King James, The Chosen One. The Whore of Akron. I dropped the last one on him myself, after he left to join the Miami Heat. For seven years, LeBron did the same thing as any trollop worth her cab fare: he made the right noises, told us how good it felt, how big we were, how he loved us, how special we were. He never even told us not to touch his hair. Oh, we knew - some of us better than others, of course - that he was only a child, and a child born unto a hapless mother more or less a child herself. His vast sense of childish entitlement seemed to speak louder every season. But, lord, the sex was fine. And there was very little he wouldn’t or couldn’t do; he’d even play in the low post once in a while. Good as he was from the get-go, he got better each time around. Lebron James put out like no one else.
—
from Scott Raab’s Lebron bio / fandom meditation / memoir / Cleveland sports history Whore of Akron.
The book is brilliantly furious - Raab cuts open a fetid, boiling vein of anger and sprays it on the page.
And this is coming from me, a guy that just barely knows what a floor violation is.
