Everything in the world of history is a mystical equation. And every equation has a variable. We are trained to solve the variable X-factor through basic deduction, arithmetic, and logic. Take away the numeric value to its right or left and divide the sum total by X. The answered NOW breathes in life, becoming more and more tangible, as the ability to solve the paradigm reveals itself.

Like a spring flower, our answered world grows in its vibrancy.

Life’s dominoes begin to fall one by one, aligning into our new normal. All interpretation becomes a reflection of what Quantum Physicists call a mirrored image–our new normals interpretation of current circumstance: time and space. But according to Albert Einstein’s theory of relativity, time is boundless and void of the boundary points of mathematics: X, Y and Z.

So where are we and why? We don’t really know.

This is where imagination becomes crucial and comes into play. Our emporium of memories are the elements that drive us into Einstein’s boundless dream-like state. The world tips, lilts, rocks, and the fathomable presence of NOW is lost in the surreal.

So we float.

Everything became surreal in the NBA after last summer’s shopping spree, and I believe we are in the most confusing shift between superpowers. In the midst of this all, the media has sounded like quaking tabloid writers spewing asinine hot topics.

Were not the Spurs too physical and too potent for the defending champion Lakers? Not if a 99-83 blowout at the hands of the Lakers two nights ago has anything to say about it.

So what NOW?

We know that we are top heavy with teams like the Bulls, Mavs, Thunder, Heat, Magic, and Knicks.

The Lakers, Celtics, and Spurs are still the elite of the elite. But what does that mean in an upside-down environment? It means I would abstain from betting the house, boat, or wife in Las Vegas.

A blockbuster trade involving Carmelo Anthony and Chauncey Billups to the Knicks made things, shall we say, interesting. All of a sudden the Knicks have become a serious contender; a team that could knock off an over confident one, two, or three.

Even smaller trades can shift time’s mirrored world. When the Celtics rid themselves of Kendrick Perkins in a deal to Oklahoma City for an underachieving swing in Jeff Green, questions arose. Are the Celtics tough enough NOW? A team who had lived on its brutal team defense now has to rely upon a thirty-eight year old Shaquille O’Neal to anchor them defensively.

Most critics believe Perkins will act as the cog defensively that will help the Thunder deal with Western bigs like Pau Gasol, Andrew Bynum, Tim Duncan, and LaMarcus Aldridge. Yet can we really have faith in a team relying upon two teenagers in the world of stardom? It has yet to be seen if Kevin Durant or Russel Westbrook can hit the big shot.

Who really knows? Still twenty games away from the most talked about postseason in recent history, die-hard fans are feeling more insecure and unsure than ever before.

…

Security is a gift, and boy do I miss it.

It was mortgaged last Summer when the NBA’s star faces tip-toed elsewhere like dancing ballerinas, creating what scholar Malcolm Gladwell calls a tipping point: A tipping point is the moment when an idea created by either a large corporal entity or an individual, spreads to the masses. It’s a non-discriminatory personality that can be better understood by humanities need for evolution because everything “new” at some point becomes old and stagnant. Humanity tires of the old.

I guess the NBA God was sick of Lakers vs. Celtics, and so he decided to blow our minds and flip us off in the process.

If LeBron James had stayed a Cleveland Cavalier, it is fair to say much of this shift would not have happened. Whether you like the guy or you don’t, LeBron James is a very powerful athlete on and off the court. He is the association’s fault-line star, with the power to change the league.

On the court, the 6’8, two-hundred-sixty pound point-forward is athletically in a world of his own. His developed jump-shot has made him nearly impossible to guard. Blend in his power-forward like strength, his explosive speed, forty inch vertical, and you have a machine that cannot be stopped.

Well, you do; just ask him to deliver in the clutch…

LeBron is a fan favorite. He is the highest paid player off the court with various endorsement deals. He interviews well, which is something lacking in today’s athlete, giving him a like-ability that is a key component to a tipping point. This is what Malcolm Gladwell refers to as stickiness in his book The Tipping Point, making the evolution taking place as painless as possible. There is no tipping point without the stickiness (like-ability) of an emerging idea.

Does not a fad proceed what was at one point stylistically original?

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It is hard to believe Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh did not know about LeBron’s desire to complete the ‘trifecta’ in South Beach. Wade and LeBron have been close friends since splashing on the scene together in 2003. And I don’t know about you, but my friends and I talk. Also, considering LeBron had a more than a productive situation in Cleveland, it would be hard to believe he went into the South Beach Experiment without knowing first that Wade and Bosh would join forces with him there.

