Lebron James and His Meaningless Title

It’s time we all admitted it: Lebron James is about to win his first title.

If not tonight, in Game 5, then in the coming days. It’s happening folks, and the sooner we come to grips with it, the less painful it will be when it smacks us across the face. The Heat are too good. Lebron, himself, is too good. Quite simply, the time has come.

So, naturally, the question then becomes: so what?

For years (and especially throughout last season), media chatterboxes everywhere have dissected Lebron’s play. They’ve called him a non-finisher. A flower that wilts in important moments. His legacy, they’ve said, will be cemented down by his big game failures. His greatness, they’ve said, will perpetually be in question.

Now though, Lebron sits on the doorstep of a land he’s never been. All of us, in fact, wait on that same precipice. The sports world is about to be a changed place, because where there was once Michael Jordan and NO ONE to compare him to...there will soon be two. Yes, with his first title, Lebron should enter the conversation. THAT conversation.

He should, of course, but that doesn’t mean he will.

See, most believe that Lebron engineered this title. Not through sheer determination and grit (OK, there was some of that), but more so by biding his time, then calling up his buddies and forming a super-squad. One that ultimately could not be denied, no matter how bad everyone wished it could.

As much as Lebron wants nothing more than to remove the ringless monkey from his back, there are those type of questions lurking on the other side. BIG questions.

But allow me to step back for a moment.

The only reason I’m writing this is to jinx the Lebron. Otherwise, I couldn’t care less about the NBA. Kevin Durant winning a title doesn’t interest me. Nor do the raucous Oklahoma City fans, the legacy of Pat Reilly, or the phantom officiating that everyone seems to assume is a big ol’ conspiracy.

I really just don’t want Lebron to win anything. Ever.

Which is why writing about his inevitable first title seems somewhat stomachable. Maybe a few of my bitter, inflammatory paragraphs will somehow make waves in the cosmos, allowing the Thunder to do what no team has ever done in a NBA Finals series (come back, down three to one). Here’s hoping.

See, what I’m ashamed to admit is that I was once a Cavaliers fan. And unlike every other sports venture I’ve ever undergone, that fanhood was completely and utterly of the bandwagon variety. Sure, I’m from Ohio. But I’m from Southern Ohio, where there’s football, baseball, fried food, and not much else. So, the Cavs weren’t in my blood. It was only when Lebron came along with his otherworldly talents and charm that I decided to don the wine and gold.

I know, it’s repugnant. And in every other sports arena, I spit on fair-weather fans. They’re the lowest of the low. Spineless weasels. But with Lebron, I couldn’t help myself. I started watching Cavs games on TNT. I bought tickets when they came to Philly. I even bought a Nike “Witness” t-shirt. I was basically all-in. A loyal follower of the LBJ traveling circus.

Then July 8th, 2010 happened.

Every sports fan knows the story. Hell, the six year-old living in a Mumbai storm drain knows the story. It was the day that a light went out over the city of Cleveland. It was a day the people’s champion delivered an unexpected, traitorous blow. By fleeing to Miami’s sunnier pastures, LeBron immediately went from king of the jungle to cowardly, self-serving hyena.

That day, I stopped watching.

I crawled back into my baseball/football comfort zone. Without Lebron, the Cavs were immediately an NBA doormat. A team so bad that even the sterling play of a young Kyrie Irving couldn’t help them get close to contending for a playoff spot. Ideally, I would have stuck around, learned to love watching Irving, Antawn Jamison and Omri Cassipi charge into their nightly suicide missions. But I just couldn’t. Because I wasn’t a Cavs fan, not a true one.

I was a “James Gang” fan. One of the millions of Ohio hopefuls hanging onto every battle the King waged, in pursuit of the Cavs’ first title. And when James’ loyalty to that cause went out the window, so too did mine. I’m not proud of it, but that was the effect July 8th, 2010 had on me.

Which brings us back to the issue at hand: so what?

When James migrated to Miami, he immediately assumed several different identities. First, to impartial media members and sports pundits everywhere, he was the guy whose expectations were undoubtedly the highest. No one (possibly ever) had his combination of innate talent and supporting cast. In short, Lebron had to win championships. There was no alternative. Unless you include disappointment and shame.

