Just over a week ago, LeBron James hit a fadeaway jumper over the Thunder’s Kenrich Williams for points no. 38,387 and 38,388 of his illustrious career, surpassing Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s NBA record for career points. The record has ignited yet another round of seemingly endless debates over who is the greatest basketball player of all time.
This debate is sparked anew every time James reaches some new record or achievement. Every single point in favor of any of the contenders for that title, whether it be James, Abdul-Jabbar, Michael Jordan, Bill Russell or Magic Johnson, has been made a hundred times over.
As someone who both grew up in Northeast Ohio as a huge Cavaliers fan and was born in James’ hometown of Akron, Ohio, I am squarely on his side of this debate.
Although I have plenty of opinions on exactly how and why James has surpassed each of his contenders for the title of greatest of all time, I came to a realization as I sat on my couch last Tuesday, moved nearly to tears by James’ historic moment.
When James eventually retires, these debates will rage on forever, and people will discuss statistics, championships, the value of NBA Finals losses compared to losses earlier in the playoffs and definitions of “clutch” ability.
But I realized that to me, and I assume to plenty of other people from Northeast Ohio, none of that matters.
For me, James became the greatest player of all time on June 19, 2016, when he completed the greatest three-game stretch an NBA player has ever had. He brought the Cavaliers back from 3-1 down against the 73-9 Golden State Warriors to win Cleveland’s first professional sports championship since 1964.
When James finally delivered to Cleveland the title he promised, he became the savior of the city that he was expected to be, fairly or not, from the moment the Cavs were awarded the first pick when James was coming out of St. Vincent St. Mary High School.
In that moment, it didn’t matter how many championships Michael Jordan and Russell brought to Chicago and Boston respectively, because there is one key difference between every other contender for the greatest player of all time and James.
Jordan grew up in North Carolina before being drafted by the Bulls. Russell was born in Washington, all the way across the country from the city he would one day bring 11 championships. Abdul-Jabbar grew up in New York City, yet never played for the city’s iconic franchise, the Knicks.
But James grew up just an hour away from the city he would end up playing in for a total of 11 seasons, so far. While plenty of star athletes will go to important games for the other teams in their city, and James has publicly shown his support for teams like the Yankees and Cowboys, there is a visible difference in his attitude when he is sitting in a box at a Guardians playoff game or donning scarlet and gray on the sidelines of the Ohio State vs. Michigan game.
James means more to those of us from Northeast Ohio than Jordan could ever mean to Chicago, Russell to Boston or Abdul-Jabbar to Los Angeles because James is us.
James means so much to generations of Cleveland sports fans. From those like me, who were introduced to pro sports during his first stint with the Cavs, to those who remember Jim Brown leading the Browns to Cleveland’s last championship back in 1964, to those who grew up as LeBron returned and took the Cavs to the mountaintop and to those who saw him as a respite from the Cleveland sports pain that was all they had ever known. James is the player that authored new moments that would erase the memories of The Shot, The Drive, The Fumble and Jose Mesa’s blown save.
The bottom line is that James could never win another ring, go on another playoff run, win another game or score another point, and it wouldn’t matter. For people from Northeast Ohio, James is already the greatest ever, and he always will be.
Will Cunningham is a senior studying journalism. Please note that the opinions expressed in this column do not represent those of The Post. Want to talk to Will? Tweet him @willocunningham.
