As I guard LeBron, I notice how he only plays at half speed. He probably could score every time down the court, but instead seems intent on throwing difficult passes. In one play, on a fast break, rather than dribble it by himself to get an easier shot or pass, he stalls at our three-point line, stares at a teammate jogging to his left, and then throws a no-look one-handed dart above my outstretched arms, between two running defenders, across the entirety of the court. The ball bullets into its recipient’s chest. He catches it like a football, hugging it to his body. Slowly, he throws it in for an uncontested lay-up. On another play, LeBron—gazing straight into the paint—flicks his wrist and the ball shoots over the defense to a wide-open kid in the corner.
Months before his first high school game, hardly out of eighth grade, he’s almost 6’3″, drilling absurd these passes with minimal movement, minimal eye contact. I still see it in his game today. This is a baseball story, but it starts in December at a greasy spoon at the edge of Durham, North Carolina. I overhear two older men talking about off-season moves. There’s mention of a few big bats, a knuckleballer whose pitch moves like a butterfly, and a new ace who , within a few short seasons, would go on to fulfill most of his promise in the majors.
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