Second, to NBA fans anywhere besides Miami, Lebron became sports’ pariah numero uno. He was the Good Guy Turned Bad. The Sell Out. The Coward.

And third, to basketball fans in South Florida, he became the hired gun. Every impression I’ve gotten is that, for Heat fans, Lebron is a means to an end. Dywane Wade is their heart and soul. Pat Riley is their mastermind. Chris Bosh is their pet dinosaur. But Lebron? Lebron’s the muscle. There’s no one else in the world that can ensure a ring like Lebron can. In Miami, he’s a business venture.

So you have all three of these weights piled onto James’ shoulders, just as he slides on his new jersey. Then, you have that tumultuous first season, where the moment the team struggled, Lebron and Wade’s chemistry was questioned. And despite often playing brilliantly, the majority of the national heat came LBJ’s way. Even still, the Heat went to the NBA Finals in the Big Three’s first season together. And when they ultimately lost to the Mavericks, it felt like a crater of disappointment.

Flash forward to this year, and Lebron has somehow been more magical than ever. His numbers are off the charts, he was awarded his third MVP award, and most importantly, he now has the Heat a few minutes from winning it all.

Yet still, when it comes to the expectations, and legacies, and conversations about the Greatest Of All Time, one has to wonder how one title with the Heat will really change anything.

Of course, Lebron detractors have had one stalwart argument for the last two years, which is that James “hasn’t won anything.” A title this year, I suppose, will be enough to squash that. Seemingly. But those are just words. The court of common opinion, I fear, won’t budge. Even when Lebron and his boys run the deflated Thunder out of town tonight.

We can all agree that the talent is there for Lebron to be considered the best ever. He’s bigger than Jordan. He’s a better passer. And in some ways, he’s more dynamic. But the fact that his titles (as it seems to stand currently) will be born from some arbitrary alliance of schoolyard standouts will certainly stick in most people’s craw.

Honestly, I’m not sure what it will take for the fans to accept Lebron onto that sacred plane. As unfair and as backwards as it might be (because sporting “greatness” should be entirely objective), Lebron’s decision to leave Cleveland, the way he announced it, and the combustible aftermath all play as much a role as anything he’s done on the court in the crafting of his legacy. More than anything else, Lebron put himself in a major hole when he basically said “I’ve given up on doing this alone.”

Still, the more Lebron plays well, the easier the debate will be. He and his teammates will win this series, and by winning, they’ll make the only argument they need to make for Heat management to keep them together. In doing so, they’ll remain poised to win just as many titles as Lebron promised, way back when (provided Wade’s knees don’t turn to dust.) And then, chances are, true “greatness” (in as much as it becomes an unarguable reality) will come somewhere in that course. Eventually, to put it plainly, Lebron’s talents will just win us over.

But that day isn’t today, I don’t think. This title, as soon as it is earned (and it won’t be long now, people) won’t be enough. For every title that Jordan won on the only team he ever really played for (sorry, Wizards), Lebron will need two with his highlight platoon. It’s not fair, and it’s probably not even right (Jordan had Pippen and Rodman, after all), but it’s the way it is, and it’s going to be hard for the King to escape.

Tonight will most likely mark the end of Lebron’s pursuit of a ring, and in that regard, it will be historic. I’ll be watching, and rooting against what I think we all know is inevitable. Even then though, as Lebron cradles the O’Brien trophy and the confetti rains from the rafters, the legacy of LBJ will be just beginning. Undoubtedly, this title is a start of an uphill climb. Step one in a series of five or six he’ll need to make to get where he could have gotten had he just stayed in Cleveland a few more years.

It’s a ring, yes. A title, certainly. But beyond that?

So what.

Reed Domer-Shank

JOURNEYMEN Founder and Sour Grape Chancellor of the World

The U.S. Open: Ode to a Game

I love when my columns touch people.

Not Sandusky-ish touching. We don’t condone those shenanigans here at JOURNEYMEN.

No, what I love more than anything is when something I write resonates with a reader. When I post a column and in five seconds that little globe icon on my Facebook lights up with numbers (A red three??? YES! Move, peasants! I’m famous!)

Sometimes it’s family members assuring me of how great I’m doing, and how they knew I had potential even when I was 11 years old, mowing lawns in jam shorts and accenting my buzz-cuts with sweet lightning bolts.