Whether or not Wade is the better of the two (he is), he played second fiddle to LeBron in last season’s free agent fray. For most of the 09-10 season, Wade had hinted he would like to go back home to Chicago, joining a potent squad with the talent that has now become Derick Rose. His situation was average in Miami, and at twenty-eight, Wade with a lot of miles on his smaller 6’5 frame, was in need of making a decision that would alter his hall of fame career forever.

Chicago made an offer right away. Bosh had already made it known that he would leave Toronto.  Who would blame the guy?  He also made it known he would be comfortable as a secondary role alongside either LeBron or Wade. Spending seven years in the wasteland of Toronto, the lengthy perimeter-oriented forward had learned life the hard way in the NBA, that he was nothing but a second rate star.

Now he is nothing but a Horace Grant. Ouch.

Just because Bosh and Wade co-mingled their visits with Chicago together, does not mean they were intending to couple on the same team. I think it is fair to say that the league was awaiting LeBron’s decision before big names like Wade, Bosh, Amare, and Boozer landed elsewhere. If you notice the trend, every time LeBron visited one of his top picks–New York, Jersey, Miami, or Chicago; Wade and Bosh setup meetings a couple days afterward. It was almost as if they were gauging LeBron’s visits. It’s like a high-roller shop-around for a lap dance at a club. His first pick decides she wants to ride his richer, better looking friend, so he goes after her slightly less attractive twin.

The South Beach Experiment was the biggest heist in league history, a three headed Godzilla in the making, one that has ended up in lack of the “balls” needed to win big games. As of today the Heat are 1-9 against the top five teams in the NBA. And yet somehow it was LeBron who not only altered careers forever but changed our perception of the league with a trend as cheesy as an eighties horror flick.

“Attack of the Sporting Threesomes!” coming to a theater near you.

Everything from this point on fell into place. LeBron to Wade to Bosh to Amare to Boozer.

Amare signing with the New York Knicks for max dollars before the LeBron signing was like the Knicks dangling a piece of raw beef in front of a starving dog. The Knicks wanted LeBron and had made that known all along. So signing a dynamic piece like Amare gave them the thundering bargaining chip they needed when wooing the King.

Woo all you want. According to Andy Stevens on fansmanship.com, when you are wooing the King, you are wooing a “kingdom of clutch bricks.” Over the last week LeBron has wilted under the pressure. His Heat blew a twenty four point lead to the Orlando Magic, and lost numerous close games in which LeBron, like a pizza delivery boy in training, was unable to deliver on time.

It is interesting that Chicago never really made headlines when it came to signing LeBron. Though they were one of LeBron’s top choices, they courted Wade and Bosh as a duo. It makes me wonder if LeBron made it clear early on that he did not want to play with the Bulls. If so, the Bulls were trying to dismantle a powerful menage a twa. A triage that would be impossible to beat.

Uncertain and in need of a scoring big man, the Bulls did the smart thing, ditching the sweepstakes by signing Carlos Boozer; a guy who had toyed with the idea of signing in Miami with Wade early on. Boozer has solidified the Bulls, a group of team players who have the gel, firepower, and defense to terr Miami and many other elites a new one. They are the victors in this all, losing out on Bron, Wade, and Bosh, but as of today, with a core of Rose, Boozer, Noah, and Deng, are 3-0 against the Miami “Meat”.

Had LeBron stayed in Cleveland, I believe either Amare or Bosh would of paired with him there. This would have made the Cavs a bigger threat in the postseason and kept them at the top of the Eastern Conference food chain. Wade would of signed alone in Chicago, becoming the face of a fresh franchise. Bosh or Amare sign with the Knicks for top dollars. Boozer stays in the Western Conference and signs with his third choice, the Thunder.

Boozer in Oklahoma City voids the trade for Perkins because the Thunder as a small market team would be unable to take on his large contract extension. Therefore he stays in Boston, making our lives a lot easier because the Celtics are still, well, the tough-nosed Celtics.

…

Humanity relies on our greater purpose. We purport to have control over our circumstances, but life would say otherwise. Natural disasters, life decisions: good or bad, death, commerce, and history, creates a difficult and unsolvable equation. In the world of sports, things are the same. One player, just ONE, has the power to gamble away everything we knew or know. So let it take you, and dangle upside down. The dizzying merry-go-round of the world will, like a magician, continue to fool you.

