Some years ago when I was in my mid-30s I played basketball Tuesday and Thursday evenings at the New York Urban Professionals Basketball League. The league was a rag-tag collection of middle-aged men like me, mostly guys who just liked playing ball, with a couple of ex-collegiate players tossed in.
I won't say that the games were of the highest quality, but we played a hard, nose-to-nose brand of New York basketball, no blood, no foul and it didn't hurt to have a pair of sharp elbows.
One night after the festivities were over I stayed on the court, cooling off and shooting around. The gym was empty so I was surprised when a skinny black kid came over to me and asked if I wanted a game. "Sure," I said, though I was tired and he couldn't have been more than 13 or 14.
Against the kid I was on the wrong end of speed, agility and athleticism. He was quick, could leap and was a dead eye shooter. Still, I had a couple inches on him, was a bit stronger and possessed two of those aforementioned sharp elbows.
When all my huffing and puffing was over, the kid beat me 12-10.
"What's your name, kid," I asked him as I left the court.
"LeBron James," he whispered. Then he too left the gym.
That's right, LeBron James.
LeBron, kid, New York needs you. And you owe me a rematch.