Other times it’s staunch Ohio sports fans, hungry for offseason convo fodder, agreeing completely that Drew Stubbs’ at-bats won’t always be clown shows, and that Jared Sullinger’s rear end IS, in fact, made up of twin hippopotamuses that he stole from the Cincinnati Zoo.

However, most of the time when I get comments on my blog, they’re of another variety entirely. Most often, it’s people informing me of how very WRONG I am in all of my assertions, and how I should probably stick to writing for gas stations. Like the time I got flack for suggesting that Homer Bailey will never be anything more than a fourth starter. (Prove me wrong, Homer, I dare ya’!) Or the time I received an email from a complete stranger, offended that I DARE call the Bengals the Bungles. (Dear Carl: seeing as the Bengals have been earning that nickname for the past 20 years, I can only assume you’re a newborn baby. So really I’m not even mad. I’m impressed. Now go eat a wheel of cheese.)

All those columns brought me some heat, but none more than the one I did recently about what does and does not qualify as a sport. Everyone from gymnasts to cheerleaders to jump-ropers to magicians seemed to pipe in with a retort. It was like I had pissed off the Talent Show United Nations. And leading the charge, as expected, were the golfers. For the amount of venom I received from the polo shirt army, you would have thought I personally took a number two on Arnold Palmer’s doorstep, and then called the shit poop.

So, as the US Open looms, the following is the latest feature in the JOURNEYMEN guest blogger series. Written by Mike Ritz, a member of the JOURNEYMEN legal team and an avid golfer, this serves as his long-awaited response to what he surely took as an open-handed slap to his manhood.


* * *

I had thought about previewing this weekend’s U.S. Open golf tournament at The Olympic Club in San Francisco. Breaking down the field, discussing the resurgence of a seemingly-healthy Tiger Woods, addressing Rory McIlroy’s chances to defend his 2011 title, etc. But then it was brought to my attention by the JOURNEYMEN Supreme Court that golf is, apparently, not actually a sport.

This came as a surprise to me and to millions of other weekly JOURNEYMEN devotees who, until this point, had firmly believed golfers to be athletes and golf to be a legitimate competitive professional sport. After a lengthy and heated exchange on Reed’s Facebook page, he calmly played his trump card like Teddy KGB flipping over pocket aces against Mike McD.

What shut me up? Reed’s observation that no real athlete in a real sport would ever be allowed to look like this. Man I hate that guy. (Rickie Fowler. Not Reed.)

In light of these recent developments, I’ve penned a brief ode to what, until recently, I had expected would be a compelling sporting event, a worthwhile use of my time as a watcher of sport.


Golf Is Not A Sport

Some people bought some tickets
To an event down by the Bay.
ESPN’s cameras showed.
Professionals planned to play.
Their anticipation hit the skids
When Journeymen held court.
Aghast to learn of the decree
That golf is not a sport.

Tiger's temper tantrums
Were the subject of debate.
But talking heads just wasted breath
In their excited state.
Who cares who wins the trophy?
Who cares which man falls short?
Stu Scott will be shocked to learn
That golf is not a sport.

“The Open’s democratic,”
Is what Tin Cup said to Cheech.
Anyone can qualify.
Immortal’s within reach.
Ron Shelton made sports movies
But at least one won’t comport.
Someone should really let him know
That golf is not a sport.

These ‘athletes’ chew and smoke and drink.
They find bathrooms on the course.
They eat lunch just like Sanchez does.
But somehow for them it’s worse.
And if you give this guy a pint of Jack,
He’ll probably want a quart.
Just a little extra Proof,
That golf is not a sport.

This week will have its sports heroes:
LeBron, Durant, some other star.
But McIlroy’s title defense
Won’t be on my sports radar.
I’ll ignore some no-name’s Sunday charge
And other stories of the sort.
Cause by now everyone should know
That—
Screw it. Golf’s a sport. A good one. And I’ll be watching.

Mike Ritz
JOURNEYMEN Now-Exiled Legal Counsel and Poet Laureate

Game of Thrones Season 2 Hangover: 10 Observations

I never thought anything on God’s green Earth could make me feel like football does. As much as my heart will always be owned by the Reds, and as much as I enjoy watching Thad Matta donkey punch the rest of the Big Ten basketball field, the feelings surrounding football season are just different.

