I like sports. I have plenty of sports fan friends. But for the life of me, I have never been able to connect with them on that miasmic interchange of jersied up game day hussles. Hateration.
It’s all just so seemingly random, completely obscure, totally nonsensical.
Whereas sports arguments have a fidgety catch to them that can be downright habitual, the hatred of a guy who wears a different uniform doesn’t make a bit of sense to me. I mean, to hate someone is a very deep thing. Sure, there are instances where hatred of another person is not only understandable, but warranted. Like say, if the person in question kills your dog. Or if you slept with them, that’s another one.
There are plenty of scenarios, to be sure. But sports ain’t on the scale. Which is why all this Lebron James hatred has me at a loss. Because to my way of thinking, it’s utterly impossible to hate a kid whose life is basketball. Root against him? Sure . . knock yourself out. But hating him, and what’s worse, reveling in his misery? Really?
It’s gotten to the point where Schadenfreude has gone Google fire. It’s the hot search place to be thanks to James and his incredibly curious NBA finals disappearance. People are loving his loss. They’re pushing his face down into the mess he made of his chance. I’m guessing it’s all part of the virtual road rage that predominates the online world where everyday aggravations and annoyances and obstacles can be extinguished temporarily via Twitter or Facebook or some other dot.com swing.
I’ve seen James play live, and I know full well I have never seen such a phenonemal specimen throw down on the hardwoods of an NBA stage, ever. And that includes my once and all time champion, Michael Jordan. And I’ve never compared him to Jordan, and I never would do that to James, nor anyone else. James is James. And he will get his, just not right now.
I’d rather be happy for the Dallas Mavericks than happy for the loss of a kid who still has lots to learn.
Maybe it’s just me.