Bryan Joiner

Why then I
July 21, 2010

My conversation with Summer


I went downstairs this weekend and as soon as I was out the front door, my phone rang. It was Summer, the season, who is a dude:

SUMMER: Hey, man! What’s up?!

ME: (immediate wince from heat) Oh Jesus, man. This is a bit much.

SUMMER: What do you mean, MUCH? EVERYBODY LOVES ME!

ME: (Sigh) This again.

SUMMER: SUMMER BREAK!

ME: …

SUMMER: SUMMER CAMP!

ME: …

SUMMER: SUMMER FLINGS!

ME: I got news for you, budy.

SUMMER: What’s that, homeboy?

ME: You ain’t all that. Nor are you a bag of chips. And you are especially not Cape Cod Russet Potato Chips. [Ed. note: best chips ever.]

SUMMER: What the—?

ME: I mean sure, I love going to the beach and yeah, there’s nothing quite like a nice, full day in the sun to really set your mind at ease, really point it back in the right direction after you’ve been writing about dolls and shit for six months.

SUMMER: Alright!

ME: But man that feeling passes quicklyyyyy… and then you’re just annoying as hell.

SUMMER: You’re being mean, dude! Go jump in a pool!

ME: See that’s just the thing. It’s not like I can just go jump in a pool. I live in the city.

SUMMER: So crank up the AC! Hang out in the house nekkid!

ME: Hmm. That’s not really my thing.

SUMMER: You’re a bummer, man. Why don’t you go to the Hamptons or something? Everyone loves the Hamptons!

ME: See, now that’s a problem.

SUMMER: The Hamptons is the greatest place in the world! Southampton! East Hampton! Amagansett! Montauk! They got monsters there, bro!

ME: Don’t I know it.

SUMMER: All of New York City’s richest and best people, all hanging out in one place and having fun! What could be better?

ME: Moronsayswhat.

SUMMER: What?

ME: Exactly. What could be better? Pretty much anything.

SUMMER: What?

ME: We get the point. Now you need to get the point. The Hamptons is hell on earth. Literally—if Satan himself was to appear on this planet, I think it would be at some outdoor bar in Southampton, dressed in pink chinos with a polo shirt and a sweater around his neck, complaining about the slipping fee for his yacht.

SUMMER: Whoawhoawhoa. Aren’t you from freaking Martha’s Vineyard?

ME: Yes. But even for tourists, there’s a world of difference between them. And I grew up there. I, like, hate conspicuous displays of wealth or class privilege.

SUMMER: Says the guy who lives in Boerum Hill.

ME: Guilty as charged. But I didn’t take the easy way here, did I? I’m no lawyer or banker or something like that.

SUMMER: You want a medal or something?

ME: Shit no. It’d burn my skin today.

SUMMER: Man, you’re a dick.

ME: I get that all the time.

SUMMER: You wouldn’t be so pissed if you were in the Hamptons. Or Nantucket.

ME: That’s just low. Even for you.

SUMMER: You’re right, man. I’ll make it up to you. Go to the deli. I’ll call the guy and have him put a sixer of Pacifico on my tab. Bring it over to Bedouin Tent, have a falafel sandwich outside and read or write or something.

ME: Seriously? That sounds awesome. I can dig this.

SUMMER: No problem man! Hold on a second. (I hear him make call on another phone, explain situation.) It’s all set up! Sixer of your choice! Rock on dude.

ME: You know what? I think I do love summer. Rock on!

SUMMER: Alright!

ME: (enters deli) Hey, I think Summer just called? The season? I can get a six pack?

COUNTER DUDE: What in the FUCK are you talking about? I think the heat’s getting to you.

(I just buy a six pack and head over to Bedouin Tent and start reading when I get a text message from Summer that says “ahahahaaha,” but it was only like 80 degrees that night, which was really nice of him, and truth be told I do kinda love summer, which I drunk-texted later. He didn’t respond.)

Remember to check out my Tumblr for this and more stuff.