Maybe it’s the fact that football is so concentrated; 16 games (less in college), and then it’s over. Wham, bam, thank ya’ dudes all over America. Or, maybe it’s some combination of the fall leaves, the chili tailgates, and the social acceptability of going all Incredible Hulk on your living room TV. Chances are, it’s a combo of all these things. But, for a moment, let’s concentrate on the first.

Every September, football comes like a gift down every fan’s figurative chimney, delivered by fat men in red (and green, blue black, etc.) uniforms, shiny and brand new. We decorate our houses inside and out, we make special foods, sing special songs, and generally get all puffed up with excitement that this year (maybe, just MAYBE!), love will surround us and peace will spread across the land.

And then, just like that, January is here. And for most of us, that means another nine months in the cocoon of sports despair. The end of football season, to put it plainly, is the ABSOLUTE WORST. Painful, even, to the point where i sometimes (when it’s raining and I’ve had a few glasses of Cabernet) I wonder if it’s all worth it. Yes, each game is like a celebration. Yes, tossing pigskin ducks in the street at halftime to your buddy who’s three beers deep and wearing a faded Tim Krumrie jersey is more therapeutic than three hours of hot yoga. But when it’s all over and you’ve got to fold up that flag, pack away those coasters, and bid farewell to another fleeting season, are the nine months of hangover really worth it?

I never thought my football conundrum would be paralleled in other areas of my life. I always assumed (read: hoped) I could keep those feelings perfectly siloed; packed away tightly. One solitary phenomenon, like the secret cross a superhero bears, so the rest of society can be safe from the mutants.

Up until now, I’ve been successful. Then came Game of Thrones.

Season 2 just ended, and I seriously feel like I just got a Brienne of Tarth rape-onoscopy. I mean, even during the season, when the credits would roll and I’d realize I had a another six days and 23 hours before I could jump back on the Wester-horse, I’d find myself feeling bitter. My post-episode thought process was always half “GodDANG this show is great” and half “Having to wait another week makes me hate EVERYTHING.” (Sprinkled, of course, with “Why can’t dire wolves be reeeeeeeallllll.”)

But today, as the ashes of Winterfell still float to the ground, my bitter index is through the roof. Simply put, I need more Game of Thrones, and I need it now. And unfortunately, unless I read the books (therefore tarnishing my next 8 years of show-watching) or break into George R.R. Martin’s house and force him to tell me a bedtime story, all I can really do is look back at the season that was, and pretend my next nine months won’t taste like horse heart.

Here are a few lasting impressions from what was a HELL of a season...

1) Tywin treating Joffrey like a King is just sad. Yeah, I get it. Monarchies are all about bloodlines, so 17-year old pixies like Joffrey will sometimes find themselves sitting on thrones. But seriously, in Episode 10, seeing the great Tywin Lannister (possibly the most powerful/ frightening man in Westeros) call his dandy of a nephew “your grace” is almost unbelievable. Consider that the Game of Thrones is made up of about 18 different forces, all vying to literally just TAKE the Iron Throne on the strength of their ships and armies and dragons and whatever else. You’re telling me that the “finder’s keepers” rule applies to everyone EXCEPT the dude who’s been rumored to kill babies and sodomize farm animals? (Ok, I might have made that last one up.) Having not read the books, the only scenario that makes any sense at all is that Tywin doesn’t actually WANT the crown, after all. That he’s perfectly content to sit in his tower, scarfing any meat besides mutton (he hates mutton), and counting all of his cash. Wait a minute... maybe he’s onto something. That sounds f%cking awesome.

2) Sophie Turner NAILED Sansa Stark. Not like that, you sicko. Seriously, let’s analyze the gamut of emotions Turner’s been asked to portray in her on-screen illustration of Winterfell’s favorite spoiled brat. First, she’s asked to be head over heels for Joffrey, which she does flawlessly. Even when we all knew it was a terrible idea, and even when it got her damn dire wolf killed, she was still convincingly wet for the boy prince. Then Joffrey started being Joffrey, and Turner mastered the glassy-eyed resignation of someone who knows they’re betrothed to a one-balled sadist. And finally, throughout Season 2, Turner masterfully sprinkled in moments of convincing rebelliousness. Where, if you listen hard enough, she’s mocking Joffrey and everything he stands 5’2 for, even though her words shower him with butterscotch and giggles. All from an actress who can’t legally drink the wine that Cersei is shoving down her throat. Impressive.

