LeBron James stands at the top of The Mountain. He is King of it. Lord over all that would dare attempt to rise to the summit. He is alone in his glory and the birds sing covers of Keith Sweat’s “Nobody” to him.
The Mountain is above the clouds. It is in the midst of the gold stuff. He walks along the platinum paths and those that meet him bow to him and kiss the most recent ring. He requires they French it because he can require such a thing. He is The King. When you are that, you can do as you please.
The sun shines on him for eternity and the breeze is always with him. He walks about The Mountain barefoot because the ground before him is carpeted in a deep, sweet velvet. The purple before him always soft and smelling of lilacs.
Vanity does not exist here and what judgement that does is so far down at the bottom of The Mountain that he can’t hear any of it. They are mumbled whispers in outer space. Unheard whines that are not important because they can not admit that they are now wrong about The King. ‘Tis true, in years past he wasn’t what some thought he could be, but he is now every bit the dragon fire those with patience thought he would become. He scorches the earth on a whim.
A lemonade is forever in his hand and Kanye West’s “Good Morning” is fed through speakers all throughout The Mountain. Rihanna is there, but she has her act together and finally dresses tastefully. They wed tomorrow. Rick Bayless will cater because those that were the troller are now the trollee.
Bill Murray is there, too, and he walks in the gold with him and riffs on all things basketball. They discuss the particulars of the basketball scenes in Space Jam and Murray works with The King on his no-look passes, his trash talking, and his most recent decision to, next year, wear a backwards hat during the games.
There’s an All-You-Can-Eat buffet with Red Lobster Cheddar Bay Cheese Biscuits and homemade Butterfinger ice cream being watched over by some unknown, homeless man named Skip at all hours of the day or night. The King laughs at Skip upon entering and continues laughing as he gets his food, eats his food, and leaves.
On top of The Mountain he gets an Emmy for his portrayal of The LeBrons in The LeBrons Nike commercials. Terrance Malick directs his next Samsung ad and Drake is allowed to come to The Mountain because LeBron got him media credentials. LeBron is happy, and when you’re happy you don’t mind that song singing.
He spends his days reading and writing his memoirs. Juwan Howard follows him wherever he goes offering thanks.
“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” Juwan shouts to The King.
The King acknowledges Howard once an hour and then he, too, gets an opportunity to French the ring.
The Mountain is now The King’s home. It is his. He owns it and he rules it with a fierce will. Lions are everywhere. They roam regally, their manes the same velvet as the carpet laid before LeBron.
All that live at the foot of The Mountain are required to wear velvet headbands. The headbands themselves have three words on them in comic sans font.
They read: I Was Wrong
The King has now ensconced himself in a velvet jumpsuit for eternity, keeping the hood of his jacket on so as to cover up his Goodbye Hair.
Everyone at the foot of The Mountain wakes up every day and goes to wherever their picture of LeBron is and lights the required candle in front of it. When the candle is lit, they drop to their knees. Then they begin the song of The Mountain, the one the birds sing.
And who can do it like me?
And who can give you what you need?
Who can do you all night long?
He is in the untouchable spaces where commentary and judgement can’t get to him now. The shell isn’t even there anymore. Stuff’s rolling off his bare shoulders. He’s concrete that can bend. His sun is shining and will for some time. We are in the era of The King and we will tell our children about him and what it was to watch him play and how, when that jumper was falling, you were helpless like skydivers without parachutes.
He does what he wants now.
And the band keeps playing on.