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July 20, 2010

Inception

I can’t remember the last time I’ve a movie as straightforward as Inception. The idea at the heart of the film is simple: no one person (or group of people) can reproduce someone else’s thought process; we will always know what ideas were born in our brains, and which ones weren’t. It’s a tribute to the idea that every waking thought we have is ours and ours alone, and it would be impossible, or simply very difficult, for an outside force to plant just one in our brain without us knowing, even if our brains are full of millions and millions of ideas. In fact, it’s because of those millions of ideas that it’s impossible—how can anyone know what it’s really like to be you, and how you would think?

For all of Inception’s plot twists, I held to the idea and I was stewarded to the end, and everything held up. Actually, after the last shot, I thought the idea was reinforced to the point of certainty, and then I started thinking back to the other “totems” characters had used to ground themselves in the “real” world—Why a dice? Why a pawn?—and then I realized everything in the movie was in its right place, layers firmly stacked upon layers, in the service of an unshakable idea, like a massive pyramid resting upon its tip, unable to be knocked over.

(Remember to check TEH TUMBLR for this and other stuff.)

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July 19, 2010

Check out the Tumblr

Hey doggs, if you’re one of those Tumblr people pop on over to my own personal site-type thing, which I just started. I’m not sure of the future of this site vs. that one, but I’d probably bet on the other one, and if it wins I’ll change the URL over. But I’ll still post longer stuff in both places for now… shorter stuff, HOWEVAH, will be province of the Tumblr. So like go there and stuff. I wrote about golf.

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July 15, 2010

The Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost

I came home last night after my 10 o’clock—yes, 10 p.m.—flag football game to find my 31-year-old self (aka, me, last year) on my futon checking his email. The lights had been off and I hadn’t seen him, and I threw my bag on the futon without looking, and…

2009 Bryan: Watch it!

ME: (startled) Aaaaah!

2009 Bryan: Hi. Love what you’ve done with the place. Nice shirt.

ME: (looks down at tie-dyed uniform) Thanks.

2009 Bryan: You wear tie-dye often?

ME: It’s my flag football uniform.

2009 Bryan: You play flag football?

ME: Yep. This is the third season.

2009 Bryan: Nice. What does the lady think?

ME: The who?

2009 Bryan: (uneasily) The lady… what does she think about it?

ME: Oh right, her. Um…

2009 Bryan: Oh.

ME: I’m sorry dude. I know you were excited, especially right about now.

2009 Bryan: (clams up)

ME: It’s just…

2009 Bryan: …

ME: We were still acting a little “young.”

2009 Bryan: I’m trying not to act young!

ME: It’s the fact that you have to try at all. You’ll get it, eventually.

2009 Bryan: So now all we do is write blog posts (turns computer around, shows screen to this blog) and play flag football? And rearrange the apartment a bit?

ME: Yeah, you like?

2009 Bryan: I guess. I don’t see how I’m going to come up with this.

ME: A lot can happen in a year if you let it.

2009 Bryan: (angry) What does that fucking mean?

ME: It means that now that you’re not hiding out in your party palace in Astoria, you can actually grow up.

2009 Bryan: Oh for Christ’s sake.

ME: You know, one of our good friends say we talk in general terms about religion more than we realize.

2009 Bryan: You’re not like some crazy Christian or anything?

ME: (makes sign of cross) No.

2009 Bryan: Shalom.

ME: L’Chaim.

(2009 Bryan’s phone rings. I pull out my phone—the same one—and look at the time. It’s the girlfriend, on the way home from work. It’s a conversation I don’t need to hear, so I go take a quick shower and come back to find him finishing up. And then.)

ME: So?

2009 Bryan: She’s going home. How do you screw this up?

ME: It’s been two weeks. Easy, buddy.

2009 Bryan: You are condescending.

ME: Take my advice: Just do whatever you’re going to do. Nothing is going to change. You’re going to be back here in a year anyway.

(I hear keys in the door and am startled. The door opens, and it’s 33-year-old Bryan, wearing a snappy suit and sunglasses. He carries himself well, but there is an odor of booze on his breath)

33-Year-Old-Me: (Declarative statement:) Boys.

