country, and is the type of thing that has taken the “King” mantle from James and placed his name among the all-time villains. Something LeBron seems indifferent towards.

“All the people that was rooting on me to fail, at the end of the day they have to wake up tomorrow and have the same life that they had before they woke up today,” James said. “They have the same personal problems they had today. I’m going to continue to live the way I want to live and continue to do the things that I want to do with me and my family and be happy with that.”

Despite the criticisms, LeBron’s mantra is simple: his life is better than yours. Today the man woke up to a multi-million dollar mansion with his family, and is currently sipping prepared pina coladas by an aqua lagoon furnaced by his own personal natural hot spring. As his wife kisses his forehead, his children have the best education money can buy, and his hard-working mother — the one who worked day and night as a single mother — is doing just the same.

So what gives?

“It hurts of course,” James said. “ I’m not going to hang my head low. I know how much work as a team we put into it. I know how much work individually that I’ve put into it, when you guys are not around. That’s something people don’t see. I think you can never hang your head low when you know how much work, how much dedication you put into the game of basketball when the lights are off and the cameras are not on.”

LeBron’s confidence in his work ethic is the saturation necessary to help him get past this on-going bout of losing when it matters most. In fact LeBron seems half-right. In eight elimination games in the playoffs, his career numbers of 29.8 points, 9.4 rebounds, and 7.4 assist would argue his point.

Yet for Cleveland fans and many across the country the problem has never been LeBron’s abilities, rather his inabilities to close out games in the final minutes. Cavs fans are left to ponder not only James inappropriate decision parade on national television, one in which took them from title hopefuls to cellar dwellers, but his final game against Boston in the Conference Semi-Finals where James looked as if he’d quit on the franchise and aloof thereafter.

This loss, whether it be just another loss in a long seemingly successful hall of fame career for James, is vindication for many across America. For Cavs owner Dan Gilbert it was everything he needed to move on with his career. After the loss, Gilbert tweeted: “Old Lesson for all: There are NO SHORTCUTS. NONE.”

The longtime friendship Gilbert and James had, rooted in the franchise selection of the Akron native, continued its bitter feud. Gilbert has never waned from admitting his disappointment in the player he believed was faithful and would help change the course for Cleveland fans’ long drought without a professional title.

This is like the “Young and the Restless,” but better–it is Brokeback Mountain the sequel, starring Jamie Foxx and business mogul Bill Gates. But jest aside, this is the life of a man left to wonder whether his career will ever culminate into anything more than best greatest loser of all-time.

For James and any other NBA great, the tiers of hall of fame stars is a real topic, one of which none of these player can run from. It is like having your name sprawled next to MJ, Magic, or Bird instead of Iverson, Dominique, or Ewing.

And despite the majority, who are beginning to wonder whether James is the latter, the star is limitless in his drive. “The only thing that weighs on me is when I don’t perform well for my teammates and the guys that I play for every day,” said James. Which as of now, seems like the theme to his rocky unabashed career.

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.

It seemed to be a hard-fought and physical game. Both teams were playing really hard and it was a close game. I’m writing this actually while it’s still going on. But the TV is off.

The Heat had the ball and Joakim Noah slipped and fell while guarding Chris Bosh. Bosh turned and drove to the basket and was fouled by three Bulls players. Carlos Boozer was the second Bull to get to Bosh and, arms raised above his head, made sure that Bosh wasn’t able to get a shot off. While arms were tangled, Boozer was clearly the stronger of the two and Bosh ended up sprawled out toward the baseline while Boozer stood where he landed, on his feet, with his arms raised.

After talking with his fellow officials, Joey Crawford went to the scorer’s table and called Boozer for a flagrant foul. My TV was off before Bosh could even shoot a free throw. The Heat were losing by three points (I think) at the time of the foul. I’m sure it won’t be for long…

This is the NBA I despise. Where there is espoused-only toughness. Where 6’10” athletes need protection from the refs. Where a hard foul turns into a flagrant foul and where the refs still don’t have control of the game.

This is the NBA, where Kevin Garnett can spout off a profanity-laced tirade and bully all he wants. Where Rasheed Wallace can call Vladamir Radmonavic “Borat” without repercussion.

This is a league that is all bark and no bite. Where a player’s acting tough is always rewarded and where a player’s actual toughness almost never is.

This is the NBA where a “tough” act that is actually related to the game – basketball warrior protecting his basket – is penalized most harshly.

Listen, I get it. When there are players whose athleticism and star power make them transcendent, you want to give them every opportunity to show that off. To market the game, it is important to have defining slam dunks and plays that maximize a player’s athleticism.

