Well this is fun. A month or two ago, I entered Memoirs of a Gas Station in the “Shirley You Jest!” book awards, a literary contest that highlights the often-overlooked and somewhat offbeat world of humor books (and the authors who write them). Finalists were announced on September 1, and what do you know, the damn thing made the cut. Righteous. You can see the full list of categories at the official website.
The winners will be announced on November 1, and I assure you I’ll be posting on this blog if I somehow manage to make it that far. And if you don’t hear from me, just assume the worst. Either way, I’m proud to be a finalist and to get that cool badge thingy in the corner there.
And a big thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, or just gave this book the general time of day. This should serve as some sort of validation that you are not completely crazy. At least that’s how I’m taking it.
In the spirit of Shirley, I leave you with this timeless quote:
“I don’t really like either of the candidates this year.”
“Are you gonna vote?”
“Yeah. I’ll probably just pick the lesser of two evils.”
“You know, you could vote third-party. You don’t have to just decide between Democrat and Republican.”
“Well I’m not going to waste my vote.”
This is a conversation I’ve had many times – in different permutations – throughout my life. It of course involves an upcoming U.S. presidential election, where (shockingly) neither the Democrat nor the Republican candidate are all that appealing (are they ever?). Yet it’s been beaten into us that although there are literally dozens of candidates running, if we don’t vote for one of the big two, our vote is null, wasted, and meaningless.
Why is this?
Let’s look at how an election in a constitutional republic – such as ours – works: multiple candidates run for public office. Every competent citizen over the age of 18 without a bunch of felonies has the opportunity to select their preferred candidate, i.e. cast their vote. These votes are tabulated, and whichever candidate garners the most is the winner and takes public office.* (*Sort of. In the U.S., it’s not a straight up direct popular vote for presidential office; we employ the “electoral college,” a concept that many citizens sort of – but very few completely – understand. It basically attempts to give a little more power to the individual states, adding up the total vote of each state’s populous, then awarding a pre-determined amount of delegates (based on population) to whichever candidate gets the most votes from that state’s citizens. Or something. See? I have no idea how it actually works. But for the most part, whichever candidate gets the most votes nationally usually wins.)
Boring shit aside, for some reason the Democratic and Republican parties seized the lion’s share of American political power before any of us were born, and it’s just kind of stayed that way. Since 1853, when Franklin Pierce was elected as a Democrat, the office of the president has been in a constant stranglehold by the donkeys and elephants. Yep, presidents 14 through 44 were all a member of one of the big two parties. It’s all we know. (Interesting side note: Abe Lincoln, the guy who freed the slaves, was a Republican. Good lord, how things have changed.)
As continuity breeds continuity, this stranglehold has only gotten tighter, to the point where the American people can’t seem to fathom a life without either a Democrat or Republican president. It’s so ingrained in our minds that the idea of voting for a different party, a “third party” as they’re condescendingly referred to, seems like a complete waste of time. They won’t win, no matter their ideas or values or political acumen, so we won’t vote for them. Because nobody likes standing in a polling line just to throw away their vote, just as nobody likes to side with a loser.
The odd thing is, “we the people” couldn’t be unhappier about the vice grip the big two parties have on the presidency. A Gallup poll from July 2012 revealed that 69% of Americans were dissatisfied with the way “things were going” in the U.S. And that’s an improvement – it was the first time since 2009 it was below 70%. Both Democrats and Republicans registered satisfaction ratings below 50% in the poll, with the GOP turning in a truly ungodly rating of 10%. We don’t really like any of these guys; we’re sick of them, and fed up with the fact that they overpromise, under deliver, and generally suck at their jobs. It requires no logical leap to peg the American people ready for a change. Yet we refuse to vote for one.
We bitch. We moan. We listen to radio talk shows that rail against the system, and other radio talk shows that rail against those radio talk shows. Some of us chose not to vote, and consider ourselves “apathetic” to the whole notion of politics. The bastards have finally driven us away; it’s their fault. We hate them, and all we want is a change – an end to the bickering and in-fighting and heel dragging, and at least some sliver of honesty, compromise, and progress. We pray (or, for Democrats, hope really hard) that something, somehow, can inject some life and sunshine into this godforsaken clusterfuck in Washington.
Well you know what? We can. The clichéd American people. Last time I checked, we run shit around here. Our votes hold the power. It’s our house, dammit, and these Washingtonian assholes work for us. We pay their ridiculous (guaranteed for life) salaries. And also, the only way in hell it’s going to happen is if we make it happen. Because they have no reason to change.
This isn’t some hippie utopian idealism, I promise; it’s simple logic. We don’t vote for third parties – and thus for REAL change – because we’re worried nobody else will, and our vote will be rendered useless. How can we not realize that we are the everyone else? If you chose to vote for the “lesser of two evils” because of this logic, you are the very person that’s rendering every potential outside-the-box vote useless. You are the person to whom you’re reacting. The only reason we don’t vote for third parties is because we’re worried people won’t vote for third parties. Um, what?