2009 Bryan: Nice suit.

ME: No fucking way.

(33-Year-Old Me just slaps me lightly on the cheek, like a soccer player, and moves over to the desk, where he sits with a dopey smile on his face and starts to talk to 2009 Bryan.)

33-Year-Old Me: Hey dude.

2009 Bryan: What’s up?

33-Year-Old Me: Now listen up. 2010 Bryan knows what he’s talking about, mostly. Just ride out whatever’s going on here until it’s over. But for God’s sake, enjoy yourself.

2009 Bryan: He just told me about that.

33-Year-Old Me: Told you about what?

2009 Bryan: Mentioning God.

(33-Year-Old Me snatches laptop from 2009 Bryan, types furiously into Google until this picture is showing)

33-Year-Old Me: Now do me a favor and shut up for a second. (2009 Bryan would not normally take such talk, but frankly, he’s entranced by the suit. The line from Catch Me If You Can echoes in my head: “They were all looking at the pinstripes…”) That was just S—— on the phone, right?

2009 Bryan: How do you know all this?

33-Year-Old Me: I had the conversation, remember? She said she was just going to go home after work, and you said that made sense, because you have to work tomorrow and it would be too late?

2009 Bryan: More or less.

33-Year-Old Me: Dude! Go over there! Live in the moment!

2009 Bryan: But I’ll be tired… (Both me and 33-Year-Old Bryan look at him like: Get over it.)

33-Year-Old Me: (with dopey smile, takes cigarette out of pocket and starts tapping it on the desk) Live a little dude. Go surprise her with flowers or something.

2009 Bryan: (entranced by cigarette, doesn’t even mention it) Okay.

ME: Get excited, man!

2009 Bryan: Okay! (gets up, walks to door, pulls out out phone to make a call as door closes behind him.)

ME: Wow. That was good.

33-Year-Old Me: Tell me about it.

ME: (in appreciation) Nice suit, man. Why are you wearing it?

33-Year-Old Me: (starts taking it off) Thanks. It was mostly for effect. Scare the kid, you know?

ME: Oh. We own it, though?

33-Year-Old Me: You’ll find out.

ME: We smoke?

33-Year-Old Me: Nope, also for effect. (crushes cigarette in hand) Want to get a drink?

ME: I don’t know, I’m honestly pretty tired.

33-Year-Old Me: (mocking) Live a little! (and then) Ha. Me too.

ME: I’m gonna hit the hay. You gonna take the futon?

33-Year-Old Me: Oh Jesus, this thing?

ME: Will I still have it in a year?

(He can’t answer because he’s already snoring. I try on the suit jacket. It looks nice, but I’d probably rather buy a couch.)

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July 14, 2010

Nothing today sad face

Nothing percolating in the brain today. Sorry.

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July 13, 2010

My 17-year-old self and I argue and play basketball, I win

We’ll pick up my conversation with my 17-year-old self the morning after we left off, when I come downstairs for breakfast.

ME: Good morning.

17-Y-O-Me: (waves aimlessly, doesn’t take eyes from TV)

ME: Did you make coffee?

17-Y-O-Me: (looks at me like I’m crazy)

ME: Oh, right. You don’t drink coffee.

17-Y-O-Me: I’m not a pussy.

ME: Right. I forgot I felt that way.

17-Y-O-Me: Big softy now, eh?

ME: You wait until you have a 9-to-5 job.

17-Y-O-Me: I’ll never have one of those.

ME: Hey moron? (does a pointing back and forth between us to indicate yes, in fact, you will)

17-Y-O-Me: (throws remote at me, I dodge it, it hits glass front door but doesn’t break it)

ME: You idiot.

17-Y-O-Me: I’m the idiot?! You’re the one with the 9-to-5 job!

ME: It’s not that simple. And wait, are you blaming me for dodging something you threw at me?

17-Y-O-Me: Of course! You know the glass door is there!

ME: What do you want me to do, catch it?

17-Y-O-Me: Ha! Good one.

ME: Alright, that’s it. We’re playing basketball, right now. You and me. One on one.

17-Y-O-Me: (mocking) Don’t you need your coffee first?

