The Whore of Akron: Preview

People love to use the sentence "love him or hate him, [Person X] is [adjective/descriptive phrase]." For instance:

Love him or hate him, Manny Ramirez was a great baseball player.

Love her or hate her, Kim Kardashian is definitely a celebrity.

Love him or hate him, KOBEsh kills the Halloween costume game.

But for LeBron James, the sentence doesn't make sense. I love him and I hate him. You should too. There's no middle ground.

If you only love him? Either:

1. You're a Miami Heat fan (which means you probably don't even like basketball, you front-running p.o.s.), or

2. You can't stand the fact that everybody else hates him (sympathy love isn't real).

If you only hate him? Either:

1. You're a Cleveland Cavaliers fan (it's been a year, get over it you baby), or

2. You actually don't know enough about basketball to truly appreciate what he can do on the court.

That last category of people is important, because a ton of people who are fairly knowledgeable about the NBA will say that they hate LeBron James. But I don't believe them. They love the King; they just don't want to admit it. It goes against every grain of human decency to love a dude who spurned his hometown team on national television. Yet they see his potential for greatness every time: handles of a point guard, NFL Flex player speed, uncanny ability to anchor the team defense. How can you not appreciate that?

Two weeks from today, "The Whore of Akron: One Man's Search for the Soul of LeBron James," by Scott Raab, will be published. Take a look at the Amazon book description:

"A native son of Akron, he was already world famous by the age of seventeen, had already graced the cover of Sports Illustrated, was already worth $90 million to Nike. He seemed like a miracle heaven-sent by God to transform Cleveland's losing ways. That the Cavaliers drafted him, the hometown prodigy, with the first pick of the 2003 draft, seemed nothing short of destiny. But after seven years—and still no parade down Euclid Avenue—he left. And he left in a way that seemed designed to twist the knife: announcing his move to South Beach on a nationally televised ESPN production with a sly title ("The Decision") that echoed fifty years of Cleveland sports futility.


Out of James's treachery grew a monster. Raab, a fifty-nine-year-old, 350-pound, Jewish Santa Claus with a Chief Wahoo tattoo, would bear witness to LeBron's every move, and in doing so would act as the eyes and ears of Cleveland itself."

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Look, I get that some of you don't really care for the NBA, and your pageviews are a kind-hearted gesture to humor MAMBINO's ego. So if my intro to this book doesn't float your boat, Amazon had to have at least made you smile.

"A fifty-nine-year-old, 350-pound, Jewish Santa Claus with a Chief Wahoo tattoo."

I could not make that up. Pre-order the book. I have already done so.