And a Child Shall Not Lead Them
by Andy Behrens

It's 7 p.m. on Monday, a school night, but Chicago's United Center is packed with giddy suburban kids, many of them shepherded by equally excited parents. Tonight's event is the EA Sports Roundball Classic, a collection of elite high school basketball players, which has drawn a record crowd of 19,678. Last year's game drew only 7,359 to the same venue. The difference? Two words, perhaps the two most exciting proper nouns in the American cultural vernacular: LeBron James.

LeBron, a k a King James, appeared on the cover of Sports Illustrated as a high school junior, and ESPN2 aired some of his varsity games his senior year — and those were the sweet, innocent days, before the real media hype began. He shoots like Bird, dishes like Magic, flies like MJ and defends like Pippen (or so the legend goes). He's already been anointed the top pick in July's NBA draft, and the new Nike LeShoe is being hand-stitched by young Hondurans. If you search for "LeBron" using Google, the Website simply approximates the number of matching items and rounds it off, like the search engine is tired of counting: "Results 1-10 of about 85,400." LeBron's big.

He's 18. Can he possibly be good enough to justify the hype? The fans gathered tonight in the United Center are way past caring.

Adidas exec Sonny Vaccaro sits courtside, as do several Chicago Bulls and a collection of NBA scouts, here to gawk, schmooze and maybe worship. Dozens of Illinois teenagers are wearing "IRISH 23" t-shirts, cheap reproductions of LeBron's Ohio high school jersey. But these kids aren't the only bad impressions of a famous 23.

He shot just 59% from the foul line and 34% from three-point land last season, but that was LeBron in the gym all August, extending his range to 30 feet.
— Tom Friend, ESPN The Magazine

First quarter. LeBron dribbles up-court and scans the floor, waiting for a teammate to cut to the rim. But his teammates aren't moving. They're just standing at the wings, watching LeBron watch them. He makes a cursory half-move on his defender, a slight head-fake, almost a shrug, as if to say "Fuck these punks. Let 'em watch."

He pulls up from 23 feet — the edge of two-point territory in the NBA — and the crowd rises with him. He elevates and releases, the ball arcing, cameras flashing. LeBron's right hand hangs in the air, the ball rotates, falling, nothing but...

...floor. Thud. Out of bounds.

To call this shot an air-ball is a disservice to air-balls. Had it been a foot closer to the rim it would've still been an air-ball. LeBron shrugs again, as if to say "My bad, fellas."

The errant shot isn't exactly a glitch, not tonight. It's just another miss. LeBron goes 12-for-21 from the floor, but 10 of the 12 field goals are either dunks or lay-ups; eight of his nine misses are jump shots. His longest successful J is an uncontested 16-footer, barely more than a free throw. He looks uncomfortable at the perimeter, as if trying to shoot a beach ball. Most of his shots are pressured; this is an all-star game, but the participants are unusually serious, measuring themselves against LeBron and working to impress the many scouts, agents and other well-connected sycophants in the building.

Between the bricks, there are amazing moments: LeBron fires a precise lookaway pass to a teammate for a lay-up; he catches an alley-oop and dunks in traffic; he drives into the lane, absorbs a midair foul and flips in a shot; he finishes a break with an acrobatic dunk, his head nearly clipping the backboard. The crowd is his. He points to fans, smiles at them, raises his arms and asks for noise.

They oblige, ignoring his jump-shooting struggles. A teenage boy in backward hat and "Abercrombie Basketball" shirt (consider, for a moment, how fantastically bad that imaginary team would be) is amped, high-fiving anyone as he hops in the aisle. His friends shove each other awkwardly; they're breathless, like a gaggle of girls waiting for the Beatles at Shea, expectant and thrilled.

James is ambidextrous. He eats and writes left-handed but shoots primarily with his right. As a result, he goes to his left just as easily as to his right, making it tough for defenders to cheat when guarding him.
— David DuPree, USA Today

LeBron's playing point guard for the West All-Stars. He's at the top of the key looking over the defense, dribbling almost casually. A 6-foot-9 East forward, Travis Outlaw, ditches his man and snatches the ball from LeBron's left hand like it's Atari Basketball and Outlaw's playing his mom: too easy. He's gone. LeBron's still standing at mid-court shaking his head as Outlaw hangs on the rim after a breakaway dunk.

As inventive, powerful and Kobe Bryant-like as LeBron is when he goes right, that's how predictable, robotic and Stanislav Medvedenko-like he is going left. Throughout the game, LeBron brings the ball up court along the left sideline, maximizing the court-space available to his dominant right hand. When he's forced left, by some miracle of double-teaming, it's always the same sequence: two dribbles followed by a jump shot. Clang (or nothing at all, just air). When LeBron drives right, however, it's over, he's dunking. None of the spindly, over-matched East All-Stars can so much as interfere with him. And it's exhilarating, too. Fans and local media alike are dazzled by the no-look passes and the aerial display. The following day, Chicago Sun-Times columnist Carol Slezak will write, "Could James play point guard in the NBA? You bet he could."

On defense, LeBron is indifferent until the final minutes of the game. He routinely allows his man to drive by him then swipes at the ball from behind, playing for a steal that might lead to a breakaway and another spectacular dunk. This move never works, not against the competent ball handlers on the floor. With his team down seven and 2:44 left in the game, LeBron begins to compete. He applies pressure defensively, demands the ball on offense and intimidates and overwhelms the fast-wilting East All-Stars. His team closes to within one point, 118-119, with 30 seconds left in regulation. LeBron takes the ball at the top of the key, dribbles right, splits defenders and banks in a seven-foot floater. The game ends with a forgettable series of missed free throws and turnovers, LeBron's West team wins 120-119, and he finishes with 28 points, 6 rebounds and 5 assists. He also finishes with 6 turnovers and shoots 0-for-6 from the high school three-point line.

The United Center crowd is ecstatic. LeBron is wearing 23, he hit a game-winning shot, and now he's heavy into the obligatory post-game player-hugging. This feels right, but it's only a caricature. Those were teenagers he schooled tonight, not Knicks. There's a widening chasm between the player LeBron is and the player the sports media have invented — you can almost fit another guy in that gap, maybe Fred Hoiberg or Moochie Norris. LeBron's going to pay for our unreasonable expectations, but right now, we're the ones who are paying: Headbands, jerseys, lunchboxes, bran flakes, herbal remedies...if he's selling, we'll buy.

For now. The love will ebb next year, maybe the first time Dion Glover or Vincent Yarbrough works LeBron over. Because that will happen. In February, no less an authority than Jordan said, "[LeBron] would be an average player in our league right now with the potential to be a better player." And that's about right.

But that won't do. We have bigger plans.

E-mail Andy Behrens at abehrens53 at hotmail dot com.

— graphic by Derek Evernden (derek@ocellus.net)