ME: (fuming) Grab your shoes, dickwad.

(He grabs his shoes and we walk the 5 minutes to the basketball court in tense silence. I beat him handily. He’s in better shape, but not better enough, and he doesn’t use his body as well as I do. He challenges me to best two out of three but halfway through game two, which he’s losing, he starts visibly moping. He misses a jumper, and then…)

ME: What’s the problem, hair in your eyes?

17-Y-O-Me: (shoves me, I don’t lose dribble)

ME: Good defense? Where’d you learn that? (Does turnaround jumper, misses)

17-Y-O-Me: Look at Air Jordan over there! (tries running layup, goes out of control, misses wildly, ball rolls into the woods and under poison ivy. Him, instantaneously:) Your ball.

ME: I’m not getting it.

17-Y-O-Me: If I get it, it’s my ball.

ME: I’m not getting poison ivy because you suck at basketball.

17-Y-O-Me: (rage) If I get that ball, I’m taking it.

ME: If you’re taking that ball, I’m not playing anymore.

17-Y-O-Me: Fine, then I’ll just keep shooting until I win without you here.

ME: You think you can make 10 baskets by dinner?

(He attacks me, and now we’re fighting right next to the ball, rolling around in the poison ivy we were just trying to avoid. A car drives by and looks at us strangely, but we stop to both wave to indicate it’s all in fun, relatively speaking. When the car passes, we start again and kick the ball even further in and we stop, and, simultaneously:)

US: Shit.

(Looking all around us, at the plants)

US: SHIT.

ME: We should probably…

17-Y-O-Me: Go to the beach and get this stuff off of us.

ME: I’ll drive.

17-Y-O-Me: Like hell you will, grandpa.

(Ten minutes later, we’re in the car)

ME: Do you have sunscreen?

17-Y-O-Me: (chortles)

ME: I suppose you like getting sunburnt?

17-Y-O-Me: I don’t mind.

ME: That translates to “I’m too proud to put on sunscreen” in adult.

17-Y-O-Me: Oh Jesus.

ME: We going to South Beach?

17-Y-O-Me: Of course.

ME: I figured as much.

17-Y-O-Me: I love it.

ME: You would. I still like it, but I feel old there.

17-Y-O-Me: Well, I’m 17 and the ocean is the ocean.

ME: You’re looking for that girl, aren’t you?

17-Y-O-Me: (obviously lying) No!

ME: Yeah, you are. All the teenagers are at South Beach. That’s why I don’t like to go anymore. Look at it this way: If a girl was two years old when I was your age, she’s 17 now. Just think about that.

17-Y-O-Me: (pulls car over) Lambert’s Cove?*

ME: Lambert’s Cove.

17-Y-O-Me: (turns car around) I feel itchy already.

ME: Oh, don’t be such a drama queen. It wouldn’t work that fast.

17-Y-O-Me: (takes hand, rubs it all over my face) You’d better hope not.

ME: (pushes stick into neutral, he immediately puts in back in gear)

17-Y-O-Me: … (rage turns to admiration)

17-Y-O-Me: Okay, that was pretty good.

(We high five, and then some pop song comes on the radio that we both like and we blast it and start singing together.)

•••

* This would obviously not be happening at sunset, but I mean jeez.

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July 12, 2010

My 17-year-old self and I debate LeBron James

Imagine my surprise when, after writing two columns on LeBron James on Friday morning I walked into my childhood home that evening, which I thought was empty, and was confronted with my 17-year-old self watching SportsCenter, LeBron news on repeat. (Please ignore space-time continuum problems.)

ME: Hi.

17-Y-O-Me: Hey.

ME: Do you know who I am?

17-Y-O-Me: (looks me up and down) I have a guess.

ME: Okay, I can tell you do. Because, like, you’re me and we’re still pretty similar.

17-Y-O-Me: (makes show of playing with long hair) In some ways.

ME: I never would have said something like that.

17-Y-O-Me: Apparently you would have.

ME: That either. I wasn’t that aggressive.

17-Y-O-Me: Maybe you should have been.

