Or was at any rate in those early years. The notion that he needs to use his talents, apply them to the philistine task of earning a championship banner has eroded the easy ability I actually do remember witnessing in his early Cavalier days, when he could just about become the Game, when scores had almost ceased to matter. They matter now: we witnessed the frustration and discouragement when on-court events weren’t unfolding according to his Platonic vision of an indomitable Superteam; and then there’s the self-related anecdote that most fans with a passing interest in the Chosen One’s narrative’s protracted departure from the presumed script will already be familiar with, during which a supremely miserable and thickly bearded King consigned himself to a sort of house- or room-arrest and went without razor or “tweet,” emerged only for food and the occasional ablution, mostly just moped, reflected and played video games . . . but I remember a remarkable post-playoff-eliminating loss in which LeBron seemed almost fond in his immediate recall of the late-game scoring duel he and Boston’s Paul Pierce had taken part in, alternating baskets in what certainly was a thrilling watch, but James’ team had just lost, they were done for the season—and it didn't really seem to matter to him all that much. He’d been a part of something special, a phosphorescent spectacle containing all that ought to matter when the fractals of play aren’t reduced to the binary code of Win or Lose . . . but as I say, it matters now.