The Man Who Would Be King: Lessons From The LeBron-a-Thon
You can breathe again, America. Your King, LeBron James, has finally revealed where he will hold court. He is abdicating his Cleveland throne and accepting the position of cup-bearer to Duane Wade, the Sultan of South Beach.
Yes...We Are
If you, like me, tuned into ESPN’s ridiculous broadcast dubbed “The Decision,” then undoubtedly, you can see, like me, the handwriting on the wall. This has to be a sign of the imminent collapse of American society. Visions of Nero and nobles entangled in ghastly orgies, gorging on the delights of the flesh while their very existence crashes down like the stone walls they built to protect themselves.
That a 25 year old superstar—one that has failed to deliver a single championship in seven seasons in a league where one truly transcendent superstar is pretty much all it takes—can hold hostage the world’s largest sports network, turn them into his yipping lap dog, become the talk of a nation, and cause such elation in one place and anguish in another is a clear indication that we have lost our way.
Never in the annals of American history has there been a more ego-laden, shameless display of narcissism.
What have we learned from the Summer of LeBron?
Glad you asked. We have learned a few things…
ABOUT OURSELVES
There was a time when the American ideal of hero included at least the appearance of humility. We appreciated the “aw shucks” quality of a man who seemed humbled by the attention lavished on him. We liked team players who deflected praise to the lesser beings around them, even if we all knew who really made the thing work.
Now, we seem to be just fine with a hero referring to himself in the third person, congratulating himself on turning around a team and a community, touting his own talent, and generally leading us in the worship of himself.
I know. This kind of thing is nothing new. I remember Cassius Clay, aka Muhammad Ali. I am aware of Terrell Owens. Heck, even Dizzy Dean said, “It ain’t braggin’ if you can back it up.”
Still, it is sickening when the one whose praises are sung by millions is leading the chorus.
ABOUT ESPN AND THE STATE OF JOURNALISM IN GENERAL
They call themselves “the worldwide leader in sports,” and so they are. ESPN has no peer when it comes to comprehensive sports coverage and that’s a fact. Bristol, Connecticutt, the place they call home, is the epicenter of all things sports.
So, how sad was it to see four professional sports journalists interview LeBron King, listen to his self-congratulatory responses to their questions, and never, not even once, challenge him? They never once took exception to his arrogance. They never once questioned his integrity. They never once probed him about why he would make the announcement about his free agency decision on such a stage.
How could they? They had crawled into bed with him. They were there to kiss his royal ass and boy did they pucker up.
ESPN types long ago dubbed LeBron “King James” and they may as well have lowered themselves to their knees and bowed before him.
Call them LeBron’s bitch. Call them sports whores. Call them pathetic. Call them ridiculous. Call them a cheap imitation of TMZ. Call them a reflection of society. Call them a sign of the Apocalypse. Call them spineless girly-men. Call them idolaters. Call them shameless capitalists.
Just don’t call them journalists.
ABOUT LEBRON
There is no challenging his talent. People have known he was insanely talented since before he hit double digits in age. That, my friend, is part of the problem. LeBron James is the pathetic Frankenstein created by sports journalists’—and the American sports fan’s— need to identify the next great thing as early as possible.
I am not excusing him. I believe in personal responsibility. A spoiled rotten brat does not have to remain one. He could have grown up. He could have surrounded himself with experience and wisdom, rather than his posse. He could have sought the wisdom of someone who had an ounce of it.
He never did.
LeBron James is everything that is wrong with professional sports. He is proof-solid that making mega-millionaires of men who are barely men, men who have talent but no internal compass or integrity, men who are ill-fit to be role models or pop icons is a bad idea.
ON THE BRIGHT SIDE
Worthy of your praise
Keep your eye on Stephen Strasburg.
The Washington Nationals’ flame-throwing rookie pitcher responded to talk about putting him in the All-Star game by saying he did not belong there and that it would be cheating the game to put him there when he has had so few starts at the major league level.
Aw shucks. Really? C’mere. Give us a hug.