3) Peter Dinklage and Alfie Allen will battle for an Emmy. Dinklage for his battle face in Episode 9 (Blackwater), Allen for his Come To Jesus talk with the Maester in Episode 10 (Valor Morghulis). In Blackwater, Dinklage made us believe that, even though he planted a ton of combustible chemicals in the bay, and even though he lured Stannis Baratheon’s whole fleet into said bay so they could be Hiroshima’d, the whole affair still didn’t quite sit right. Portraying Tyrion Lannister (the loveable, conniving midget), Dinklage spent an hour commanding Lannister troops and our attention, switching from remorse to pain to fear to rage (and often back to fear) seamlessly. The Battle of Blackwater Bay was a defining moment in the story, and Dinklage brought it to life.

One episode later, Alfie Allen completely blows the plight of Theon Greyjoy (the traitorous vagabond whose own family can’t stand him) right off the screen. As he stews in his chambers in Winterfell (the place he grew up, then left, then took hostage...ya’ know, whatever), being driven batty by the incessant horn blowing of the 500 Stark bannermen posted up outside the walls, he’s engaged by old Maester Luwin. As Luwin attempts to talk him off his figurative ledge, Theon smolders in front of the fire in full-on realization mode. He knows he’s been betrayed by his father, he knows he’s burned any bridges he may have had with the northerners, and most of all, he knows he’s totally fucked. Allen ties all those emotions together for the next few minutes, and ultimately manages to achieve the impossible. That is, when all’s said and done, we actually feel bad for him. He’s a smarmy, slimy, confused piece of goose poop...but we just can’t help it. Well done.

4) Theon Greyjoy falls in the “Just Please Die” rankings. Not that anyone could ever unseat Joffrey, who’s got a veritable stranglehold on the top spot, but Theon’s pity party at Winterfell really put some distance between the two. Whereas Joffrey spent the last two episodes getting mindfucked by Sansa, abandoning his own troops in battle, and calling off his betrothal in favor of an older/hotter chick (can’t really fault him there), Theon did something he’s never done before, which was make a few points that made us all say “mmmmmhmmm that’s actually true.” I’d be pissed too if I’d been a captive my whole life but was expected to act grateful. And if my brothers were dead and my pops/sister barely acknowledged my existence? Yeah, I’d probably be a bit tweaked. Not saying the Ironborn step-child is going to win any Purple Hearts, but it’s safe to say I wouldn’t spit on him if he walked by, which wouldn’t have been true a couple weeks ago.

5) The burning of Winterfell didn’t get enough play. There aren’t many teams to root for in this twisted, mangled world (a point I’ll unpack later). But if there’s any wagon to hitch to, it’s surely that of the Starks. They’re nice. They’re honest. And they’re damn good lucking to boot. (Except YOU, RICKON. You UGLAAY!) So, when the Ironborn soldiers/the Stark bannermen traitors burned down Winterfell (it’s still unclear what happened there), I couldn’t help but think that I SHOULD have been more upset. After all, Winterfell was the setting for much of Season 1. It’s where we met some of the most pivotal characters on either side of the plot divide, and it’s where we first discovered how enchanting doggystyle tower sex really can be. But, for whatever reason, the producers barely allowed us a few quick seconds of camera panning to take in the Winterfell remains. No dead villagers. No weepy Bran. No flashbacks of Ned giving his kids rodeo rides on his knee. I want to root for the Starks, gosh-darnit, but I’m GONNA’ NEED A LITTLE HELP.

