Dear LeBron: Please Stay in Miami for My Son (and Me)

Updated from an earlier version


Your Majesty King James:

Earlier this season during your interview with NBA TV, you indicated that you don’t want to leave Miami.

“At this point,” you said, “I can’t. At this point, I can’t. We don’t know what can happen from now to July, you know, so what I’ve been able to do this whole season to this point is just worry about what’s at hand and that’s winning a championship.”


Actually, as expected you just opted out of your contract, which means you can now test the free agency waters and the Heat now has the flexibility to work with its roster to LURE you back. I really hope you do come back.

Can’t you stay in Miami forever?

You can grow old with the bubbies and zadies, but not before winning not one, not two, not three, not four, not five, not six, not seven, but eight championships, as you once famously said. You’re a quarter of the way there. Two championships in four years is a great run so far.

Here’s the thing King James: You’ve done more than enough for me, a 38-year-old displaced Miamian and father with a growing gock. You could sign with a different team now, and I wouldn’t begrudge you. You’ve given me plenty to cheer and crow about. Four straight NBA finals appearances, two championships, two finals and two league MVP’s. Your Game 4 leg cramp heroics versus Oklahoma City in ’12. That block on Thiago Splitter in Game 2 against the Spurs in’13, and the dagger in Game 7. We don’t have to talk about the second San Antonio series. I imagine it’s a sore subject for you, so we won’t go there. I mean what the fuck happened to Wade, Bosh and Chalmers?

You are free to play for any team. You’ve earned it. Cavs fans are clamoring for their native son to return and play alongside Kyrie Irving. You know, those same fans who burned your jersey. And that owner, Dan Gilbert. The guy who looks like a Jewish Mel Gibson and wrote this gem of bullshit:




I’m William Wallace! Grrrr! ROAR!

Hell, fans of all teams will put aside their fake hatred for you and welcome you with open arms and drool as you take Carmelo, Joakim, Blake, Dwight or Kevin by the hand so they can caress the Larry O’Brien trophy. They won’t be able to without you.

Or you can stay for my son, who couldn’t stop talking about you all season.

“Dad, can I meet LeBron James when we see the Heat play the Milwaukee Bucks? Dad, LeBron James wore number 23 when he played for Cleveland, but now he’s number 6. How can LeBron dunk like that? How can he be so good?”

“Do you wish LeBron were your father?”


“Me, too. Then we could tear up this 529 Plan.”

My son is obsessed with you. You can’t imagine how great it makes me feel to watch him cheer on my all time sports hero.

He’s young though and impressionable. He sometimes likes the Boston Celtics because of their colors, and he played on the 76ers in his park district basketball league.

I do my best to quash his temptation toward these lesser NBA teams by questioning his fanhood.

“I thought you were a Miami Heat fan. Are you not?”

“I am, but sometimes it’s okay to like the Celtics and the 76ers.”

“No. No it’s not. Rajon Rondo is a jerkface, and I can’t name one player on the 76ers.”

“Yeah but…”


I’m pushing 40, and at this point in my life I have my allegiances. My son is at risk, and he’s being raised in Chicago. Let’s say you leave, and if by some miracle, Derrick Rose–who will undoubtedly sit out next year because that’s what he does when he hurts himself–returns to form by 2016, and the Human Cookie Monster Tom Thibodeau doesn’t run all of his starters into the ground, my son will grow into a Bulls fan.

That can’t happen.

I maintain that Miami is my team, and I will wish you success no matter where you play.

Stay though, so you could deliver on your promise of all those championships. My son will be older, and he could actually stay up to watch you lift the championship trophy.

Your Faithful Subject,

Mr. Chocolate Diapers Himself: David Telisman

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    Chocolate Diapers

    I am a vitamin D-deficient former Floridian--who, despite the winter--loves Chicago. I contradicted convention (and common sense) by moving FROM the beach to the Midwest, but Lou Malnati's and any Italian beef sandwich reinforce that I made the right decision. I also got a wife and two sons out of it, and I would do anything for my family, except miss a Miami Hurricanes football game. This is my take on fatherhood. You can contact me at Thank you for reading!

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