What the 2013 NBA Championship Means for LeBron’s Legacy 1

Here’s how this conversation will go for future generations pondering the greats of the NBA:

“So, what do you think about LeBron James legacy?”

The subject sits cowered in the corner. We haven’t seen the sun for weeks, only a yellow haze that barely diffuses through the thick benzene ridden smog, and particles of plastic, cement, rock, sand, God knows what.

Since the Nuclear Fallout, clean water has been scarce.

The reverse osmosis contraptions which easily allow for the filtration of salt water can only be traded for new kidneys, as the New World Guard seeks immortality. Sure, they can clone genes – but they need fresh specimens. My subject is being investigated by Pfizer for copyright infringement – as the enzymes in his kidney have been patented.

“Who sent you?” he asks.

“I’m with Sports Illustrated” I explain, and send him my business card through DPC (Direct Pupil Contact.) I pull a bottle of water out of my briefcase and he begins to talk, wearily.

“You mean, basketball?” He asks?

“Yes” I say, “How would you suppose LeBron’s career stacks up to say, Michael Jordan or Larry Bird? Sure, they played in different eras, and the three-point shot really changed the game, but, regardless of their Player Efficiency Ratings, how would you say LeBron compares, just from a leaderships standpoint?”

The subject vomits a thin gruel. He eyes the water.

“My great grandfather said something of men throwing balls into baskets. Was it to build infrastructure? Because, I’m sure there were more efficient ways to do it. Why were these men throwing all these balls?” he asks.

Son of a bitch. This guy doesn’t know anything about basketball. The only non-altered Chromosomal Human I’ve seen in weeks, and his historical perspective is way out of whack.

“LeBron James was the MVP of the 2013 NBA Finals” I explain.

“Was that before they spliced our genes?” He asks.

Dammit, this guy is a fucking moron. I throw him the bottle, put on my Hazard Suit, and begin to walk out the door.

“Thanks for nothing” I say.

“Stephon” he mutters weakly.

“What?” I say through my mask.

“Stephon Marbury. He was the greatest.”

I knew this would happen.

You see, after the genes were split, some of the Altered Men who worked for Google began randomly assigning search cues to campaigns of misinformation. It started with politics – all the usual stuff about corporations being your friend, but I never dreamed it would compromise the purity of sports – the most simple competition of all – the only true level playing field left on this planet.

“You’re wrong.” I explain, “Just look at Marbury’s stats, he isn’t even in the top hundred players-“

His nostrils flair up and sweat jumps off his body as he rises to attention.

“Stephon Marbury is the best player of all time!” He announces. “You’re one of them aren’t you!”

I try to explain that I’m not, but it is worthless. As I leave he is reciting the copy of a Pfizer campaign.