The King of Cleveland

We goin' to the ship

LeBron James makes Drew Gooden look like Buck Williams, and if you don’t understand that little arcane reference you probably won’t enjoy the rest of this column.

By defeating the vile, scurrilous Detroit Pistons this past Saturday, the Cleveland Cavaliers will advance to the NBA finals for the first time in the team’s history, thus fulfilling the prophecy that is the promise of Northeastern Ohio’s version of Jesus Christ. And boy did we need it. Forget the hemorrhaging of manufacturing jobs. Forget a river so polluted that it once caught fire. The real pain revolving around the great town of Cleveland and the even greater state of Ohio is that we are on the receiving end of historic sports plays always described in capital letters. The Drive. The Fumble. The Shot (sometimes known as “The Ehlo Shot”). These are our collective nightmares. The last pro sports team from Cleveland to win a championship was the Browns in 1964. Jim Brown was the man, Lyndon Johnson was president, and according to the footage, the world was grainy and everybody moved in slow, liquid strides as if playing in Jello.

The Cavs sudden stumble into the basketball promised land has multiple parties to thank. However, the ultimate reason I was screaming my windpipes into tattered, bleeding shreds of tissue the other night goes by the name James.

After watching the 22 year-old phenom throw down what might be one of the greatest playoff performances of all time in game five (29 of Cleveland’s last 30 points in the fourth quarter and two overtimes, not to mention on the road in the hostile Motor City, not to mention canning some shots that simply defied reasonability and logic… Great, now I have an erection again), my buddies and I decided to drive to downtown Cleveland for game six. We pounded 24 ounce cans of Coors Light at the Winking Lizard just next door to the Q and waited two hours to get a table. Once seated, three of us managed to polish off a pizza, nachos, a mountain spicy barbeque wings, and 23 beers while the Cavs sputtered, coughed, then finally revved into history.

After the game, Ontario Street erupted in pure pandemonium. Imagine a city-wide orgasm. Now imagine a city-wide orgasm from a 35 year-old virgin. Now imagine a city-wide orgasm from a 35 year-old virgin who’s only famous fan is apparently Geraldo Rivera (and just so you know, we Cavs fans do not condone or accept his fanship).

I high-fived every person in sight. I clutched random strangers to my breast like each of them was my wife just released from a hostage crisis. I jumped around with a bunch of enormous black guys in front of a television crew chanting, “We goin’ to the ship!”. I knelt in prayer before the prescient sign that says so simply: “Witness”.

And all this because LeBron James not only lived up to the hype but defied all reasonable expectations. He is the true MVP, not only of the playoffs but of the regular season as well, and I’ll explain very simply why: He makes the players around him better. Kobe Bryant is a hyper-talented, egotistical cretin, who will never advance his team in the playoffs without the aid of Shaq or a similarly dominant player by his side. The same goes for Dwayne Wade, who could barely keep the Heat in the playoff race with the big fella injured for the first half of the season. This year’s MVP, Dirk Nowiztki of the Mavericks, had one of the most embarrassing moments in recent sports history when he accepted his award behind a podium instead of on a basketball court because his team got bounced in the first round by the Golden State Warriors, a series where he looked as effective as five year-old girl playing with dolls at mid-court. Even if you want to throw in your Tim Duncans or Steve Nashes (who I’ve been told I look like; too bad for him) you face a fundamental incongruity that no one in the sports world seems willing to address: Their supporting casts are all much, much better than LeBron’s.

I hate to rag on the Cavs, but let’s face facts: In the front office, Danny Ferry has all the insight and acumen of a toaster oven. Purely on paper, I would trade the James’ Gang straight-up for any eleven man crew any of those other guys have at their disposal. The prime pickings of our line-up go as follows:

Zydrunas Ilgauskaus, a likeable but largely immobile center who jams the lane, collects fouls, and makes his free throws. He’s our second offensive option, which can occasionally be embarrassing.

Larry Hughes, a slasher playing slightly out of position at point guard, who defends well but more often than not shoots the ball like he’s blind-folded and playing pin the tail on the donkey.

Drew Gooden, a solid power forward, who rebounds and has a decent mid-range jumper. The biggest problem with Gooden is not his ridiculous hair cut featuring a completely bald dome and what can only be described as a pubic bush on the back of his head (If you’re interested just go to the barbershop and ask for the retarded bastard child of the mullet), but that he randomly disappears from games and can be weak with the ball.

The additional positions are managed by a smorgasbord of 2nd round picks, including newly minted hero Daniel Gibson, who may finally mark the arrival of some good random luck for Cleveland fans. The point, however, is that without LeBron James these guys probably would not even have made the playoffs in the jayvee league that is the eastern conference. He is the rare superstar, who makes the people around him better. This is why Tracy McGrady and Kobe Bryant can’t get out of the first round. They can fill it up, sure, and guys like that can easily win fifty games by themselves, but give me the choice and I’ll take the guy who makes players like Gibson and Anderson Varajeo look Terry Porter and Cliff Robinson circa ’92 (props to anyone who understands that).

Of course, I can hear you saying, “So what? Cherish these precious hours because Duncan and the Spurs are going to bend the Cavs over and make them cry in the finals.” While it’s true that smart money would be on the Spurs taking the series in six, smart money also would have been on the Pistons in seven or the Mavericks in five. The Spurs are the better team, no question. They have better players, more experience, and unlike the Cavs, they show up for every quarter of every game. In fact, I’d say the only thing they don’t have is LeBron James, and—bless all of us sweet Ohio kids and our silly dreams to one day be the savior of basketball—that might be all we need.

So stick around for the series. You might just be a witness.