ME: So, uh… how about LeBron?

17-Y-O-Me: It’s crazy.

ME: He looks so douchey up there. (At the moment, the highlights from the Heat Beach Party are playing and Neil Everett or Linda Cohn is screaming something. Chris Bosh is acting like a wrestler.)

17-Y-O-Me: I don’t know. He looks like he’s having fun.

ME: Douchebags can have fun too.

17-Y-O-Me: What’s wrong with having fun?

ME: Um, nothing, I suppose. But if I was a Cleveland fan, I’d be upset by this.

17-Y-O-Me: But you’re not.

ME: Yeah, but I can empathize.

17-Y-O-Me: Yeah, it sucks. But so what?

ME: Well, I mean, I have a few good friends from Cleveland…

17-Y-O-Me: Oh. What does that matter?

ME: Are you saying empathy is bad?

17-Y-O-Me: (suddenly defensive; I notice this trait from my youth) No, that’s not what I’m saying.

ME: Then what are you saying?

17-Y-O-Me: Isn’t this just kind of cool?

ME: I don’t know. It just feels so yucky.

17-Y-O-Me: Sports are yucky all the time.

ME: I suppose that’s true…

17-Y-O-Me: No really, sports are yucky all the time. Who gives a crap? They’re only sports.

ME: Funny that you say that when you’ve spent your entire life trying to learn everything possible about them.

17-Y-O-Me: (mimics entire sentence in play voice, then turns beet red in embarrassment)

ME: (ignoring it) You know what sucks for us?

17-Y-O-Me: What?

ME: All that memorization we did—who played what position for what team when, all the records and stuff—anyone can get all that off their phone now. Everyone’s a sports expert. It’s really hard to make a name for yourself.

17-Y-O-Me: We probably should have been a lawyer.

(We look straight at each other like: No way.)

ME: You know what you need? Some financial advice.

17-Y-O-Me: I make $15 an hour at Brickman’s at the moment. I’m doing just fine.

ME: I mean long-term, numbnuts.

17-Y-O-Me: Numbnuts. Real original. What are you, from Jersey?

(I pounce on the couch in a rage and we start fighting for about 30 seconds before we simultaneously yell “Glass table!” to remind each other that we risk breaking it, and we stop)

17-Y-O-Me: (sarcastically) Yeah, you’ve changed.

ME: You mean I’m stronger?

17-Y-O-Me: (turns red, doesn’t want to admit it) Whatever.

ME: Whatever.

17-Y-O-Me: (suddenly) Can you buy me beer?

ME: You don’t even know what you’re doing with that stuff.

17-Y-O-Me: Oh, and you do.

ME: You DICK! (start fighting again)

17-Y-O-Me: Glass table!

(I keep fighting, he pushes me off)

17-Y-O-Me: You know, it’s almost like you come back here to just to fight me. I mean look at you! You’re worse than I am. I’m perfectly calm, and by the time you leave you’re sitting on the couch just like me, watching ESPN over and over. It’s almost like you feel like you can’t do that in the city, when you totally can. Not my fault you can’t remember that the good things in life are simple. We island folk have it good.

ME: “We island folk.” You pretentious fuck.

17-Y-O-Me: Whatever. It’s true.

ME: Hey dickhead, I have news for you.

17-Y-O-Me: Oh yeah, what?

ME: I’ve had sex.

17-Y-O-Me: AWESOME.

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July 9, 2010

A few more LeBron thoughts

Rather than Twitter my thoughts one by one, here are the remainder of them:

The holdover from the Jordan era, which pretty much wafts at every level of the NBA experience, is that a single, singular player leads a team to a championship, and that amongst a group of elite players, only so many of them have “what it takes” to get there. You can choose to believe this narrative if you’d like, but it’s a flimsy one, because once someone’s won it, it crumbles. Kobe couldn’t win by himself, and then he did. Look elsewhere in sports, and you can see it folding on itself (as you’ll see the next time Kobe loses in the playoffs): Phil Mickelson couldn’t win the big one, then he did, then he choked again, then he won again. Peyton Manning couldn’t win, then he could, then he choked.

