LeBron James
(c) Dana Summers

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LeBron.

By any other name, King James. Rah rah rah!

I don't know about you, but me, I've had my fill and then some of LeBron James, the newest basketball god to descend from hoop heaven. The hype and hysteria surrounding his signing with the Miami Heat borders on ... what? The insane? The ridiculous? The shallow? Take your pick.

For the past few days I've been both mesmerized and repulsed by the barrage of pseudo-news. Weary of depressing stories from Haiti and the Gulf Coast, giddy media have reported ad nauseam where James would plant his size 18 Nike Air Maxes. Try as I might, the hoopla has been impossible to ignore.

TV programs have been interrupted with bulletins about James' love-me-love-me-not decision. Radio has crackled with the latest updates, and my own employer Twittered and Facebooked the topic to oblivion. For the first time ever, an ESPN show featuring James' decision drew an impressive 26 rating, which means more than one in four homes tuned in to watch.

But people, please: A little perspective.

Last time I checked, LeBron James hadn't discovered the cure for cancer. He hadn't figured out how to cap the Deepwater Horizon well, reverse global warming or feed the homeless. He had yet to negotiate a Middle East peace treaty, though considering the success we've been having over there, his team skills may eventually transfer to the court of diplomacy.

James plays a game -- an activity that involves balls, buzzers and refs. He plays it incredibly, fantastically, inspiringly well, but it is a "game" nonetheless. You wouldn't know it, however, from the media's coverage or the embarrassing behavior of people who should know better.

In the aftermath of "The Decision," the jilted Cleveland Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert wrote an open letter to Cavs fans. He denounced James in harsh words that reek of sour grapes -- "narcissistic" ..." cowardly betrayal" ..." display of selfishness." He vowed to bring an NBA championship to the Midwest city before the "self-titled former king wins one." The letter would be hilarious if it weren't so pathetic.

Unfortunately, the LeBron James story got new legs -- oh no, please no! -- when the Rev. Jesse Jackson issued a statement claiming that Gilbert displayed a "slave-master mentality" and that the Cavs owner saw James as "a runaway slave." Nothing like race and historical injustice to stoke dying embers.

But enough already! This is overkill of the worst kind, and it saddens me that a diversion I enjoy should turn so commercially, manipulatively crass.

I've been a longtime fan of all things athletic, a woman whose late husband, a Miami Dolphins beat reporter and later sports editor, courted her by taking her to football, basketball, soccer and baseball games. By necessity or default, I learned about halfback options, full court presses, squeeze plays and the difference between a striker and a wingback.

Am I excited about the Heat's prospects? Of course. Will I cheer the Miami trio -- James, Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh -- in their pursuit of a championship? You betcha. Might I try to score a signed memento for my sons? Probably. Am I glad James chose our hometown? Most definitely.

But in the end, games, no matter how fast-paced or exciting, don't change our lives. They bring joy, a sense of community, a touch of pageantry, yes, but nothing more, nothing less. To imbue players and their teams with anything else is to set them up for failure -- and to guarantee us bitter disappointment.

 

Available at Amazon.com:

The Psycho 100: Baseball's Most Outrageous Moments

 

 

(c) 2010 Ana Veciana-Suarez