For the first time in a long time, someone made the sport of basketball feel like a Little League game with one of Those Kids — you know, those oversize five-tool freaks who seem like they're 20 when they're really just 12. I will never forget sitting next to my father during Game 6 of the Celtics series, both of us getting shamed into silence because LeBron couldn't miss, waiting for him to sweat, waiting for him to tire, waiting for any sign that he was human. It just wasn't happening. The last time I felt that helpless during a sporting event, Jordan and Pippen were ripping through a pathetic Celtics team in the mid-'90s — they were playing at such a high level, we couldn't help showing our appreciation by cheering them when they finally came out.
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In 2012, he kept throwing himself into shooting contests with Durant and Kobe, determined to prove he could hold his own. Anytime one of the USA practices became heated and turned into something of a dick-measuring contest, something that tends to happen when you gather the best players in the world on the same floor, LeBron left little doubt who mattered most. By all accounts, he was clearly the best player on the team. And it wasn't close.
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I am fully preparing for the monster LeBron season to end all monster LeBron seasons: 65 wins, 27 points a game, 10 rebounds a game, maybe even (gulp) 10 assists a game. Oh, while changing the way we watch and think about basketball, much like Cousy in 1956, or Russell in 1963, or Bird and Magic in the '80s, or Jordan a decade later.
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For the first time, I feel myself starting to waver a little. Maybe Michael Jordan won't remain the greatest basketball player ever. Maybe we were wrong.
