Check out this blurb posted on Deadspin yesterday about a new book by ESPN.com’s Chris Palmer called The Sixth Man. Apparently, the book is an intimate look into the closely guarded circles of 5 NBA stars as the author tries to paint a picture of the soul of the modern athlete. Those 5 athletes are: Rip Hamilton, Tracy McGrady, Luol Deng, Damon Jones, and Elton Brand.
Enjoy this little tidbit about our buddy:
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LeBron James has made his entrance, dressed in jeans and Timberland boots. At his side are his three best friends from Akron, Ohio—Randy, Maverick, and Shorty. They roll everywhere together, calling themselves the 4 Horsemen. Each owns a pair of Air Force Ones with little Four Horsemen logos on the heels compliments of Nike. Talk about limited edition. Tonight the foursome dons Four Horsemen letterman jackets with their names embroidered on the front. They also have a fifth in tow: New Orleans Hornets rookie J.R. Smith. Every now and again, LeBron taps him on the shoulder to point something out. J.R. smiles and nods. The rest of the time he stands there with his hands in his pockets.
As far as I know, Smith has no earthly connection to James. They did not go to camp together in high school or play in the same prep all-star game. One wears Nike. The other adidas. But a few months back, I noticed that LeBron often raises his hands above his head after a big play, palms outward, index fingers and thumbs touching to create a spade. Jay-Z uses this gesture to promote his Roc-A-Fella Records empire. LeBron and Jay are friends. The rapper often calls the player’s Horsemen buddies to check up on them. And then, one night on SportsCenter, I saw Smith flash the Roc sign, too.
For young players like Smith, being linked to LeBron is the height of cool. Sebastian Telfair showed me LeBron’s number in his cell phone when he was a senior in high school. But older guys liketo be associated with him, too. When the Four Horsemen left their courtside seats during a playoff game last year, in a move that smelled of desperation, Robert “Tractor” Traylor stepped in the LeBron’s path to make sure he got a pound. Before boarding a team bus at the Finals, Kobe talked with LeBron for a good two minutes, which is longer than I’ve seen him talk with anyone. “Keep it up,” he said, before sending LeBron off with a satisfied smile on his face.
Now there are so many well-wishers crowding LeBron, I find myself craving space. I make my way to the front of the room just as Nelly and the St. Lunatics are claiming the stage. In the player VIP section, Allen Iverson two-steps up a storm to “Hot In Herre.” Marcus Camby chats with a league official nearby. Quentin Richardson is whispering in the ear of his fiancee, the recording star Brandy. Behind me, Gilbert Arenas is sporting a small fur. “He looks like he borrowed that coat from his grandmother,” quips Elena.
I head to a bar for a drink. When I return, I can’t find Elena. At 5-foot-even, she’s easy to lose at NBA parties. I have no trouble, however, spotting my friend Jack Stevens, who handles security for the Wizards. When Tim Thomas played in Milwaukee, Stevens was his personal bodyguard. His duties included living in Thomas’s house and driving Thomas’s silver Bentley. The two had a falling out when Thomas was traded to the Knicks. So now Stevens lives with the Wizards’ Peter Ramos. The 7-foot-3 project from Puerto Rico certainly doesn’t own a Bentley.
Stevens stands as stiffly as ever, feet shoulder-width apart, arms folded, eyes darting side to side. If there’s a Wizard in the room, he’s on call.
“There’s Gilbert right over there,” I tell him.
“Where?”
I point to the grandmother coat and Stevens takes off in that direction, resuming his stance a few feet away from the Wizard’s guard. It’s Damon Jones who can really use his help, though. He nearly gets crushed when Shaq’s extra-large posse brushes up against the crowd of LeBron worshippers. I believe something similar happened to Donkey in Shrek 2.
As soon as the house lights come up, LeBron and his boys make a quick exit, findinga safeperch near the top of the stairs in the lobby where they can watch the revelers spill into the night. LeBron looks like a king on his thrown sitting up there, surrounded by his court. But poor J.R. Smith is lost in the fray below.
“What’s up, J.R.? Chris Palmer, ESPN The Magazine.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember you,” he says.
We’d met at a few of his high school all-star games.
“You rolling with LeBron now?”
“That’s my man. He said he was down to roll tonight so I wanted to come with him. We’re cool. We’ve been boys for awhile.”
Even at 6-foot-6, J.R. barely merits a second glance from this crowd—not until LeBron descends from on high to reclaim him.
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