Strasburg appears to be everything LeBron will never be…
A breath of fresh air and hope for a brighter sports day.
McDonald’s, McChrystal, And Miscellaneous Mish-Mash
I haven’t ranted in awhile…
What exactly constitutes news? The local Fox channel lead their nine o’clock news last night with some inane story about a guy who looks like a character from Deliverance complaining that a McDonald’s talking toy taught his kid a cuss word.
His little boy said some four-letter word and the man was aghast. He asked the kid where he learned the word, so the little cusser handed him the toy. The man listened to it and then promptly contacted McDonald’s. (Apparently, he contacted Fox 4, as well.)
The toy in question is a talking plastic replica of The Three Pigs from the movie Shrek. They played the toy’s voice thingamajig during the news story and the news anchors had the same giant question mark over their head I had over mine. You couldn’t understand a single word the thing said. If that kid is repeating those pigs, he doesn’t need to be scolded for saying dirty words; he needs a speech therapist.
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No love lost...
I am no Obama supporter…not on any level at any time for anything. I suspect that if I find out he likes Dr. Pepper, I will even give that up. Still, General Stanley McChrystal, a lifetime soldier holding the highest rank and filling one of the nation’s most vital roles, knew better than to trash his Commander in Chief in, of all things, Rolling Stone magazine.
Men like McChrystal are trained not to make rash decisions. They are trained to weigh their words and their options. I cannot help but think he had a very specific reason for throwing King Obama under the bus. I am not sure what it was, but here are a few possibilities:
- He is simply that fed up with the Keystone Cops routine of the current administration when it comes to foreign affairs, especially the kind that cost American soldiers their lives;
- Or, he dislikes arrogance and he doesn’t like ignorance, but when he sees them combined in a single face and that face hanging on every Post Office wall in the country, he sees red;
- Or, he was willing to fall on his sword in order to call attention to the state of incompetence in the White House and the desperate need for some wisdom on handling a very difficult war;
- Or, he was drunk;
- Or, he plans to write a book;
- Or, he plans a run at the White House himself;
- Or…all of the above.
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You can’t roller skate in a buffalo herd, But you can be happy if you’ve a mind to.**********************************
Can someone please explain the discrepancy between the state of highways in the northern Dallas/Fort Worth suburbs and the ones in, say, Arlington, Grand Prairie, Duncanville, DeSoto, etc? Frisco gets George Bush Turnpike and I am stuck with Highway 360 and the butt end of 161?
We are people, too, you know. Bastards.
(I learned that word from one of the Three Pigs, but I can’t remember if it was Pelosi, Reid, or Captain O.)
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I don’t know exactly when U.S. General Phillip Henry Sheridan said, “If I owned Hell and Texas, I would live in Hell and rent out Texas,” but I am guessing it was sometime around the end of June, first of July.
My Double Dad Blessing: A Father’s Day Card
Are you Still Looking On?
When it comes to dads, I have been doubly blessed.
First, there is the Dad I had but never appreciated until it was too late. I wish I could wish him a happy Father’s Day as a son truly grateful for the man he is, rather than as a numb skull kid who had not yet grown enough in the britches to realize what he had.
Dad is gone and he isn’t coming back.
I will catch up to him one of these days and then I will say the things that need saying, like, “I love you and I thank God for you.” Until then, while I am among the ones we call “the living,” I am determined not to miss the chances afforded me to say those things to the people within earshot.
And that brings me to the second helping of my Double Dad Blessing — the man who has called me son since I was 18 years old…and meant it. He is my father-in-law, and he has been— in every way a man can be— a Dad to me for 30 years.
Until I met Tommy Weir, I was not aware that it was possible for a man to love the one who married his daughter with every bit as much fervor and sincerity as he loved the daughter herself. Tommy has. Tommy does.
The Other Dad
Like a true son, I have put him through a heaping helping of Hell. Through all of the mistakes, missteps, stupidity, sin, selfishness, and sorrow, he has been there, loving me the way a father does a son.
In 30 years, I have never once wondered if my other dad would still love me or be there for me.