Tell that to Michael Jordan. Jordan was hacked harder than the Boozer foul at least a few times per game in the playoffs. Did we appreciate the game less then? Did it negatively affect Jordan then?

Tell that to Shaquille O’Neal. While he was the most difficult player to officiate, Shaq was fouled harder than Boozer fouled Bosh probably ten times per game. Since Shaq was typically the one left standing, the fouls were almost never deemed flagrant. Again, did it make me appreciate Shaq less? Absolutely not. How many more dominant years might Shaq have had if the NBA was as liberal with doling out flagrant fouls from 1997-2004 as they are now.

I’m not saying a league needs to allow a McHale-like clothesline. I don’t want to get back to the fighting times, when Kermit Washington almost killed Rudy T (for more, read The Punch – a great book).

What I am saying is that I’d love to see how LeBron would actually react when it wasn’t so assured that he’d be protected by the officials. I’d love to see whether Chris Bosh would go into a shell or change his takeoff point the next time he drove to the basket in order to absorb contact.

Unfortunately, today’s NBA doesn’t allow for or require these things from its players. Call it “Namby Pamby” or “weaksauce” or just overprotected, marketing-driven basketball. It doesn’t matter what you call it. It’s the way of the world now.

Miami’s BIG 3 will continue to roll. And I’ll continue to watch hockey — or maybe just keep the TV off altogether. I do live in California, and it is starting to get warmer…

Watching Sir’ Dirk diggler his way between double teams then drop the off-foot fade away, with feathered bangs haunting his brow is like hot chocolate with a bust of hand-whipped cream lapping at the tongue…sizzle sizzle and more busty sizzle.

My nizzle.

Fans swore off of Dirk after his Mavs famous meltdown in 06′ and 07′; said he was overrated, couldn’t hit the big shot, seven feet but soft as butter, a lanky vanilla–sweet but melts with contact.

Well not so fast.

In the meantime Nowitski has collected an MVP, eclipsed twenty thousand career points,and freeze framed his Shaggy Doobie Do face in the list of all-time greats. Dirk’s freakazoid bar, with his insante giftedness to dribble like a point, hit the fade away like a guard, rebound as a forward and finish inside is Lady Gaga unparalleled.

Did I just say Lady Gaga unparalleled?  I did because Dirk is the the greatest powerforward to ever play this game.

Yes you heard me. My condolences to Timmy Duncan, but today I am writing with a blasphemous resignation to the truth of things. I have post stamped this through the mailman, and asked his caddy Sir Charles, to verify its arrival. Dirk is not only the greatest powerforward, but when it comes to closers is listed as: MJ….Bird…..West…..Kobe….Dirk.

Monday’s performance was one of the greatest this league has ever seen. Dropping 48 on OKC in game one of the Western Conference Finals, he did it in Gaga fashion: 12-15 shooting, 24-24 from the free throw line, hitting clutch jumpers late to close out the Thunder in the fourth quarter. Setting the tone from the get go, Dirk started 4-4 with the Mavs first ten points, and twenty in the first half. It was obvious  that this Sir’ Dirk is no longer living under the devils of his past.

OKC looked stupefied in his wakes and had no answer for him all evening, throwing seven different defenders his way including: former Defensive Player of the Year Thabo Sefalosha, and block king Serge Ibaka. His unguardable abilities and size caused former NBA coach turned ESPN TV personality Jeff Van Gundy, to continualy pose the X and O question, “How do you stop that?” His sidekick, former point guard Mark Jackson returned, “You got to close the air space.”

Air space?

This is not about some make believe air space, this is about fate. As much as I love the twenty-three year old Durant–a two time scoring champ, and gifted 6’10 wingman with the ability to hit the three, take you off dribble, and get up and finish, I am aware that his moment has not arrived yet.

It was obvious Monday who the better team is. This is not your usual lay-down and die Dallas Mavs team who’ve become more of a hard-nosed defensive squad with their yet classic art of tres droplet supremes. Key moments on Monday included: Barrea sparking Dallas with twelve straight points in the third, and Jason Kidd bringing stability at point when Darantula made it a game scoring Jasseven of his teams ten points in a 10-0 run in the fourth to pull to within five with 3:34 to play. Like a black widow spider dangling from a single thread, only to lose her luscious prey a few inches from her triangular grasp, that is as close as things would get. This year there is no hesitation from the Mavs–a collective of cast-aways, bridging their way to title ascension.

And with a German juggernaut like Dirk taking them there, it bids the question, “will this finally be their year?”