Sometimes, I make myself sick. I waited for the LeBron James ESPN special, “The Decision,” like it was a Michael Jackson music video premiere. (Remember the time?) I sat in front of the television and waited for LBJ to moonwalk, spin, grab his crotch, and scream “Shamon,” at Jim Gray. But, alas, that never happened. Instead, LBJ broke northeast Ohio’s heart, and told the viewing public that he planned to take his talents to [W]ade County, Florida, thereby turning the Miami Heat into some kind of NBA version of the United States circa the middle of the 20th century: young, rich, and with world domination on their minds. Of course, the analogy probably doesn’t hold all that well, but still, if I may borrow my friend jmscott’s hashtag, it’s #nbaimperialism if there ever was. I guess that makes the Boston Celtics England or something. I don’t know. I digress.
Although the super homies, D-Wade, Chris Bosh, and King James have yet to adopt a nickname, I’m inclined to refer to them as Miami Thrice (kind of wack, I know, but you know you want to see those three dressed like Crockett and Tubbs.) or as The Triumvirate. I don’t know if that makes the Lakers the senatorial elite or something, but Wade especially better watch his back.