I think what people are angry about with LeBron is that we’re not going to get to see if he has that, I don’t know, “it” that may or may not even exist in the first place. That’s a presumption in and of itself, but let’s just say it’s true: If the Heat win the title with relatively equal contributions from Wade and Bron, does that tarnish LeBron’s legacy? The answer, today, seems to be yes. LeBron seems to either not care or to have taken people at face value when they said he needed to win a championship to be a complete player, or something, when they really meant he needed to lead a team to a championship. Having played for a  Team USA—on which he wasn’t the top draw, Kobe was—that was roundly lauded, you can see how he’d come to this conclusion. Why would people praise his ability to play with superstar then, and tear it down now? (He might be asking himself.)

Another thing about Team USA: So many stories about how watching Kobe brought LeBron’s work habits to another level. Maybe this is something where LeBron thinks he can get better just by being around Wade. Kobe himself has admitted that he’s basically stolen every move in his arsenal, an aggregation service along the lines of, jeez, fivethirtyeight.com. Maybe LeBron needs to see things up close to duplicate and surpass them, and got a whiff of it at the Olympics. I don’t know. I’m just saying.

He’s certainly read the tea leaves wrong about what was expected of him, as evidenced by the audible vacuum that hit the Greenwich, CT Boys & Girls Club last night, when he awkwardly spoke the words “South Beach” as his destination. (Seriously?) He honestly thought we just wanted him to win one, when we actually wanted so much more. What did we want? Something we hadn’t seen before, something transcendent. This was something we hadn’t seen before, but it wasn’t transcendent. Our new fear is that it won’t be transcendent even if he wins it all. That’s a disappointment, sure, but LeBron probably won’t feel like it’s a disappointment when he’s holding the trophy. In 20 years, maybe he’ll wonder “What if?” But it doesn’t matter if he knew he had that mythological extra oomph in 20 years; he’s searching for it now, frantically looking for it on the beach like a lost key. The thing is, we told him the key was there, even if it might not exist, and even if he thinks it’s the bottom of that trophy we’ll tell him nope. you don’t have it. Unlike many people, I have no problem feeling a little bit sorry for the guy and also rooting heartily against him, and that’s just what I plan to do (and root for Cleveland to absolutely pound him, somehow). The idea of this team winning the title sickens me to the point that I would root for Kobe against them. I wanted transcendence as much as anybody, and I find the idea of Wade and LeBron playing together categorically unfair. But you know what? It’s totally fucking fair. I’m being deprived of a negative, something that I only imagined existing: LeBron flying through the air, delivering the team on which he was Top Dog to a title, averaging 35 PPG in the Finals with 10 and 10. Now even if that happens we’ll think it’s silly. What a joke.

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July 9, 2010

If everyone always did the safest or most popular thing, the world would be a shitty place*

LeBron James is 25 years old. Twenty five-year-olds can make stupid decisions, and even they can be aware that these decisions may, in fact, be stupid. LeBron seemed to know something was up with his pawing desire to go to Miami. For all the talk of his being a “committee of one,” it seems like there was really a committee of five or six, and at the top was not LeBron, but Gloria James. It was both heartbreaking and totally reassuring that LeBron said his decision finally came down to his mom’s approval. It was heartbreaking because you know there was a last line of defense to talk him out of it, but it was reassuring because it reinforced true loyalty in a scenario where loyalty was being imposed upon LeBron—not at all unconvincingly—left and right. Even Gloria James had to know that her son’s best chance to win a title was with Chicago, and that his chance to write the best story was in Cleveland. But her son effectively asked her if she would be okay with him forgoing both those scenarios to play with his friends in Miami, because it would make him the happiest, and she said yes. Maybe playing in Cleveland so long expanded his vision of what needed to do that he thought playing in Miami would strap blinders on him in a way playing in Chicago wouldn’t have done; maybe he does crave the spotlight, but needs some time off. I don’t know. All I know is that Gloria James trusted in her son’s ability to work these things out for himself. What can I say to that?

