
I don’t like LeBron James.
I once did and might again, but right now the Miami Heat superstar reminds me of all the semi-delusional, self-aggrandizing, fan-tailed peacocks I have seen in my sportswriting career, crownless gods strutting in their mighty youth, mirrors held before them by sycophants, strolling blindly off the cliff of wealth and fame to splatter on the rocks of might-have-been.
James is only 26 — he’ll be 27 in a week — and he’s rich beyond belief.
Back in June 2007, an editorial...