It may sound like I’m advocating voting third party. That’s because I am. If you never vote Democrat or Republican again, and stop caring about what the other lemmings do, you’ll probably feel awesome. No matter which empty suit is up on that podium fucking up Washington, you’ll know it won’t be your fault. And if it is – if we somehow miraculously band together and overthrow the vice-grip the Dueling Legions of Esteemed Jackasses has had on the presidency since eighteen fifty fucking three – at least it’ll be a new kind of fucked up. At least we won’t be perpetuating the definition of insanity.
So which third party candidate should you vote for? I don’t care. It honestly doesn’t matter, at least in the next lifetime or so. I’m not trying to tell you voting for a third party candidate will get them elected in the near future; it won’t. But if you do, you’re making an investment in our future. Think of it as a gift to your children (or somebody else’s kids, if the idea of procreating scares you as much as it does me), a good-faith effort to make things better for future generations. At this point, you’re not voting for the candidate nearly as much as you are the idea – the idea that we don’t have to just take what we’re given, to accept the lesser of two evils. The insane notion that the citizens of the reigning greatest country in the world actually have a say in our elections.
I suppose it’s possible that meaningful and positive change happens through one – or both – of the ruling parties. It could happen, hypothetically, without the need for a third party. Conceivably, a unique and truly charismatic candidate could emerge, galvanizing the country and exciting the people with promises of real and possible hope, change, and general rejection of the status quo. The people would elect him, rejoice in the event, and prosperity and rationalization of the political community would surely follow.
But we’ve seen that movie before, haven’t we?
The single biggest argument for the rogue (third party) vote – the nail in the coffin, at least in my mind – is the 2008 election and subsequent presidency of Barack Obama. It goes to prove without a shadow of a doubt, that if we stick to political parties 1A and 1B, we will always and forever continue to be fucked. This has absolutely nothing to do with his politics, worldviews, or agenda; I for one am proud to call Barack Obama my president, and was happy to see him elected. This is not even about his competence in the Oval Office; for what it’s worth, I find his intentions and ideas admirable, his character great, and his intelligence superb. Honestly, this isn’t about Barack Obama; it’s about everything else. It’s about the machine that consumed him.
I was a senior in college in 2008. I was finishing a poly sci minor, taking at least three politic-heavy classes, and it seemed like everyone had something to say on the presidential election, in and out of the classroom. And when the results came in on election night? My god, what an atmosphere – a wide and magnificent explosion of optimism I had never before seen in my life. The group I ran with wasn’t even particularly pro-Obama, but even they couldn’t help but be awestruck and a little tingly. The excitement was palpable. My roommate, girlfriend, and I shared a bottle of champagne in my apartment to ring in the momentous occasion, and two thirds of us didn’t even vote for the guy. It just somehow seemed that things were gonna be alright.
And it wasn’t just us, the college kids on college campuses. From what I could tell, the whole damn country – from housewives to businessmen to construction workers, everyone but the most inbred, tobacco-spitting hick – was fired up to some degree. Even if we didn’t believe in his political platform, we believed in what he stood for. We believed in hope, change, and positivity.
Nearly four years later, we still believe in those things, but just slightly more than we believe in the Powerball or early retirement to a yacht in the Carribean. We believe because we want to, because we need to, and because no matter what happens, so many of us are idealists at our cores. But we don’t believe it’s in front of us, waiting to be snatched and cherished and drank up in all its delicious glory, like we did on November 4, 2008. The bad guys, once again, have won. Nearly four years into the Obama presidency, there has been progress, but it’s been slow at best and disheartening at worst. Again, I’m not putting this solely on the president – I have no idea how much, if any, is his fault. But the parties are more divided than ever, compromise is nonexistent, and pandering, partisanship, grandstanding, and lies reign supreme. The Grand Canyon lies in the aisle of congress, and the gap Obama promised to bridge has only grown wider. These people – these Republicans and Democrats – are not working for us. They are working for themselves. We are losing.
If Barack Obama couldn’t change the conventional culture of Washington, with the way the country was lined up behind him after the inauguration, ready to go to Pluto and back, I’m fairly certain nobody can. The current culture cannot be changed; it needs to be blown up. So let’s get out the dynamite, motherfuckers.
I don’t think things are bad overall in our country. I would want to live nowhere else, and I love America as much as – if not more than – each and every Billy Ray with a confederate flag on the back of his truck. The truly wonderful part about the U.S. of A. is that living here still kicks ass no matter how screwed things are on Capitol Hill. The economy is still in the shitter, the national debt is growing by eighteen kazillion dollars every millisecond, we’re still involved in too many foreign conflicts (each also costing a few kazillion each day), and party hacks on each side can’t even eat a damn chicken sandwich without making it a divisive issue, and another way to show you that they’re right and you’re wrong. Fuck. But all this, and I still wake up in a beautiful place every morning, have the opportunity to go to work in my chosen profession during the day, and cap things off with a delicious scotch or DQ Blizzard at night. How is that previous sentence NOT an embodiment of the American dream? Nobody starts out on a level playing field in life, but in this country, you can run or climb or dance in as fast as – and in in whatever direction – you want. And I don’t care how liberal, conservative, fascist, or anarchist you consider yourself – that’s pretty damn cool.
This is the section where I’d rail against the way political polarization has driven a wedge between Americans. But there’s not enough room here; that’s another blog, or book, or collection of books. To summarize and spare you a lot of words, my thesis on the matter is this: the “picking sides” mentality mandated by the two-party system is counterproductive to rational discourse and progress, and it preys on basic, deeply ingrained human emotions. It is the exact opposite of what we should strive for, if we’re at all interested in social progress. I’m not much into picking sides, and I have no honest idea who’s “right” across the political spectrum. But I’m pretty sure that if you’re either a die-hard Democrat or Republican, you’re wrong.
In the end, I guess don’t mean to tell you what to do with your vote in the upcoming election, or any election. All I ask is that you don’t approach the polling booth with the intention of voting for who you see as the lesser of two evils. Not just in the presidential race, but all of them, because they are all vitally important. Spend some time researching the possibilities, and then decide what’s really best for the country. Prepare with your head, and vote with your heart. Voting unconventionally isn’t wasting your vote, but giving up and supporting the status quo is.
Yes, the charismatic co-star of the buddy-cop smash hit my travelogue Memoirs of a Gas Station finally has a voice. When I asked Jim – my partner in crime boozing and travel during the summer of 2008 – to write a guest post for this blog, half of me expected a scathing rebuttal to my (allegedly) foggy recollections and half-baked opinions published in the book. It seemed this would be the perfect opportunity for him to slam me on my own turf, and I was completely fine with it.
But if we’ve learned anything, it’s that Jim almost never does the predictable thing. Instead, I opened my email inbox and found this gem – a passage detailing our origins and the things that made us the wonderful weird way we are. Please enjoy, courtesy of Jim:
—
“Men wanted for hazardous journey. Low wages, bitter cold, long hours of complete darkness. Safe return doubtful. Honor and recognition in event of success.”
That’s how I remember the Facebook message I sent to Sam Neumann Spring of 2008. Bold, brave, and manly as a grizzly fight atop a mountain of Bud Light. All attributes I would generally ascribe to myself.
In actuality it read:
“What’s your plans for the summer? Nothing? Well, you should go and work in alaska with me. Broads, beer, bush whacking, 23 hours of sunlight, the list goes on. But seriously, you should think about it. We’d make 9 an hour, plus room and board. Somehow you end up with a Ferrari. Give me a call.”
Not quite the eloquent, grammatically correct and awe-inspiring message my memory served, but it did the trick. I bagged my best pal for a summer of pumping gas and hawking muffins for just over minimum wage 2500 miles from home.
In truth, Sam and I had done a lot of bizarre things together, so it only made sense that he would respond with a resounding yes to this, the dumbest proposal of our friendship.
To understand why Sam said yes, you need to know about a few notably dumb, key moments which led to our summer of love and moose:
The First United Methodist Scavenger Hunt
While other teenagers smoked drugs and listened to Limp Bizkit to express their emotions, Sam and I made up shit that we thought was funny to fill our evenings. One such evening, Sam and I fabricated a church youth group scavenger hunt. This consisted of us blasting contemporary Christian rock, going to fast food restaurant drive-thrus and excitedly yelling “Hey! It’s team eleven with the First United Methodist Church Scavenger Hunt, are we the first team through?!” What followed was serious confusion, us reading off a list of items like 50 packets of mustard, 40 straws, a small tub of sour cream… all of which we assured them should be pre-assembled, as promised by our youth pastor, Rod. We filmed this and thought it was fantastic.
Foul Play
When we found out that our high school had an unused TV studio, we decided it was time for it to be used. We somehow connected with the spastically excited director of the defunct TV studio and decided it was only right that we should start our own show. It would be called “Foul Play” and we would pick a topic and argue about it. Usually it was sports, about which I know absolutely nothing. But, we figured that doesn’t stop anyone on CNN, so we went for it. We had a run of two episodes, but I’m pretty sure with 18 viewers, it was the highest rated television program ever to air on Chisago Lakes public access.
Sam’s Big Day
During graduation party season, Sam and I lamented about answering the same dumb questions over and over at the event from friends parents and distant relatives. Well, being ingenious smart-asses, we came up with the perfect solution: a video that answered all those questions so people wouldn’t have to ask. The result included Sam on a pontoon and in various lake situations answering questions such as “Where will you be attending school this fall?” or “Where are you working now?” Classic! Like everything we did, not everyone got it, but we didn’t care. It was bizzaro and pretty funny in our minds…
Friday Afternoon Taped (FAT)
As middle-schoolers, Sam, myself and a few other good buddies decided that we were all pretty funny and we also had access to a video camera, so we would come up with a sketch show that would rival Saturday Night Live. The result was FAT. A several-year series with a revolving cast and recurring characters, such as the Owl Man, T Pederson’s Tricked Out Trick Hour, Sylvan Learning Center, among other things. I’m pretty sure it won some awards.
Mungo Jerry Prank Calling
In what many (Sam and I) have deemed the best prank phone call of all time, we would call friends and family from an unknown number and sing the melody of “In the Summertime” once through. When we ended, we would wait until we heard them respond in some manner, then we would launch into the song again. This would continue until the person hung up. Hilarious! And as you can imagine, not everyone got it.
In short, Sam and I were always up for whatever ridiculous thing the other suggested. Our trip to Alaska was the pinnacle of that. A pinnacle I hope we can top. Sam, it’s on you. I’ll keep an eye on my Facebook message inbox.
In celebration of Memoirs of a Gas Station being released in paperback today, I decided it would be a good idea to scrounge up some more old Alaska videos. What we have here are a few short clips I shot on my Nikon point-and-shoot camera during that fateful summer – some delightfully low-quality amateur wildlife videography!
These were all taken from the banks of Horseshoe Lake – a local spot we used to go to to hang out or look for animals. A few days there, I had the good fortune of moose and beavers allowing me to observe them. You’ll hear me providing my usual superfluous narration…and that other voice? That’s Damian, who will be doing a guest post on this blog sometime in the future with his take on the summer and the book. (And by the way, he has a blog of his own at http://damiankyle.wordpress.com/. It’s hilarious, and you should probably give it a read if you haven’t already).
To the animals:
As you can see, not much happens. The beavers were very friendly though – on more than one occasion, I sat and watched them build a dam on the edge of the lake. Tireless workers, they are. If only I’d gotten an otter on video…
If you’ve read any of Memoirs of a Gas Station, you’re almost certainly familiar with Jim, the worldly, strapping young lad that was the catalyst for – and my de facto guide during – the trip to Alaska. Jim is one of my best pals and, in all honesty, a damn saint for allowing me to write and publish so many (mostly subjective) good-natured but incendiary quips about him. He is a man of many talents, and I’d like to share one with you below.
Now, I may have mentioned in the book that we from time to time skirted our gas station responsibilities and/or played mind games with customers in an effort to maintain sanity. This is probably an example of that. On an especially boring afternoon, Jim decided that he would answer all customer questions while juggling oranges – an activity that he obviously mastered.
The question was about a shuttle service in the canyon; one we received an average of 37 times per day, and thus were robotically conditioned to answer. This could be why he made it look so easy. At the end, you can hear me applaud Jim’s work, then sulk back to the menial reality of the job and “ring up” the next customer. At least we had those 19 seconds.
Miss the NBA Draft last week? Forget to set the DVR? Realize you have no interest in watching three hours of a man at a podium announcing picks? Either way, I’m here to help. I watched the whole damn first round so you didn’t have to, and my full, pick-by-pick recap is live at http://godonnybrook.com/v3/the-official-donnybrook-2012-nba-draft-recap/.
Indulge yourself and have a look. Who will boom, who will bust, and who hangs dong? It’s all there. Even if you have no interest in drafts or sports, you might find something marginally worthwhile. This is essential information, after all.
The other day, I was confronted with the strong urge to punch someone in the face. This person was being a dick – as dicks are wont to do – and certainly seemed to deserve it. Now, if you know me personally, you know that there was no chance I’d actually just punch someone in the face, and in the end I gathered myself and walked away. Number one; it was the right thing to do, and number two; I’m not a face-puncher. I wouldn’t win many fights. But the issue here isn’t about actually punching someone in the face for being an asshole; it’s about wanting to do it. And this is an urge most of us experience from time to time.
No matter who you are, where you live, or what type of personality you have, chances are you have enemies. Whether this is your doing or not, it just seems to happen; at some point in one’s life, a relationship (or sometimes many relationships) will form from a mutual dislike. We’re going to assume it’s more their fault than yours, if only because that’s what it always feels like. And this is fine; blame them. I do. They, after all, are the asshole.
The important question here is how to deal with these situations. You certainly can go the face-punching route, but honestly that won’t do much for you long term. You may get momentary satisfaction, but instead of everyone lifting you over their heads and cheering like they do in movies (and probably your imagination), they’ll probably just back away slowly or ask what the hell is wrong with you. Another option is to give the jerkoff a proverbial “piece of your mind,” which can feel outstanding, but public reaction to this is – again – usually lukewarm at best. Something about making a scene.
Physical or verbal violence are never the best option, and as I walked away from the situation in question, I reminded myself of something. No matter what the circumstance, the single best way to deal with nasty people in your life:
Do well.
That’s it. Just do well in whatever you do. You don’t even have to see, talk to, or think about the assholes at large. All you need to do is do your thing, and do it the best you can. Accomplish, achieve, explore, discover, succeed. Win. Decide what you want to do, then go do it. Put in time. Wake up an hour earlier, drink another cup of coffee, and give yourself the extra edge you need to make the world your bitch. Try something new, try harder at something you already do, or try to do less of something that’s detrimental to you. Turn off the TV, get off your ass, and do. Read, create, and be curious. Stop worrying about failing, and instead actually fail. Then learn, try again, and succeed. After that, succeed more. Unhook the plow, unchain the shackles, and let the beast out.
These things are the best way to get back at the people that don’t like you, because seeing you succeed kills those people. They hate it. Your happiness, positive energy, and overall prosperity carry more weight than any number of punches in the face or roundhouse kicks. Use it. Chase your bliss and find your inner ninja while those other bastards watch from the sidelines. Ignore them and succeed, and their blood will boil. This isn’t about rubbing it in, either; you don’t need to. You don’t need to deal with them in any way, because they’re insignificant. They don’t count. And anyway, they’ll know.
What counts is that you identify what you want in life, and then wake up every damn day and bust your ass in pursuit of that goal. Rise, flourish, and hone your craft. Thrive. Hell, go for a vacation. Take a drive. Find something new. Expand your mind and grow as a human being. The rest will follow.
These things take time, and the gratification is exponentially more delayed than a snap reaction to a nasty person. But I’ll be damned if it isn’t exponentially more satisfying.
Why should you trust my advice? Honestly, I can’t say that you should. You have no reason to. I haven’t lived that long, haven’t had many exponential successes, and haven’t even punched anyone in the face (and thus wouldn’t truly know the feeling). But don’t take my word for it – try it. Put away the retaliation and the snarky responses and the stooping to their level for a minute, and take the high road. Stop worrying about how you’ll respond to asshole comments, or what you’ll say to make him or her feel as bad as they make you feel. Live your life, find your happiness and succeed at what you do. Kick tomorrow’s ass. And if you don’t find it a billion times more satisfying, then try a different approach. But I bet you won’t need to.
Ever think to yourself, “Man, I enjoy ebooks and humor and gas stations and Alaska – along with humorous ebooks about gas stations in Alaska – but $2.99 is just a little too rich for my blood”? Well, this is your lucky day. Actually lucky two days, because today and tomorrow (June 18 and 19), Memoirs of a Gas Station will be available FREE on Amazon.com. Just follow this link to get a piece.
Download, read, love. Hell, write a review. If you’ve been nervous about diving in, this is your chance – it’s risk-free. You literally have nothing to lose.
Just the fact that you’ve come to this page in the first place assures me that you’re awesome, so I’m confident you’ll do the right thing. Bottoms up!*
*Technically, “bottoms up” doesn’t make sense here. But I’ve decided it can go wherever it wants. It’s a pretty nonthreatening and fun-loving cliche. So bottoms up.
Greetings, team. No rambling incoherencies on the blog today, just a quick note about a new venture. As of today, I’m going to be doing some writing for The Donnybrook Writing Academy at godonnybrook.com. Donnybrook is an elite group of Denver socialites who share their impeccable taste with the world through writing. Or something like that. Seriously though, it’s a funny an interesting site – it’s been mentioned by Westword and the A.V. Club – and I’m pretty pumped to be a part of it. I’ll be mostly covering sports. You can see my first post here: http://godonnybrook.com/v3/our-new-director-of-diversions-has-entered-the-manse/
So what’s with the name? Well, being a hip collection of esteemed ladies and gentlemen, Donnybrook can’t just have any old moniker gracing its pages. So I had to change mine, and I think the new one is more fitting.
LeBron James is, at current time, probably the most widely reviled active professional athlete in America. Almost entirely because of two things – his transcendent, undeniable talent on the basketball court and one gigantic PR gaffe – an overwhelming number of NBA fans and even more non-fans have been rooting for him to lose for the past two years. These factors make sense; anytime anyone is so universally good at any sport, there is an almost inherent tendency to turn on him eventually (unless, of course, he plays for our team). And “The Decision” – the public relations stunt turned image nightmare – came across at the time as possibly the vainest display of personal promotion we’d ever seen in professional sports. It also seemed like the antithesis of this idea of “loyalty” we’ve for some reason come to expect as sports fans, and time hasn’t done much to change that perception.
(NBA fans (both of you), you might want to skip this next section. It’s a bunch of background you already know. Seriously, it’s okay; I won’t be mad. Just scroll down to the next picture of LeBron and pick it up there.)
For those of you who don’t know, “The Decision” was, in short, LeBron James’ very public announcement that he was leaving his hometown team to go play with two other all-stars in Miami. If you watch the video without any context, it all seems pretty harmless. But the devil is (and was) in the context.
James grew up in Akron, Ohio, and by the time he was a sophomore in high school, he was generally considered the best NBA prospect in a long, long time – definitely in the last two decades, possibly ever. I distinctly remember on instance when a 16-year-old LeBron was participating in some boys basketball camp over NBA All-Star weekend. The camp in which he was competing just happened to be in the same city as the All-Star game, and more than one NBA scout was quoted in saying that young LeBron was playing in the wrong game – instead of his high school tournament, he should be suiting up in the All-Star game. Right then, as a sophomore in high school. He was that good, and the hype was that big.
Not surprisingly, the state of Ohio immediately clung to James as its native son. Already he was the most famous Ohioan since Neil Armstrong (who I just learned was from the state; I had to Google “famous people from Ohio” because I couldn’t think of any). His celebrity grew as ESPN began nationally televising his games. He had the look of a gigantic, agile, finely tuned basketball-playing machine, and the demeanor of a seasoned veteran. And he had just gotten his driver’s license. LeBron graced the cover of magazines, segments of SportsCenter, and was officially dubbed a “can’t miss” prospect; as much of a sure thing as there can be in professional sports.
He turned 18 and graduated high school. The thought of college was nothing more than a fleeting muse, if even that. This was when players could still go straight to the NBA from high school, and nobody ever actually expected LeBron to do anything else. He was ready. Then, as if the stars had finally aligned for the moribund city of Cleveland in the sad and trampled state of Ohio, the Cleveland Cavaliers won the draft lottery and were blessed with the number one pick in the 2003 draft. The Cavs – a laughingstock for years – would be able to draft their dominant, can’t-miss native son first overall.
The hype was huge, and when LeBron arrived in Cleveland, he did what was nearly impossible with such high expectations – he lived up to them. As a rookie, he averaged 20 points, six assists, and five rebounds, and quickly showed the rest of the world what all the fuss was about; LeBron James was, as an 18-year-old, the most complete basketball player in professional basketball. And the stats were not empty – in LeBron’s first year, the Cavs more than doubled their win total from the previous season. The King had arrived, the NBA had a new poster child, and the future in Cleveland was as bright as it had ever been.
Fast forward seven years, four 50+ win seasons (including 2008-09, when James and a decidedly average supporting cast went an incredible 66-16), five playoff appearances, and one NBA Finals loss, and The Decision happened. James was a free-agent, and after the most ballyhooed courting process in sporting history – again, thanks in part to ESPN – he decided to take his talents to South Beach and join the Miami Heat. He would be teaming up with All-Stars Dwyane Wade, already an NBA champion, and Chris Bosh, who had left the Toronto Raptors to complete the three-headed monster.
It was a dream team of sorts, a presumed juggernaut that seemed likely to dominate the league for years to come. And the fans hated it. Cleveland naturally considered it a betrayal of epic proportions, and fans literally rioted in the streets and burned LeBron jerseys. Much of the nation agreed, many put off by the seemingly unsportsmanlike idea of so many superstars stacking themselves on a single team. And even more than that, the way he did it just seemed arrogant – a nationally televised, one-hour special just to announce the team with which he would sign. Vain was an understatement.
This was two years ago. Now, in his second season with the Heat, James has a good shot to win the Eastern Conference finals and advance to the NBA Finals again. Last season, Miami lost an epic Finals series to the Dallas Mavericks, in what was widely considered among NBA faithful – myself included – as a triumph of good over evil. It was the first year of the superteam, and nothing made us happier than seeing them not win the title. And, more importantly, seeing LeBron “choke”down the stretch.
This has become the main point of contention for LeBron haters – of which there are many – in the past few seasons. Basically, for as much of an all-world superstar as he’s become (MVP three of the past four seasons – and unheard of statistic), the masses need a reason to cut him down. He’s gotten too big, too famous, too good, and when that happens it is incumbent upon our society to knock someone down a peg or two. Plus, the whole “Decision” thing just made it 10 times worse – most NBA fans now actively look for a reason to root against LeBron. And to be quite honest, the clutch factor is a legitimate one.
The main thing that separates very good players from great players is, and probably always will be, how they perform when the game is on the line. The great ones embrace the moment and take – and make – game winning shots. The non-greats shrink from pressure and pass the ball. The best example of the former, of course, is Michael Jordan – often considered the best player to ever play the game, and the architect of countless clutch, career-defining, and all-around badass game winning shots. Michael is the standard by which all others are judged, and that is just fine. The best modern-day example is Kobe Bryant, who shares many of the same traits as Jordan but just doesn’t have quite as many championships (yet). Players like Kevin Durant and Carmelo Anthony join him in a lesser capacity, but that isn’t the point. The point is that LeBron James, for the most part, is not a member of this category.
About halfway through his career, when the Cavaliers started winning all those game, we (the NBA faithful) began to notice something: LeBron James doesn’t seem to like taking end-of-game shots. It seemed ridiculous; a player of his obvious talent and presumed self-confidence seemed tailor-made to want the ball in crunch time. Yet for some reason, he didn’t. It wasn’t that he freaked out or shrunk from big moments, he just seemed to find ways to avoid taking the last shot. Generally with the Cavs, when the game was on the line, LeBron would draw the defense in and then kick the ball out to a wide-open teammate. In basketball terms, this is a good play, except most of James’ teammates weren’t very good, and they would usually miss said wide-open shot. After a season or so of this, the grumblings began. LeBron was a terrific passer – one of his many dominant traits – but that wasn’t the skill he should be using at the ends of games. A man of such supreme talent should surely be taking the last shot, shouldn’t he?
These grumblings grew into full-grown shouts over time, and with every late-game shot passed up (or sometimes missed), LeBron solidified his fatal flaw in the minds of most. He wasn’t a clutch player. This was an easy complaint to highlight, and when he moved to the Heat it just got worse. We want our heroes to be fearless, to dodge bullets and laugh in the face of danger, and to be the ones standing over their enemies with a smoking gun when the dust settles. Through his youth, hype, and maturation as a basketball player, we all just assumed this would be a part of LeBron’s game. When we found out it wasn’t, it was a flat-out disappointment. LeBron is an outstanding basketball player, but not a stone-cold killer. He is not the Lone Ranger, he is just some guy. And we hate him for it.
For the most part, that hate continues. Combined with “The Decision,” which most are still holding against him, LeBron is the player most NBA fans love to hate. They root against him because they root against unfairness, against synthetic team-building, and most of all, against unfulfilled potential. Yes, the fact that LeBron lacks the killer gene means, to most of us, he isn’t as much of a basketball player as he could’ve been. This might be true, but isn’t necessarily fair.
I, for one, am rooting for LeBron.
Basically, I’m rooting for him because as far as I can tell, he’s actually a decent, likeable human being. He seems like a good teammate, has never (as far as we know) raped or assaulted anyone, and I’m reasonably certain he isn’t a dick. In the grand scheme, these things are far more important than any basketball aptitude, and are often nonexistent in those that possess such aptitude. When you look at it impartially, LeBron pretty much seems like a good guy. And I like good guys.
So I’d like to break down my argument based on some of the arguments made against LeBron James:
He Can’t/Won’t Make Clutch Shots
True, but the reason he doesn’t truly want to take the last shot is the same reason he isn’t an asshole. Now, LeBron will never tell you he doesn’t want the pressure possessions – he’s always said the right things, used the right clichés, and generally appeased the fans by saying essentially, “I want the ball when the game’s on the line.” But that’s just what you’re supposed to say, and that’s why he says it. And it’s not as if James has never turned in a clutch performance – he has had some downright sensational ones, most notable in my mind the time he scored an absolutely unfathomable 29 of his team’s last 30 points in a double-overtime, Eastern Conference Finals Game 5 win. Moments like this are transcendent; that performance is still the single best individual playoff performance I’ve ever seen. But moments like that, no matter how great they are, are too few and far between, and haven’t happened in quite some time. They are the exception, not the rule.
Basically, while LeBron James lacks absolutely nothing physically, mentally there is something he doesn’t have. Whatever extra gear, special drive, or overall psychological disposition it is that makes Michael and Kobe stone-cold killers at the end of games, it is absent in LeBron James. No matter how good at basketball – or any other sport – a person is, there is something in the human makeup that makes some guys honestly believe they are the best player on the floor, that nobody can guard them, that their dick is bigger than every other man’s in the building, and that when they let go of a shot when the clock hits zero, there is absolutely no way it isn’t going in. It doesn’t matter whether these things are actually true or not, what matters is that they believe them. I call it the, “fuck you, give me the ball” factor, because that’s what I assume Michael and Kobe said/say to their teammates on a regular basis. This even extends beyond sports – in business, politics, and life in general, this same trait exists in many wildly successful individuals. It’s the win-at-all-costs, cutthroat attitude that makes some people obsessed with beating others, no matter the consequences.
The thing is, this is not a normal human trait. As basketball fans, we’ve been spoiled by those who possess it, so we expect everyone else to act as such. But most people – and most pro athletes – just aren’t wired that way, which is what makes the ones that are so unique. However, this same thing that makes Kobe and Michael (who I’m using as prime examples, but are certainly not the only examples) such good primetime players, is also the thing that makes them bad teammates, husbands, friends, and – as far as I can tell – people.
By all accounts, Kobe Bryant and Michael Jordan are complete assholes. In the case of Jordan, it’s well documented – “The Jordan Rules” by Sam Smith being a terrific example (and great book, by the way), but all you have to do is watch his hall of fame acceptance speech. It is painfully clear in those 20 minutes that Michael Jordan – after the MVPs and NBA Championships and general public considering him the best to ever play the game – is still not satisfied. He has a chip on his shoulder, and he wants to prove to anyone and everyone that he is better than them. He doesn’t care about the legacy he left; he still feels like he has something to prove, and probably always will. And I think that’s sad. As Adrian Wojnarowski said in his apt commentary on the speech, “It’s over, Michael. You won.”
Some will say this is just competitiveness, and to a degree it is. But it is so much more than wanting to win; it’s when winning becomes all that matters. It’s when pride, arrogance, and – as Michael showed – pettiness overwhelm all else. It’s an enormous character flaw, but we let it slide (and even embrace it) because it breeds good basketball.
LeBron James lacks this gene, which makes him prone to pass off the last shot but – more importantly – makes him the kind of human being for whom I want to root. James doesn’t yell at his teammates, he clowns around with them. He doesn’t get tried for rape; he got engaged to his high school sweetheart. He defies security to make sure military servicemen get a picture with him and his teammates. The list goes on. Why do we hate this guy when all he’s done wrong is pass off the last shot in a basketball game and decided he wants to move to a warmer climate to play with his friends? Which brings me to…
“The Decision” Was Reprehensible
Yes, the way the one-hour, all-about-me special transpired, it certainly seemed like an exercise in conceit. I bet LeBron would like to have a mulligan on that one. Of course, it was ESPN’s idea, and it wasn’t actually as self-absorbed as it came off at first blush: James arranged it so the special would raise over $3 million for charity. Still, was it self-serving? Absolutely. Did the phrase “taking my talents to South Beach” sound crass and stupid? Of course. But $3 million for charity might justify those things, no?
He’s a Traitor
LeBron James grew up in Ohio. He played the first seven seasons of his NBA career in Cleveland, taking the franchise to heights it hadn’t seen before. The man had essentially never left the state. Can you blame him for wanting a change of scenery, wanting to exchange Cleveland for Miami, wanting to play with other good players with whom he happens to be very close? What would you do? The city of Cleveland acted as if the man had murdered Neil Armstrong. In reality, he gave the team, city, and state seven good years, watched as management failed to build a championship team around him, and decided to try something else.
He Needs to Play With Other All-Stars to Win
Yep. And?
Name me one player who has ever won an NBA title by himself. One guy who has singlehandedly run through the rest of the league to win a ring. Anyone?
Has there ever been a player to win a championship in any major sport without other significant talent around him? The answer, obviously, is no. Kobe had Shaq – one of the best of all time – for his first three titles, then went ringless for a few years until fellow all-star Pau Gasol arrived. Jordan had a uniquely talented team around him, most notably hall of fame wingman Scottie Pippen. The great Celtics and Lakers teams of the 80’s were each stacked with multiple hall of famers. Do we diminish the achievements of these players because they teamed up with other greats? No. So why do we do it with LeBron?
Admittedly, when a player joins other all-stars via free agency – as James did – it makes it harder for fans to swallow. James willingly left his current team to go play with better players, and this seems to diminish his competitive credibility. It feels like cheating. “Why does he need to do that?” we ask. “He couldn’t do it by himself?” Well, no, he couldn’t.
Despite the fact that we all know it’s impossible for a player to win a championship without significant talent surrounding him, we still for some reason want him to try. Kobe did it with Shaq – pretty much presenting management with an “it’s me or him” scenario – and Jordan froze out and forced out countless players in his day. And this makes us happy. We embrace the narcissism and competitive arrogance of such attitudes, and disregard their stupidity. We want our heroes to want to win titles by themselves, because anything else is seen as some sort of weakened spirit.
Well, weakened spirit or not, LeBron James is not stupid, and he realized something after seven seasons: he can’t do it alone. Despite his massive talent and ridiculous achievements with the Cavaliers – where his supporting cast was, as I put it (nicely) before, very average – there were two problems. One, of course, is that it’s impossible to win titles without significant talent around you (at the very least, a sidekick capable of carrying the load in certain big games). The second is more complicated, and gets to the crux of the issue: LeBron realized he needed more than a sidekick. He needed a killer. Good teams are made up of complimentary players whose strengths make up for their teammates weaknesses. And as a basketball player, LeBron James has exactly one weakness: his lack of a “fuck you, give me the ball” factor. He knows it, too. Despite what he says publicly, James is – obviously – keenly aware that he is a subpar clutch performer. He is either unwilling or unable to take and make the clutch shot, so he found someone else that was: Dwyane Wade. Wade is a solid clutch performer who already has one ring, but of course it’s much too early to put him in the Kobe/Michael category. I don’t know if he has that extra special gear, I don’t know if he’s an asshole, and I’m not going to go into it because this post is already far too long as it is. But I do know that he wants to take the last shot; you can see it in his eyes, and in the way he plays. And LeBron knows it too. Wade – despite missing a game-winner in game four last night – has at least some Lone Ranger in him, and that’s good enough for James. Because some is better than none.
I have no idea whether or not this marriage of talent will work long-term; in the second season of the experiment, Miami has a good chance to again make the NBA Finals. After that, who knows. I do know that being paired with a player like Wade is probably the best situation for LeBron, a supremely talented basketball player who is self-aware and humble enough to recognize his own flaws. And when I look at it that way, I can’t find much of a reason to root against him.
Well this is fun. A month or two ago, I entered Memoirs of a Gas Station in the “Shirley You Jest!” book awards, a literary contest that highlights the often-overlooked and somewhat offbeat world of humor books (and the authors who write them). Finalists were announced on September 1, and what do you know, the damn thing made the cut. Righteous. You can see the full list of categories at the official website.
