LeBron James is turkey and provolone on wheat. He’s a political centrist. He’s Julia Roberts. He’s watching his sodium intake, binge-watching “Scrubs” on Netflix, and turning in early. He’s an Esquire subscription. He’s sinking an afternoon into researching rice cookers, learning which ones are most reliable. He “likes” that video where the monkey makes friends with a cat on Facebook and means it. He’s getting really into podcasts lately. He’s dropping thousands at the Gucci store on seafoam turtlenecks and suits that make him look like a German tech magnate. He’s Stella Artois. He’s not sure what his and-one celebration should be: like this, or like this? He respects what Jack White is trying to do as, like, an artist. He shops at Whole Foods and loves that thing they have where you can make your own trail mix. He doesn’t drive a luxury KIA sedan in real life, but in a deeper sense, he absolutely does. LeBron James is not cool.
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The fluid violence with which LeBron James plays contrasts severely with how he carries himself when not in competition. What he does on the court is real and powerful, but his public persona is slathered in affectation. LeBron seems to always be aware of how his words and actions are being perceived—or at least that they are being perceived—and as a result most of what he says and does is useless if you’re trying to understand him. He’s like a technically impressive director who moves from project to project—Messianic LeBron, Business-Savvy LeBron, Villainous LeBron, Veteran Leader LeBron—without betraying any discernible point-of-view. LeBron’s career has a single throughline besides the actual, blistering basketball, and that’s a sort of baseline unease with being LeBron James. Surely, when he is at home with his wife and kids, he doesn’t think about whatever he’s projecting toward them. But he has never totally figured out who the person he’s presenting to the cameras is or should be.
Image via Matthew Emmons-USA TODAY Sports
All of which means that LeBron reliably comes off as an arch-cornball. He makes a show of having famous friends. He yuks it up with Jay Z while Beyonce chortles along unicornishly. He takes meetings with Warren Buffett. He self-consciously traffics in truisms. He uses hashtags such as #StriveForGreatness and #Awesome. He says he is “humbled” by stuff that he is transparently not humbled by. He is all about the team, not about individuals. He takes umbrage when the media doesn’t interpret his messages the way he wants them to. He’s constantly gauging the acceptability of his actions. In July, LeBron canvassed Twitter as to whether he should change his number back to 23 upon returning to Cleveland, then did the same thing a few months later, asking permission to revive his pregame chalk toss ritual. These are the behaviors of an anal-retentive dork.
Here is where I cop to liking LeBron a lot, and periodically puzzling over what his significance is to me. I find his uncoolness and insecurity endearing while also being moderately annoyed by his craven, near-incessant personal brand-polishing. The latter is a symptom of LeBron fandom. It’s the pair of douche-chill-raising sunglasses that come with the car. He is probably more candid in the press than I give him credit for being, but when most of what you say is bullsh*t, everything is, from the listener’s perspective. I have learned to trust my gut with respect to what he means and doesn’t, but I don’t trust my gut very far. There are few things I would claim to know about LeBron.
I know his hairline is receding. Actually, it is in a state of having already recessed, and now his forehead is making a sort of Sherman’s March toward the back of his cranium. For years, LeBron has been ineffectively hiding this development with a headband as thick as a lasagna noodle. That is, until this past Tuesday night, when he came out of the locker room for a game against the Mavericks without his sweat-soaking crown on, like the brave, forthright man he claims to be in all those commercials. As is his wont, he brushed the ditching of the headband off as if he made the decision on a whim, as if his every career move is not part of a money- and fame-generating scheme World Wide Wes sketched on a co*cktail napkin over a decade ago. But the important thing here is that LeBron put his (now quite bald) head on exhibit, not that he revealed why.
LeBron, for once, forsook vanity in favor of honesty. The truth is unflattering—he appears to have an uncooperative plugs situation happening up there—but his ownership of it is a demonstration of inner strength. It’s an old man power move, Tim Duncanesque in its unfussy embrace of the uncool. It is an act of genuine disclosure, the sort athletes tend to lapse into more frequently as they age, grow less concerned with being misunderstood, and find value in something like frank communication. LeBron’s headbandlessness is a scrap of authenticity, a gesture toward candidness. It is welcome, especially from one of the most guarded athletes of our time.
