In other words, as a direct consequence of some of the very physical attributes that render him such a force in so many non-final-second situations (size, speed, vision, power: see above), LeBron is limited, in isolation one-on-five situations late-game, to two options: head-down head-of-steam barrels through the lane—which work against teams with poor defensive rotation; or, when the inside is clogged, the step-back, pull-up J. . . .

But because high-caliber teams tend to get however far they go as a result of their at-least-above-average defensive play, in playoff games the interior is often a congested mess, and James is often limited to that latter option late in games, if he wants to be the one to take the shot. And if the shot goes in, he’s everybody’s hero; if it doesn’t, he’s chastised in post-game write-ups, bleating out self-recriminating missives on his Twitter feed, sorry, again, for letting down his team. If he draws defensive help, finds the consequently open teammate—as Jordan did with his Paxson and Kerr twice at decisive moments in his own career—then he’s either a brilliant decision-maker if, say, Mario Chalmers’ three-point-try drops, or a coward if it rattles out. In other words their success determines our perception of James’ capacity to play well in the “clutch.”

All players have good and bad shooting days, and great players know when the shot’s falling vs. when something’s amiss. . . . Against the Celts this year, the Bulls in last year’s finals, Pistons, 2007, I’d argue, James knew he had his jumper going, knew he was unguardable one-on-one, would get either a look at a shot very likely to go in or a pathway to the rim; but then, against the Mavericks last year, similar shots just weren’t falling: James knew it, and did appear resigned. Kobe Bryant might have continued to press, perhaps gone something like 7-28, maybe even managing to redeem an otherwise putrid performance by scoring the game’s final points . . . but does this actually make him better than James? Does the ugly 2010 title (Kobe’s final game having been a flop, statistically, the Finals MVP he received notwithstanding) really bolster his legacy to the same extent that James’ 2011 failure to play an ugly game, yet somehow win, supposedly diminishes his?

Suppose it depends, again, upon whether the obvious answer to the underlying question—of whether the game’s played to win[vi]—misses the point?