Did LeBron “betray” Cleveland? Well, if he “quit” on the team in four of games of the NBA playoffs, as Dan Gilbert suggested in his acidic open letter on Cavs.com, then yes. But let’s not forget than his ending up in Cleveland was the result of a roll of the ping-pong balls anyway. It made a great story because it seemed like it was preordained, but nothing is preordained—that’s hacky sportswriter bullshit that’s no different, spiritually, from the filler for hundreds of stories on James that were written last week. At the same time, he did come to Cleveland, and he is from Akron, and it was a great story while it lasted. And now this.

I think it’s worth remembering that an unhappy Allen Iverson was nearly traded to the Los Angeles Clippers the year before the 76ers made the finals; an unhappy Kobe was nearly traded to the Bulls the year before the Lakers made the Finals; and an unhappy Paul Pierce was almost shipped out of Boston the year before the Celtics won their 17th title. The reports on Kobe, specifically, came so fast and furious it seemed like the next time you refereshed he’d be out of L.A. None of these things happened, but the groundwork was there. If they had been free agents, there’s no question they would have bolted.  Cavs fans could say that they didn’t exactly provide the pressure-cooker environment of Philadelphia or Boston, or the dysfunctional one of L.A.; I’m not sure I would believe them. Check out the Cleveland Plain Dealer’s cover this morning. You might not be able to read it, but the arrow pointing to his hand says “7 years in Cleveland. No rings”:

I thought it wasn’t about rings in Cleveland? I thought it was about his hometown. I thought it wasn’t 7 years, but 25. And I thought it was about the promise of bringing a title that lingered despite the Cavs’ “failures” to win it all in the last few seasons. I mean, if you’re going to be so blatant about admitting you were using James as a tool toward your own deliverance, you’re pretty far into the muck.

I can’t really blame the Plain Dealer for playing populist, however; it’s just a shame that there were never really any real adults in this situation. LeBron didn’t act like one; Dan Gilbert didn’t act like one; ESPN’s commentators were almost, to a person, eating shit in the sandbox. LeBron is the most hated man in basketball today, but if you’ve got the energy to get mad at LeBron you should already be 10 times angrier at the NBA for its very often brutally inconsistent, self-aggrandizing, borderline unwatchable product. LeBron James isn’t the system, he’s a product of it, and now he’s going to play with Dwyane Wade in Miami. That’s totally ridiculous and throws everything David Stern has done for the one superstar, one team ethos right back in his face. If it doesn’t get thrown back in LeBron’s face when D-Leaguers are missing wide-open layups on the break, why will we criticize him? He obviously doesn’t care. We do. What I’d most like to see is compelling, fair basketball. If I can’t have that, this will have to do.

•••

* Yes, this is a tweet from last night.

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July 8, 2010

Remember Billy Donovan?

Remember when he accepted the head coaching job for the Orlando Magic and came back to Florida within days?

Remember when Billy Beane agreed to become general manager of the Boston Red Sox and came back to Oakland within days?

I’m starting to get the sense that LeBron might, in fact, announce that he’s joining a team other than the Cavaliers tonight. My sense based on nothing but rumor and innuendo and “implications” that Chris Broussard apparently reported out and turned into a story sometime between when I went to sleep at 1:30 and woke up at 7:30, but I get the feeling nonetheless.

What I won’t believe, until the contract is signed, is that LeBron is playing with a team other than the Cavaliers. The self-imposed Thursday deadline isn’t doing him any favors if he hasn’t already made up his mind—why force yourself to make the biggest decision of your life before you’re ready?—and if he has made up his mind, and made it up at the same time he pitched Decision idea to ESPN, it seems to me that it would point him back to Cleveland. I’m not going to read anything into Bronathan’s decision to have this whole thing go down in Greenwich, CT, other than to say that if he wanted to come off as a stuffy asshole, he succeeded.

But all that will be a footnote to history, the same way Ali/Liston II pops up in every discussion of Lewiston, Maine. The real news will be where LeBronny plays basketball. It’s easy to say you’re going to leave home, but it’s harder to do it. I’ll believe LeBron’s gone when I see it.

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