It’s time to come to San Antonio, LeBron

The summer before I entered seventh grade, I went to a basketball camp in Oklahoma City. I was a chunky kid — who grew up to be a chunky adult—with little to offer on a basketball court other than hustle plays—also known as the most annoying player in exhibition/pickup-style basketball games—and boxing out scrawnier kids who hadn’t hit their growth spurt yet.

I was my camp team’s center, which was amazing for a few reasons. I was on the trajectory to become no taller than 5-foot-6, I had little coordination, I couldn’t miss a meal and I mimicked most of my basketball style after Bruce Bowen—yes, I’ve been ejected from a youth league game once or twice—and Tim Duncan.

The one thing I really took from Duncan’s game was the ability to knock down shots using the backboard. If I honestly had spent as much time perfecting my elbow jumper off the glass as I did on literally anything else on the basketball court, I might’ve been a decent player at this camp.

But I remember trying to find that one shot I knew I could hit and then when I did other kids would tell me how dumb I looked and that those shots didn’t count, because using the backboard apparently was frowned upon by the 13-year-old boys at this camp, and that I looked like Nacho Libre and my New Balance sneakers were trash even though 10 years from now frat bros named Chad everywhere will wear them ironically but they won’t admit that they’re actually comfier than Nikes.

You know, kid stuff.

Anyway, I was at this camp during the 2007 NBA Finals, which was great, because then I had my turn to be the asshole who made fun of all the kids wearing their now-throwback LeBron James jerseys when Duncan and the Spurs humiliated the Cavaliers. I think I even looked for a broom at the dormitory we all had to stay at this for camp.

I didn’t hate LeBron James then. He couldn’t beat the “old-timers” who played on the Spurs. What did I need to hate him for? For not having a real head coach? For going bald quicker than any human in recorded history? For the second-best player on his team being Larry Hughes? Larry f***ing Hughes?!

I had no reason to hate him. And then 2013 happened. Well, Ray Allen happened. But I really hated LeBron.

But time passes. People forgive and forget. I can’t lie, LeBron James is the best basketball player of his generation.

So, I say this as I swallow my pride. It’s time to come to San Antonio, LeBron.

Let’s be honest. Bron (is it cool if I call you that?) and Gregg Popovich deserve each other. Just as much as Michael Jordan deserved Phil Jackson … as much as Kobe Bryant deserved Shaquille O’Neal … as much as Cory Matthews deserved Shawn Hunter … as much as Jim Halpert deserved Pam Beasley.

LeBron needs a real head coach. Tyronn Lue, I’m sorry. But you’re not outsmarting Popovich-disciple Steve Kerr. It’s just not happening. Ever. Everrrrrr.

But maybe more importantly, LeBron needs a Kevin Durant.

*and a hush falls over the room*

No, not actual Kevin Durant. But LeBron is becoming the Adam Sandler of NBA basketball players. He was amazing in his prime, but he keeps doing the same movie with the same cast of people (SERIOUSLY, STOP HIRING ROB SCHNEIDER).

Newer, sexier, more innovative people eventually come along. And you just look sad doing your straight-to-Netflix films that literally no one watched. I mean, seriously, what the f***, man.

Stephen Curry knew he needed a partner to beat the Cavs. So, he got Kevin Durant and would you look at that, the Golden State Warriors are the team to beat.

But what if there was another superstar forward you could team up with? What if he was on the same team Gregg Popovich coaches? What if you were the man to convince him to stay in San Antonio, because you verbally tell him, “I, LeBron Raymone James, am coming to San Antonio next summer”?

Kawhi Leonard. LeBron James. Gregg Popovich.

We’ll even throw in a friend of yours, San Antonio point guard Dejounte Murray, who affectionally called LeBron his “big brother” after the Spurs beat the Cavs on Tuesday.

It is the perfect situation, LeBron James. The city of San Antonio will praise your name as you float down the Riverwalk with Popovich, holding up big glasses of wine—think of all the vineyards you and Pop can visit!!!—as you celebrate eight-consecutive NBA championships.

It’s time to come to San Antonio, King James.

You always did look better in black.