One thing about Tommy: If he loves you, you are loved…whether you like it or not. So, get used to it. Another thing about Tommy: When you need him, he will be there.
Every…single…time.
I know some of you good people never had even one dad you could be proud of or who was proud of you the way he ought to have been. I am sorry for you, especially when I consider the extra grace I was given. I think maybe some of us need it more than others. I was so much trouble, I wore one Dad out and tested the limits of another.
Thank you, Dad, for loving me as long as you could. Thank you, PaPa, for picking up where he had to leave off.
And, thank you, Father, for my Dads.
Happy Father’s Day.
Nobody Knows Nothin’
I remember when I was a boy and hung on every word my Dad said as though it were an edict from God Himself. If Dad said it worked this way, then that’s how it worked. If he said something really meant something else, then I knew that I knew the real meaning of whatever that something was.
Let me think...
What I didn’t know then that I am only beginning to understand now is what an enormous burden that was for him to carry…for any Dad or Mom or pastor or president or CEO of an oil company whose mishap is dirtying the Gulf. We expect certain people to have the answers we don’t, to know the things about which we are ignorant, to have the wisdom or insight to get us where we are going…or where we think we are going…or where we think we need to be.
Sometimes, they do. Sometimes, they don’t. Sometimes, they just get lucky. Most of the time, they take the information they have and make the best decision they can. That is what the leaders of British Petroleum are doing.
It is also what MacArthur and his team did in the Pacific during World War II. But for all the wisdom and intelligence associated with the American military, there were still costly miscalculations and oversights. For instance, the tiny island of Peleliu, where the Japanese had a strategic airfield, was a point of critical concern to MacArthur. Intelligence suggested the campaign to seize the airfield would last only a couple of days. Instead, the battle for Peleliu lasted more than a month and cost hundreds of Marines their lives.
The Pelelius in life happen because we don’t know everything. Sometimes, what we do know is all wrong.
I am not quite the wizened old sage to whom the people in my world look for wisdom and guidance. But I am not that big-eyed kid anymore either. I do have a few people who listen to what I have to say, who take my advice to heart, who think maybe I know something they don’t. And maybe I do.
Or maybe I don’t.
Now that I am that Dad I used to believe in so much, I realize how very little I really know. I look back over my life, over my time as a father, a leader, and even a pastor (God help us), and I realize that all I ever was able to do was take the information I had, face the future with it, and make the best determination I could.
Sometimes, I was cock-sure I was right, but now know I was dead wrong. Like when I was so certain my daughter was making a mistake falling in love with that wiry kid from a broken home.
“He doesn’t know anything about being a good husband or father. He isn’t fit. He is not right for you.”
I was wrong.
Don’t get me wrong here. This isn’t intended to get parents, preachers, politicians or military leaders to stop making decisions, providing guidance, or lending advice. I just want to make it clear that none of us knows the end from the beginning. Sometimes, what we think is a bad thing isn’t and what we think is a good thing isn’t either. Sometimes, misfortune is really opportunity. Other times, the golden egg the goose laid on your doorstep is a cleverly disguised grenade.
Here is a news flash for you: Being older doesn’t always make you wiser.
Another one: being a Christian doesn’t automatically qualify you for Dear Abby’s column. So wipe that smug look off your face and admit you may be wrong.
I have…for now.
I saw it on some movie somewhere, I guess. A bunch of criminals of some sort and a cop amongst them, going from one to the other, looking for information. Finally, one of them says, “Lookit, copper. Nobody knows nothin’.”
He said a mouthful. Nobody knows nothing. Everybody knows something. A few know a little more, and many know a lot less. None of us knows everything. None of us understands everything we claim to know.
It’s time we admit it.
All that said, maybe I will turn this blog into an advice column. Just reply to this piece with your questions and/or concerns…if you are ready to listen to the advice of a man who knows he may be wrong. Maybe I will call it In(Gene)ious Insights and make a million dollars giving other people advice. I am pretty good at telling you what to do, even if I haven’t a clue what to do with myself.
God bless your day.
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The JourneyMan by D. Gene Strother is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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Here we go…
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