Just because LeBron James has the power to shake the entire league, does not mean he is worthy of mention in the talk of all-time greats. Weren’t the Backstreet Boys a mentionable name in music in the late nineties? In and of the same, as of now LeBron, like Dominique Wilkins or Vince Carter, is a living highlight reel. Nothing more. His significance as a player took a nose-dive when he cowered as the face of a franchise and jumped ship to be a fellow juggler in a circus parade.

And as of now he can only juggle one, losing.

When I was eighteen I could run through walls, literally. Tried it once with a pillow to cushion the face, despite a minor scratch at the lip, I still had the baby face of Ashton Kutcher.

Twenty-one: Drink (or drank to the hipsters) enough beer to shave the heads of an entire barley field. In fact challenged a group of Aussie’s to a game of chug until you hurl–hurled, but hurled last.

Twenty-five: Two-a-days, party, two-a-days. This body was “not a tuma.” I was mistaken numerous times for Ronnie Coleman, but without the tan.

Now at twenty-nine, with a bum shoulder, a chronic upset stomach, and a bout with the crypt dealer’s aches and pains, reality has set in. I’ve seen mortality for what she is…a bitch. My parties consist of a .99 Red Box film and a game of Cranium. My sluggish workouts emulate the chiseled physique of Chris Farley. Last I checked, my game is a blend between Charles Barkley, ’99, Houston Rockets, and the ballet like movements of a Will Perdue.

I’ve pulled my groin and complained.

Write poetry.

Listen to NPR.

Cry on demand.

Watch American Idol.

In 1998, Vince Carter and Antawn Jamison were like Batman and Robin in the Carolina blue. Nobody could keep up. Carter was second on the team in scoring but first in the world in dunking. His chiseled 6’7 frame was a concoction of both Adonis and the likes of a human gazelle. Then came rookie of the year, 30 point nights, dunks on Zo and Ewing nobody can forget, and the posters, posters, posters. He was the heir apparent, the wheel barrow of the NBA carrying its fruits: popularity, the bens, the looks, the swag.  For a five to six-year span he was the king of Canada. He carried his lowly Raptors to three playoff appearances, one in ’01 that ended in seven in the Conference Semi Finals.  This was enough to make my old man admit to his greatness. During that epic bout, my dad and I crooned over a course of beer. When the game ended my dad admitted, “For a moment the man was a better George Gervin.” And though I found the like comparison off in the way they played, it seemed he’d just transcended himself all the more, by winning over old school fellows like my dad who resent the new look of the NBA.  Without a doubt, in that period of time, the greatness conversations revolved around 1. Kobe 2. VC 3. Iverson.

But then came the body’s alarm clock. The knees gave. The dunks became fewer. Carter got hurt and he, Grant Hill, and Penny Hardaway became the sob stories of the NBA. In 2005, VC played twenty games and averaged a mediocre 15.9 points, both career lows. His passion seemed lost. The smile was enveloped by a saggy look of depression, and he was dealt to the Nets. After four forgettable seasons in Jersey, Carter spent one in Orlando, and now, has been sent to end his career in the vast wasteland of Arizona.  It can’t get more ironically metaphorical that, can it? He will most certainly be waiting tables at Hall of Fame ceremonies.

Last night, I sat at a friend’s house sipping another friend’s wine talking sports, love, and life. My friend and I talked of good old days like two old men on a porch swing of memories. The sad part of it was we’re just twenty-nine going on thirty. And yet, the bodies have changed. We no longer have the ability to out drink, out ball, out game the world. We are simple: married and working men. Our lives revolve around that quiet hustle. We’re the M.C. Hammers of the rap world.

When I was thirteen, I collected posters, and each resembled a bit of my character and child-like dreams. Alex Rodriguez, thin and frail, but humble and pure, swung a bat, while David Robinson slapped a ball like a human fly swatter into the stands. Charles Barkley graced my wall with his smooth, undefined arms, and Kathy Ireland, smiled from my ceiling wearing a turtle neck and high water jeans. My favorite of these, was a game time still of MJ in 1989, dunking over Craig Ehlo. MJ is classically methodical, beautiful, and stunning in his athletic pose, while Ehlo is clearly the antithesis of such. His face is strained; in pain. He’s hit his max vertical of twenty inches. The coiling arm pit hairs of his greatness, stuff his nose like a burrito. And yet, when I think back, though Ehlo was out played by MJ (shoot, everyone was), he was a class act, and to be honest, a better shooter.

I guess with age comes great responsibility, or wait, was that power?  Doesn’t matter, point is made.

–Luke Johnson