It was a Come-to-LeBron moment. A bird outside my apartment
window was chirping
”
If You Could Read My Mind
”
by Gordon Lightfoot. An air horn from a passing car on San
Benito Street left me paralyzed in thought as it blared the sound
of a passing train. I was stupefied
– just temporarily – because it made absolutely no sense but
still got my attention, in true American fashion.
It was a Come-to-LeBron moment. A bird outside my apartment window was chirping “If You Could Read My Mind” by Gordon Lightfoot. An air horn from a passing car on San Benito Street left me paralyzed in thought as it blared the sound of a passing train. I was stupefied – just temporarily – because it made absolutely no sense but still got my attention, in true American fashion.
A little boy whistled his way down the sidewalk, and he wasn’t just whistling any old song. It wasn’t “Oh My Darling, Clementine” or “Forever in Blue Jeans.” It wasn’t “Happy Birthday” or the theme song from that “Diego” cartoon. It was “Bad.” He was bad. And I was missing that thing – a day after “The Decision” on ESPN on which LeBron James announced he’ll play for the Miami Heat, a basketball team – that everybody else picked up on and ran with like a check for fifteen-million bucks.
Even the chirping birds, but they flew. Even the little boy who just a day earlier had whistled “Forever in Blue Jeans” instead. I heard him. He’s a loud whistler, and talented. That’s why it’s one of the examples.
Even the guy with an air horn that sounded like a passing train. Or was it a trolley? I couldn’t tell. Either way, even that guy, who had the courtesy to pick a form of self-promotion that usually comes and goes like a moving car or a fast, tiny train.
There was a different feeling about things, something distinctly magical, reassuring.
Something was missing no longer – the focus that seemed to grasp everyone’s spirit that Friday morning, the kind of focus that makes people realize why they’re here, why the earth spins but we somehow don’t (How would we debate sports topics while spinning so rapidly?), why drinking two cups of coffee and two glasses of wine every day will decrease your chances of getting cancer while also increasing your chances of getting cancer, why it doesn’t matter because you drink antioxidant-flavored vitamin water every morning, why there’s nothing more fulfilling in life – aside from leading a cult, having a building named after you or reaching biblical status – than promoting one’s self.
The night before, his Majesty and Greatness – or The Chosen One if you’re a true follower – had won over a vast majority of the world’s population with the same kind of ease, short the Russian accent, that Maria Sharapova might have scoring dates with 22-year-old frat boys. He sharpened our individual and collective focus. He made us realize our own time on this planet is running out to get more famous than most presidents, earn more money than some nations’ entire economies, manipulate as many people as possible, star in a reality show, and make corporations of ourselves. He made us forget about Mel Gibson’s problems.
Repeat, in case you’re scanning this: He made us forget about Mel Gibson’s problems. That’s a big deal.
How did our passion for Mel fade? A moment spent concerned for someone else is a moment of self-promotion and self-indulgence wasted. It’s a moment we no longer can afford. Not if we want LeBron’s way.
Not if we want our names in history books for superficial, self-imagined accomplishments. Not if we hope to manipulate others into believing we’re more important than science. Not if we want millions of people slobbering over our every mundane thought.
That morning, it was clear. There was nothing more important than the self, if you’re the chosen one or not. How refreshing is that?
