LeBron James is no Luke Skywalker

First appeared in the Lebanon Reporter
on June 24, 2015

When I was seven my family took me to see Star Wars. The movies were a new world. One where things appeared larger than life, including the bottomless buckets of popcorn that were strapped on like feedbags. Everything was covered in chocolate or coated with sugar or came in a container no human should be expected to eat alone.

For the last thirty years every movie I’ve seen has fallen short of that first experience, but at the time I had no idea what I was watching. There were swordfights with lasers, talking robots, space monsters and a main character who flirted with his sister and tried to kill his dad.

Surprisingly, this year’s NBA Finals were no different. For you found yourself bloated with a bag of microwave popcorn in your lap and a warm two-liter of Tab at your side, debating whether or not to eat something off the floor, all the while wondering just what am I watching here? Was it really about Golden State proving the doubters wrong by winning small or was this more about LeBron James?

And just as everything in Star Wars revolves around Luke Skywalker, so to does the NBA with King James. And though one is a fictional character and the other a freak with out- of-this-world talents, parallels do exist in their lives. Young Skywalker resisted the Dark Side unlike James. LeBron gave his heart and soul to Darth Riley when bolting for Miami.

But, when that didn’t reap the passel of championships he promised, he threw himself from a sky bridge over a Death Star reactor chasm only to have a garbage chute spit him out in Cleveland, where he dusted himself off while proclaiming his goal all along was to bring a title there.

On a completely unconnected and somewhat random side-note, few have recognized just how difficult leaving the comforts of Miami for Cleveland must have been. After all Miami is a utopia where everyday is sunny and 78 and beautiful women in string bikinis walk down the street handing out free drinks, tart ones with little umbrellas in them. Meanwhile the people of Cleveland, who have been floundering through a championship desert for low these 40 years, welcomed James home as if he were C-3PO and they a tribe of Ewoks.

However, instead of becoming a leader amongst the Rebel Alliance LeBron chose to preach about leadership while treating his head coach as if he were a domesticated animal somebody had staked to the Cavalier bench. Dismissing him during time outs, failing to credit him in post game interviews and then, wham, just like that Darth Vader had cut his hand off.

Between the roster he had by the end of the Playoffs and the fact he kept David Blatt at arm’s length, LeBron charged in to the Finals with both hands behind his back. The fact alone he put up ridiculous numbers (numbers which warranted a Finals MVP nod) and had Cleveland in the drivers seat three games into the series only proves he’s the best player in the world.

But for this thing to work, LeBron has to have both feet in and doing so will be more mentally challenging than a workout with Yoda in the bogs of Dagobah. Skywalker was a hero who threw himself in wholeheartedly when things got tough. The sooner LeBron realizes that even Luke welcomed help in the form of Han Solo, Chewie and Princes Leia, the sooner Cleveland can rock once again. Until then, King James will be left to forge ahead alone, relying upon an ultra-rare combination of his own freak talents and the Jedi Force to get it done.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams

Ode to the Junkyard Dog

First appeared on June 10, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

By nature a Junkyard Dog is an uninviting creature. An amalgamation of various pieces and parts, he is not the stately Doberman, loyal Labrador or feisty Yorkie; rather he is all three.

He is a crude beast, unkempt, foul smelling, hard on the eyes and prone to fits of unusual behavior. Their single-minded mission in life is protecting the lot. They prowl their automotive graveyards, determined to mark every tire and drooling for that highly coveted opportunity to run down anyone desperate enough to scale the fence at 2 a.m. looking to steal a carburetor.

Nobody wants to be a Junkyard Dog and nobody wants to face a Junkyard Dog, but in the basketball world, everybody needs a Junkyard Dog. Stephen Curry is a league MVP who is currently flirting with basketball immortality, but he also might be the furthest thing from a Junkyard Dog there is. Klay Thompson, with his machine like shooting form and lightning quick release, can put a lot of things on his basketball resume but Junkyard Dog is not one of them. Even LeBron James, Earth’s best player and one who routinely dominates multiple phases of the game, can’t boast being a Junkyard Dog.

Color commentators don’t typically slobber over the Junkyard Dogs. And, unless they are standing next to LeBron James during a time out or are on the business end of a massive, ‘drive straight down the lane and slam the ball so hard a guy nearly dislocates his wrist’ type of dunk, the Dogs don’t typically find themselves on the Jumbo-Tron either.

With no microphones to dodge, they can be found lurking in the shadows during postgame interviews. They are the unsung and often unknown, but don’t think for a moment they are unimportant. Golden State doesn’t reach the Finals this year without Draymond Green and Cleveland is on a beach somewhere if Tristan Thompson is wearing a different uniform.

Green and Thompson are Junkyard Dogs. Important cogs in a giant wheel rolling down the freeway of basketball life. They are part of a relentless breed, renown for their hard fouling, hustling, board-hogging, sacrifice your body at all costs demeanor.

SportsCenter inundates us with spectacular passes, unbelievable dunks and an endless supply of high scorers. Meanwhile the Junkyard Dogs are there, grabbing key rebounds, scoring timely put backs and throwing themselves on the floor with no regard for the science that lies behind force meeting immovable objects.

They are the closest thing the NBA has to a punter or utility infielder and they’re just as popular. No kid hits the driveway pretending to be Draymond Green. No rabid, beer guzzling thirty something is going to walk the streets howling obscenities and photobombing the local newscaster in a post-win fervor wearing a Tristan Thompson jersey. And yet the paradox remains.

With them you have a chance, without them, you struggle.And yet they remain largely unappreciated. The faceless, chain-smoking powers that be in the control booth shove one spectacular play after another down your throat, hoping your brain turns to mush and you rise each morning longing for more. But you are a well-informed fan of the game, albeit one who was never picked first at the park or had machine like form.

Unlike the faceless powers that be, you understand the value of the Junkyard Dog. In fact you've always identified with them. When your boss took Stevenson from Accounts to Vegas for that huge conference instead of you, he was quick to say the office needed you to stay back and "do the dirty work".

Your Seventh Grade coach suggested Backgammon before cutting you, but deep in your heart you know their failure in the 1993 Montgomery County Tournament ran deeper than just the other team’s Division One recruit. That historic loss, your mother always maintained, could have been easily avoided with you, the Junkyard Dog, scrapping and flailing around on the floor.

So rest well ye Junkyard Dogs for you may not be the prettiest or most desirable beasts alive, but amongst those who know the game well, and a few overbearing mothers, you will always have a place in the basketball world.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams