Miami Heat Championship Spells Doom

So yesterday was V-H Day (victory for the Heat), which means it was also V-D Day—no, I’m not talking about venereal disease, I’m talking about the victory of doom.

Those black Heat (not talking race here), with their black uniforms and their triumvirate of evil, and the fruition of the diabolical Pat Riley’s diabolical plan—let’s not forget, Celtics fans, that this is a LAKER who fashioned this wretched Cerberus of South Beach. There’s a ton of irony there, and I hope it’s not lost on you.

Life involves certain “days of dread”—the death of loved ones, Obama being elected (sorry, libs), Obama being re-elected (sorry again). LeBron finally winning a title, and this Miami Heat team winning a title, was/is one of those days.

Perhaps worse than that, though, is that—and I’m having trouble even admitting this to myself—I’m actually started to … ohmygosh, I can’t believe it … have some sort of … sympathetic feelings toward LeBron.

Oh gosh, I can’t take this.

I’m being serious. I think I’ll never have any positive feelings for DWade (dirty louse) or for RuPaul, I mean, Bosh, but LeBron … I don’t know; I’m not becoming a fan, per se—I’m NEVER jumping on any LeBron or Heat bandwagon—and I still believe he’s got quite a bit of growing up to do (though he’s done some already), but I think I’m developing … gosh, this is how Dr. Jekyll must have felt right before his transformation … a grudging respect for LeBron.

I went through something similar with Jordan after his career. I couldn’t stand that guy, his smugness and how the refs (read: Stern) let him get away with so much, but looking back on his career, I can’t deny his awesome level of play.

Same with LeBron. “King” James? Sorry, but that’s a Bible translation. And as Dirty Harry said, “You’re a legend in your own mind.” Anointing himself king and messiah and all that before he ever even donned an NBA uniform, surrounding himself with the consummate bunch of yes-men—I absolutely LOATHE all of that. Talk about an entitled, spoiled, pampered prima donna.

Except he’s not selfish on the court. Not now, anyway. And of course, I don’t want players to be selfish, yet I feel like, with LeBron’s slow but nonetheless evident maturing, I’m losing something important, something crucial to my well-being: a sports figure to loathe with every fiber of my being. The good news, though, is that I still have that villain in DWade, and I still refuse to go so far as to root for LeBron (unless he ends up a Celtic some day).

But gosh, this is killing me. As I said, I want players to be unselfish, and as a Christian I don’t want to hold someone’s mistakes, someone’s past, against them, but I’m losing my evil binky. I’m like Player X trying in vain to draw an open-court charge on LeBron—I’m being steamrolled by his basketball prowess, and I don’t want to be, and I hate it, and I’m shouting at the officials to give me a bleepin’ call (like Derek Fisher must have felt last night) … but I can’t help it.

Somebody hold me.

As an interesting side note, I was just looking through the dictionary, checking the spelling of “prima donna,” when I came across this:

primal scream therapyn (1971) : psychotherapy in which the patient recalls and reenacts a particularly disturbing past experience usu. occurring early in life and expresses normally repressed anger or frustration esp. through spontaneous and unrestrained screams, hysteria, or violence — called also primal therapy
So that explains Bosh.
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