6) Brienne vs The Hound would be GOOD TV. When the hulking Brienne of Tarth (an oak of a woman) set out to transport Jaime Lannister back to Kings Landing, she was peppered by her prisoner with challenges and taunts. A women, Lannister implied, would be no match for his particular set of skills. Then about two scenes later, Brienne did her best to silence the chatty Lannister, laying the smack down on three less than virtuous Stark flunkies and shoving a broad sword directly into one guy’s rumplemintz. This display certainly gave Jaime pause (I think he might even be starting to like her...OoooOoOoOO), but it also got me thinking about what a Brienne/Hound super smackdown would look like. Both are like seven feet tall. Both seem to get enjoyment out of shoving blades in people’s gizzards. And most importantly, both seem to harbor the rage of about 20 years of people calling them hideous. I think I’m going with the Hound on the basis of strength, but I also wouldn’t be shocked if Brienne sent the Hound off with his tail (or her sword) between his legs.

7) WTF Happened to the Hound, anyway? The last episode of Season 2 did a great job of addressing a lot of outstanding issues, especially after Blackwater, an episode that never left one locale. However, one hanging chad that never got a glance was the whole “what’s the Hound going to do now that he renounced the King” issue. The way I see it, he doesn’t have many options. He literally said “fuck the King” TO the King, so he can’t stay put, and he has to go where none of the King’s cronies are (probably North). However, I’m not sure he can join up with the Stark crew, as he probably burned that bridge awhile back. And he could go to the Wall, I guess, but something tells me sitting around in the cold with a bunch of rapists and criminals who can’t fight wouldn’t sit well. He’d be raping f#cking corpses by week two.

8) The Game of Thrones quandary. So much of this show is about the construction of different factions, warring against one another in pursuit of the same metal chair. It’s pretty easy to root for the Starks, but beyond that, are we really rooting for ANYONE? Let’s see...the Lannisters? they all basically breakfast with Satan every morning, so, no. Stannis? He’s a steely soldier-robot who hired a necromancer to do his dirty work/pop shadow-assassins out of her lady-cupboard. No thanks. The Greyjoys? Besides the fact that Theon the Sniveler is one of them (automatically drops them down about 17 rungs), they live by the motto “we do not sow”, which basically means “we’ll take whatever the F we want, whenever the F we want.” Talk about a terrible role model for young children. And finally, do we really want to pull for the Khaleesi? Let’s face it: all those faceless/nameless subjects she has “waiting for her” when she returns? Pretty sure they don’t exist. She’s gonna’ come back on a small ship with about four Dothraki warriors and Stannis is going to hand her her shorts. Just watch.

9) Khaleesi DID get powerful, though. And fast. Didn’t she? I mean yeah, she doesn’t have any soldiers. But those three dragon babies sure do seem to be growing up quickly, eh? For my part, I thought it was a little far-fetched that about three weeks ago the Three Dragoneers could barely cough out smoke, but then somehow were able to pyro-size the House of the Undying proprietor. Like, they really torched him. And all Daenerys had to do was kind of look at them and say a word (was that English? Dothraki? Draconian?) So I guess Khaleesi has a bit more going for her than we thought...but I refuse to root for a team that is comprised completely of inhuman beasts. That’s like entering Barbaro into a high school track meet. Where I come from, we call that cheating.

10) But if we’re picking sides, I choose Arya. Anyone who can successfully chase cats, slap the future king in his nancy back with a wooden sword, and stare into the eyes of Tywin Lannister without sharting is OK in my book. Arya’s done all these things, while standing about 4’7 and weighing 90 pounds. Ever since my buddy and I created the Game of Thrones Death Pool (detailed above), I’ve taken a particular interest in predicting which characters will be breathing at series end. Someone has to end up a winner, and although there’s no way Arya will end up on the throne (she’s a girl, plus she’d probably rather slow dance with a White Walker), my suspicion is that she’ll end up alive and well, content with whatever she’s doing (be it sword-fighting, face-changing, or generally making everyone around her look a little less cool).

So that’s it. My attempt at keeping the Game of Thrones party going, well after the keg was kicked, the cops had come, and that freshman ralphed on your parents’ duvet. I could go on like this for pages and pages (more pages and pages, I mean), but at some point you just have to let go.

These next nine months will be a struggle as we wait for the return of our heros. The road will be long, the perils many. But let’s take heart in knowing we still have eight seasons to go. Let’s not step off any ledges until the series finale approaches. Until then, we wait, in hopes that next April comes quicker than this one.

And until THEN? Well, I guess there’s always football.


Reed Domer-Shank
JOURNEYMEN Honcho and Warden of the East