“Dad, How Good Was LeBron?”
“Well, son…” the old man smiled, gazing into the fire as if it played back the highlight reel of a lifetime. His voice crackled with age, but not weakness—just like the man they were talking about. “He was… something else.”
The boy, no older than ten, curled his legs under him, his eyes wide with anticipation. His father had been a coach, his grandfather a sportswriter, but even they seemed to speak of LeBron James with something approaching reverence.
“LeBron was more than good,” the old man said. “He was inevitable.”
The fire popped, like a rim cracking under the force of a dunk.
“He came into the league in 2003, right out of high school. No college. No development league. Just pure, unfiltered potential. Drafted first overall by Cleveland—a franchise that had never sniffed greatness. They called him ‘The Chosen One.’ That kind of hype usually eats a kid alive. But not LeBron.”
The boy leaned in closer.
“Year one? He averaged 20 points, 5 rebounds, 5 assists. Won Rookie of the Year. But that was just the warm-up.”
The old man’s voice gained rhythm now, like a preacher speaking gospel.
“He became a 4-time NBA champion. 4-time MVP. 19-time All-Star. He’s the only player in NBA history with 30,000 points, 10,000 rebounds, and 10,000 assists. Think about that. Scorer, facilitator, rebounder—he could do it all. And not just do it—dominate.”
“But Dad…” the boy interrupted, “Was he better than Jordan?”
The old man chuckled. “That’s the eternal debate, son. Jordan was a killer. Cold-blooded. But LeBron? He was a force of nature. He didn’t play the game—he reshaped it. He played 21 seasons, and for most of them, he was the smartest and strongest man on the court. He could play all five positions. Guarded centers. Ran the point. You couldn’t box him in.”
The old man’s eyes gleamed with memory.
“I remember 2016—Game 7 of the Finals. Cavs vs. Warriors. Cleveland down 3-1 in the series. No team had ever come back from that deficit in the Finals. But LeBron didn’t care about history. He made it. That block on Andre Iguodala? Still gives me chills. He sprinted from half court and pinned the ball against the backboard like he was denying gravity itself.”
The boy’s mouth hung open.
“And he wasn’t just a basketball player,” the father continued. “He opened schools. Fought for social justice. Spoke out when others stayed silent. He built businesses, empowered communities. He never stopped moving forward.”
The fire dimmed as if it, too, listened.
“When he retired, he was the NBA’s all-time leading scorer. Not because he chased points, but because greatness just… accumulated. Like snowfall in silence.”
The boy looked into the fire, quiet for a moment. “So… he was the best?”
The old man didn’t answer right away. He leaned back, hands folded behind his head.
“Some say Jordan. Some say Kobe. Others, maybe someone still to come. But when you watched LeBron—when you saw how he elevated everything—you didn’t need to ask if he was the best. You just felt lucky to watch him at all.”
He smiled.
“And that, son, was LeBron James.”
