Because from here we can proceed to the second point beyond dispute concerning the young (but not so young these days) hardwood Alpha Centauri: up through his ninth year as a pro after being selected first by his home-state Cleveland Cavs back in 2003, and even though several of those seasons seemed to all-but validate his self-christening as King, LeBron James had as of the beginning of my drafting of these notes seven-and-a-half-months back, never hoisted the Larry O’Brien Championship Trophy, never led a team under his reign to a total victory. And, at least as it is widely understood, the point of becoming a professional basketball player is to one day play a role—in the case of Kings, the deciding role—in a franchise’s ultimate triumph. Win a title. Wear the ring.

Well, this year he got it. Held his two trophies[2] aloft, grinned like the mesomorphic naïf he was upon his heralded advent into the league and still so often seems to be—regardless of last season’s fruitless attempt to recast himself as a glowering Nemesis enraged by the public excoriation he brought down upon himself in the wake of that ill-considered Decision. Now he’s done it. Now not only can we finally concede he’s great; it’s not faintly ridiculous to crown him professional basketball’s true King. He’s won—and this is what Sport is about, as everybody knows. No?