And so, the ravenous sports media culture finds itself T +24 hours past their biggest scoop of the summer.

The anointed one, the most finely tuned athlete/behemoth ever to come out of Ohio has left his hometown team. Instead of staying put and playing basketball martyr, LeBron James has decided to join two of his closest athlete/behemoth friends to form a mini-Harlem Globetrotter team in South Beach.

So, for fear of having to return to baseball, the World Cup, and other summer sports fare, the sports media has turned its attention to the jilted Cleveland fanbase.

And surely, there is suffering in Cleveland. This is a city whose last championship of any kind came via the NFL’s Browns 46 years ago. The Cavs, themselves, have never gone further than LeBron has taken them, as they have never won a title of their own.

If we’re to believe the media reports, every Cavs fan is now throwing an extended tantrum. They’re burning LeBron jerseys, screaming obscenities at the basketball Gods, and planning LeBron heckling parties at basketball arenas all over the country.

Now, what I’m about to say may hurt a little, Cleveland, but it’s for your own good. Acting like a scorned teenage girl who just found out that her Twilight Team Jacob friends have switched over to Team Edward doesn’t cast you in a very good light. It’s not likely to make you a preferred destination for future superstar players. And frankly, it’s not fair, given the circumstances.

You had seven years of one of the most prodigious talents in professional sports history. He took a team of stiffs, of cast-offs, and made them into a first-class basketball team. He played injured. He didn’t rest.

Do you realize that the man has averaged over 40 minutes a game played over his entire career? Only three players in history have averaged more: Wilt Chamberlain, Bill Russell and Oscar Robertson. Jordan averaged 38 minutes played a game. Kobe averages about 37. LeBron killed himself to put your team on his shoulders. He knew that leaving the floor would mean leaving a team unfit to compete out there, so on the floor he stayed.

At some point, the Cleveland ownership has to take responsibility for this. Here you have this transcendent talent, and you surround him with second-rate nobodies. This is supposed to secure your investment? The best player that the man has ever gotten to play with, in Cleveland, was the empty, aged husk of Shaquille O’Neal or an Antwan Jamison rent-a-forward.

The man never had a real point guard to play with, so he had to be the point guard. He never had a dominant post-player, so he had to do that too. He never had a go-to shooter, so he made himself the go-to shooter. Wouldn’t this tire you out? Can you imagine being an adult on a little-league baseball team for seven years? Wouldn’t the novelty wear off after a while? Wouldn’t you want to play in the adult league if given the chance?

This is, in many ways, like the end of a relationship. LeBron is like the girl that got away. You knew, in your heart of hearts that she was out of your league. You were a devoted boyfriend. You bought flowers and chocolate. You listened to her problems. You even spent three weeks at her parents house for Christmas instead of taking a needed vacation. But ultimately, she was a little bit too smart for you. She was probably way too good looking for you. You could only jealously snap and rage at the other potential suitors (especially when Bron went to play for Team USA) for so long before one of them stole her heart. It was a sick inevitability eating away at the pit of your stomach, but an inevitability nonetheless.

Now that it’s over, have a little class. She didn’t have to stay for seven years. She obviously loved you, despite your faults. To paraphrase Forgetting Sarah Marshall, “She tried to make it work. You have no idea how hard she tried. She took relationship classes, she talked to her mother, she went to therapy. She tried everything. You were just too stupid to notice.”

First posted on Technorati.

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